#magic ward of if you work with me you can't see this ~~~~

[bowenoke]

had a realization getting dressed today. up til this moment i have kind of figured the gender nonconformity was assumed to be part of the butch thing by most of my coworkers. despite

new coworker staring extremely unsubtly as i wrote down my pronouns for a meeting (sorry tumblr, im any/all irl and sometimes that means saying she/her so i have somewhere to pee)

someone on my direct team sending one of the few trans guys i work with to come into my office for some papers and coincidentally he also spent 2 hours telling me about how rewarding it's been to come out + how great our coworkers are about creating a hostile environment for anyone who misgenders him even accidentally

multiple people telling me unprompted about the one gender neutral bathroom in the entire building (the entire reason i have not been coming out, its very far away)

the same coworker from the pronouns asking me directly if i was transgender last week

like im not really sure how i thought i was flying under the radar until this moment. like in context being asked if i was transgender felt like the natural progression of a conversation but now it seems more like one of those "not everyone wants to be a boy/girl/neither." like "if your coworkers are directly asking you if you're transgender you're probably not being very subtle about it."

anyways changed my pronouns on slack today :) now i'll have to walk across the building to the bathroom :')

[theostrophywife]

little dove.

pairing: tom riddle x reader.

song inspiration: if u think i'm pretty by artemas.

author's note: can't believe this is my first tom fic, but please know that this man awakens the feral, unhinged side of me. let me slytherin to your chamber of secrets and ride that basilisk tommy 😏

This was a stupid, idiotic, and terrible idea. 

Unfortunately for you, those were the conditions in which Harry and Ron worked best under. In your defense, you tried to talk them out of the prank, but the boys were determined to leave their mark. You suppose you could’ve told Hermione, but you didn’t want to interrupt her date with Draco. When it came to talking sense into their thick skulls, you were completely and utterly alone. 

After much argument, you finally accepted that you weren’t going to get anywhere with Harry and Ron. The only thing you could do was supervise their reckless pursuits and minimize the damage as much as possible. So here you were, sneaking into the dungeons under the cover of darkness. 

“This will be the best seventh year prank yet,” Ron whispered as he trailed close behind. “Fred and George are going to be so jealous.” 

“If we don’t die from the cold first,” Harry quipped sarcastically, slightly shivering underneath the invisibility cloak draped over the three of you. “The Slytherins really take the whole cold-blooded thing quite literally, don’t they?” 

You huffed in response, trying your best to muffle your steps. “Can we please focus on not getting caught? We need to be in and out of the dungeons before the prefects start their patrols.” 

The boys nodded as you inched further into the serpent’s nest. Luckily, the corridor that housed Professor Snape’s office was empty. You held your breath as you began to unravel the wards protecting the entrance. You had to give it to him, Snape was incredibly thorough when it came to his security measures. Good thing you were an expert on unlocking charms. 

With a final flick of your wand, the door gave way and creaked open. Ron and Harry wore matching grins as the three of you spilled into the office. Closing the door behind you, Harry’s green eyes crinkled with mischief. 

“Let’s get started.” 

Surprisingly, Harry and Ron’s half-arsed plan was actually coming together. The three of you worked in silence, the boys handing you paints and supplies at the snap of your fingers. After a few more strokes, you flicked your paintbrush over the wall and cocked your head to examine your work. Nearly every single surface of Professor Snape’s office was covered in your illustrations—technically vandalism according to wizarding law. 

The drawings, imbued with the same magic that powered the moving portraits, depicted caricatures of Professor Snape, all of which scurried like rats along the walls, hurtling globs of paint at one another. The head of Slytherin house was going to have a fit when he saw what you’d done to his office. You almost wished you could be there in the morning to witness the look on Snape’s face when he uncovered your masterpiece.

“Bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he packed up the paints and brushes. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Y/N.” 

Harry chuckled and nudged your shoulder. “See? You do have a taste for trouble, after all.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Now help me clean up so we can go.” 

As you carefully wiped the office of any trace of the three of you, Harry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. You looked up, ready to scold him for idling, but fell silent when you saw the panicked expression on his face. 

“What is it?” you asked quietly. 

Harry held up his hand and slowly opened the door, peeking out into the darkness. A muffled clicking that sounded an awful lot like footsteps echoed from the corridor. “Do you hear that?” 

Ron cursed lowly. “The prefects must’ve started their rounds early.” 

You peered over Harry’s shoulder and felt the color drain from your face. “It’s not the prefects,” you said, swallowing thickly. “It’s the Head Boy.” 

Both the boys swore under their breaths. You steeled yourself, knowing that panic was not going to get you anywhere. As quietly as possible, you retrieved Harry’s cloak and beckoned the boys underneath it. 

“We’re so fucked,” Ron mumbled. 

“No, we’re not,” you chided sternly. “Get under the cloak and don’t make a sound.” 

Harry scooted in beside you, clutching the invisible fabric over his shoulders. “Do you have a plan?” 

You nodded. “Run like hell and don’t get caught.” 

“That’s a bloody terrible plan!” said Ron. 

With a glare, you tugged the redhead underneath the cloak. “Then please, let us hear your brilliant idea, Ronald.” Ron stayed quiet, his freckled face etched with fear. “That’s what I thought. Now stay close and for Merlin’s sake, try not to stomp around like a damned erumpent.”

Stupid. 

Idiotic. 

Terrible. 

Every ounce of apprehension you felt earlier that night came rushing back as the three of you cowered in the darkness. It was pitch-black in the corridor, but you didn’t dare cast lumos for fear of getting caught. Thankfully, a small light up ahead provided you with a vague sense of direction. You remembered passing the lit emerald sconce on the way down. All you had to do was get back to the entrance without running into the head boy. 

The glimmer of hope became clearer and clearer as you neared the stairs that would lead you out of the dungeons. You were so close. Barely a few metres away from freedom. 

Just as you thought you were safe, Ron knocked into a table, sending one of the snake sculptures guarding the alcove to the common room tumbling. The marble cracked against the concrete, breaking into a million pieces just like your hope of escaping. 

“Run!” you huffed, urging the boys to go on. 

A solid plan if you hadn’t been nearly blind in the dark. You could hear the shuffling of footsteps beside you. Three sets belonging to you, Harry, and Ron, while an unknown fourth inched closer and closer. Whoever it was wasn’t running, but they were definitely in pursuit. 

You stumbled through the dark, nearly tripping over your own feet. From up ahead, you could hear Harry and Ron urging you on. As you broke into a sprint, paints and brushes came spilling out of your satchel. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve abandoned your art supplies, but leaving them behind would fully incriminate the three of you. In the time it took to pick up the damning evidence, you stopped hearing your friend’s voices. 

It would’ve worried you, but in all honesty, you were relieved. If you could no longer hear the boys, then that meant they made it safely out of the serpent’s nest. A feat in itself given their track record. Those two couldn’t be inconspicuous if they tried. Without the need to worry for them, you were confident that you’d be able to slip out undetected. 

In hindsight, you were perhaps a tad bit overconfident. You were great at sneaking around, but apparently not good enough to slip the head boy’s notice. As soon as you started to creep past the dormitories, you ran into a wall that hadn’t been there before. 

Except it wasn’t a wall. 

It was a strong, firm chest. A chest that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle. 

Leave it to your terrible luck to run straight into the arms of the scariest boy in the castle. 

Determined not to cower, you lifted your chin defiantly and faced Tom head on. “Head Boy,” you greeted in acknowledgment. 

Emerald eyes unflinchingly surveyed you, that intense green stare sweeping from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. Beneath the faint glow of the Black Lake pouring in through the stained glass windows, you could’ve easily mistaken Tom Riddle for an angel. He looked like an illustration straight out of the Sistine Chapel. Beautiful, intricate, perfect. 

Yet utterly terrifying. 

Danger prickled at your skin as Tom’s lips curved into a sinister smirk. “My, my, what do we have here? A little dove out of her cage.” 

You bristled as he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his voice a seductive caress. It was low, husky, and a little rough around the edges. Just like its speaker. Tom plucked a paintbrush out of your satchel and examined it between his fingers. “I saw what you did to Snape’s office. Quite artistic, aren’t you?” 

A part of you considered denying it, but it would’ve been a futile attempt. There was paint splattered all over your skirt and flecks of it were already drying on your skin. Tom had quite literally caught you red handed. The only thing you could do was to own up to it and face whatever consequences came as a result of your foolish actions. 

“Are you going to turn me in to the headmaster?” 

Tom shook his head, his brown wavy hair falling over one eye. “Not until I catch your two helpers.” 

Panic seized your body. It may be too late for you, but Tom hadn’t seen either Harry or Ron. There was a chance they could come out of this unscathed. 

“I was alone,” you declared with your chin held high. “There was no one else with me.” 

Anger contorted Tom’s handsome features. Those emerald eyes lit up in flames as he backed you into a wall, bracketing each side of your head with his arms as he leaned down. You tried not to cower under the intensity of his stare, but gods was it hard. Tom towered a good foot over you and as if that weren’t intimidating enough, he also blocked every possibility of escape with his body. 

“Don’t lie to me, little dove,” Tom growled, tilting your chin up with one hand. “I heard three sets of footsteps running through the corridor.” 

You swallowed thickly, praying to Merlin to grant you the ability to flawlessly lie your arse off. “I swear, it was just me. No one else. I did it all by myself.” 

Tom hummed as if unconvinced. “Well, you’re certainly on your own now. Your idiotic friends left you down in the dungeons all alone. Don’t you know that dangerous things lurk in the dark around here, Y/N?” 

“Like I said, I was alone.” 

“So it appears,” Tom said, flashing you a smile that told you he was the most dangerous thing lurking in the dungeons. “Poor little dove wandering the serpent’s nest all on her own. Hasn’t anyone told you that us Slytherins have teeth?” 

“Why?” In an idiotic surge of courage, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could pull them back in. “Do you plan on biting me, Tom?” 

Tom grabbed your jaw roughly, making you whimper in surprise. “Insolent girl. You’ll learn your lesson soon enough.” 

Without warning, he grabbed you by the elbow and started dragging you down the corridor. At first, you were certain that Tom was taking you to Dumbledore’s office, but as the minutes ticked by, you realized that you were going in the opposite direction. If anything, he was leading you right into the heart of the dungeons. 

Tom’s grip tightened to the point of pain as he guided you up a set of twin staircases, practically flying up the steps on the right side, which you assumed led to the dormitories. It had a similar layout to the Gryffindor common room, except instead of leading into the towers, the narrow hallway opened into an intricate maze in the lower levels of the castle. 

Nestled into the underbelly of Hogwarts was a large, dark room that was surrounded by more stained glass walls that looked out into the Black Lake. A school of fish swam by as Tom ushered you through the door, which he promptly locked behind him with a series of complicated spells you had no hope of deciphering. 

You were trapped. Alone in a room. With Tom Riddle.

Upon closer inspection, you surmised that this had to be his private suite. It was twice as large as your dorm back in the towers and extremely private. A luxury that only the Head Boy and Head Girl enjoyed. 

“You’ve been very bad, little dove,” Tom reprimanded. "You deserve to be punished, but I’ll tell you what. Give up the names of your accomplices and I might find it in my heart to go easy on you.” 

His drawling voice echoed in the bedroom as he leaned back against his desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. The look he leveled at you is enough to awaken your fear. Plus another emotion that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. 

Merlin, Tom was sizing you up like he was the lion and you were the helpless deer frolicking through the meadow. You steeled yourself and doubled down on your lies. 

“There was no one else, Tom.” 

He smirked as though you’d given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. Tom stopped twirling his wand, tucking it away in his back pocket as he stalked over to you. “Very well, then. I suppose you’ll just have to endure their punishments too.” 

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. It occurred to you that while you had your wand, you were completely and utterly defenseless against Tom. It should’ve scared you shitless, but instead you felt a strange sort of thrill as he came closer. “What…what sort of punishment?” 

A smirk curved at his lips as he fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back to meet his gaze. “I think you know, babydoll.” 

Heat ignited in your veins as your tongue darted out to sweep across your bottom lip. “This is crazy,” you whispered. “Shouldn’t you be telling Dumbledore? Snape? Someone in charge?” 

“I’m the one in charge,” Tom growled as he shoved you against his bookshelf. Your back hit solid wood, disturbing the neatly organized tomes behind you. “You snuck into my dungeons, under my watch, and defaced my home. I will dole out your punishment as I see fit.” 

“And if I refuse?” You asked, hoping that you emulated the bravery that your house was infamous for.

Tom pressed his body against yours, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between you as he flashed you a feral smile. “It’s laughable that you still think you have a choice.” 

“I could scream bloody murder. Wake the entire castle up and alert everyone that you're holding a fellow student against her will."

“You could,” Tom mused as amusement flickered in his eyes. “But we both know you won’t.” 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“You’d never risk such a scandalous act to go on your record. First vandalizing Professor Snape’s office, then sneaking into the Head Boy’s dorm after curfew? You’re on a downward spiral, aren’t you, little dove?” 

“I didn’t sneak into your dorm. You dragged me in here.” 

“Please,” Tom said with a scoff. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t want to be here. I’ve been watching you, you know. The perfect little Gryffindor good girl. You think you have everyone fooled, but not me.” You groaned as he pinned your hips in place, sliding his thigh between your legs. 

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me in class? Bending over in that tiny little skirt of yours hoping I’ll glance your way? Leaving the buttons to your blouse undone so you can give me a view of that lacy red bra? Biting your lip when you’re thinking dirty thoughts about me in class?” 

You flushed at his spot on assessment. Tom might be right on the mark, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. Not when your pride was on the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Dirty little liar.” Tom whispered against the shell of your ear. “You know, your mental shields are impressive, but it’s like you can’t help yourself when I’m around. You’re practically broadcasting your filthy fantasies every time we’re in the same room.” 

Fuck. 

This was bad. 

This was really fucking bad.

How many times had you sat in class staring at Tom while thinking the filthiest, dirtiest thoughts about him? Tom bending you over a desk. Tom slipping his fingers under your skirt. Tom making you scream with his head between your thighs.

All this time, he had complete access to those dirty daydreams.

“That’s right, doll. You may be a powerful occlumens, but you’re no match for my legilimency.” He chuckled darkly, caressing your jaw. 

A heavy pressure weighed down the constraints of your defenses as Tom poked around in your mind, teasing and taunting as a lover would. The act of him prodding around in your subconscious was oddly sensual, mixing pain and pleasure together as he waited for you to yield. 

There’s no use hiding now, Tom whispered into your subconscious. I’ve already seen inside your mind, doll. And your thoughts are just as fucking filthy as mine. 

Glimpses of your deepest, darkest fantasies flashed through your mind. The images were a never ending rolodex of filth and smut. Tom fucking you like his perfect little slut. Tom panting above you as he spread your legs. Tom working you with his fingers until you were a sobbing, whimpering mess. 

He was right. You were shameless. 

But so was he. A new image of you on your knees while Tom unbuckled his belt, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you stared up expectantly took center stage. Since it was from his point of view, you could only assume that he was showing you one of his fantasies. It was oddly satisfying. Tom was basking in the depravity with you, sharing his equally fucked up thoughts. 

“Tom…” you breathed, leaning into his touch as he continued to pin you against the wooden bookshelf. 

“Not Tom,” he grunted gruffly. “You’ll address me properly from now on, little dove.” 

This was so fucked up and yet so hot at the same time. You were so turned on you could hardly speak. “Yes, sir.” 

“That’s better, doll.” Tom declared with a smirk. “Now that I’ve been inside of your head, I plan on being inside you in every other way as well. Starting with that pretty little mouth of yours. On your knees, little dove.” 

A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as you knelt onto the floor. The concrete nipped at your knees, but you welcomed the pain. It kept you centered as your body buzzed with anticipation. You watched as Tom unbuckled his belt, deft fingers slowly sliding his boxers down as he gripped himself with one hand. 

With a smirk, Tom brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, looking down at you with lust blown eyes. “Open wide, babydoll.” 

Tom pumped himself slowly. The sight of his cock made your mouth water, your head spinning and dizzy with desire as you tried to calculate how you were going to take all of him. The tip of his cock glistened with precum as he rubbed over it. Tom was thick, long, and absolutely delicious. You groaned as he rubbed his head over your lips, the salty taste of his arousal resting on your tongue. 

“I won’t ask again,” Tom warned. “Be a good girl and open your mouth. I’ll make you regret it if you don’t.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A satisfied smile graced his handsome face before he shoved his way in. Your lips parted for him, opening your mouth wider as you accommodated his size. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

You nodded obediently, eyes filling with tears as you took Tom all the way back. He fisted your hair in one hand and rocked against your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. A garbled sound crawled out of your chest, but it was soon silenced with Tom’s impatient thrusts. 

“Fuck,” Tom cursed. “So wet and warm. Such a perfect little throat. What a pity that I’m about to ruin it.” 

Ruin was an understatement. Tom fucked your throat with precise thrusts, angling deeper and deeper and groaning as you gagged on his cock. He was so deep that you could feel him bruising your tonsils. The more he abused your throat, the wetter your pussy got. You were practically soaked as you moaned on his cock, sucking your cheeks in and bobbing your head up and down to take more of him. 

“Such pretty noises,” Tom said, his fingers curling through your hair to the point of pain. He tugged at your scalp, forcing you to meet his eyes as you sucked him off. “If your mouth feels this good around my cock, then I can’t even imagine what your cunt will feel like.” 

You groaned in pleasure, making Tom’s eye roll back from the vibrations. Controlled, compulsive, and perfectly composed Tom Riddle was fading before you, replaced by a man driven only by his base desires. He was an animal lost to lust and so were you. 

Tom squeezed your throat, groaning when he felt himself moving beneath his grip. “Your throat was made to be fucked, doll. You like that, don’t you? You love it when I’m rough.” 

You struggled to nod in acknowledgement, saliva sloppily collecting in the corner of your mouth as you continued to let him use you for his own pleasure. Tom chuckled at your pathetic attempt to respond. “Don’t bother answering, little dove. You won’t be able to speak when I’m done with you anyways.” 

The filth flowing effortlessly from his mouth made you clench your thighs together. Tom threw his head back, those pretty curls tousled and plastered against his sweat soaked skin. A moan tore through his chest as he got closer and closer, fucking into your mouth with reckless abandon. He chased after his orgasm, shuddering as he spurted hot ribbons down your throat. 

“Fuck. You see what you do to me? Swallow, doll. Every single fucking drop.” 

The fantasies that you’ve been harboring for the past few years finally came to fruition, but none of it came close to reality. Tom was a fucking god. A masterpiece coming undone above you. You’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. All the artwork in the world would’ve paled in comparison to witnessing Tom Riddle at his most vulnerable. 

In awe and wonder, you looked up at him with mascara streaked eyes, tears and saliva staining your face. Tom hauled you to your feet and claimed you with his mouth. The taste of him was still on your lips, but Tom didn’t seem to mind as he parted your lips with his tongue. The kiss was neither sweet nor innocent. It was dark and dangerous and there was an edge of possessiveness in the way he demanded your submission. Almost like he was marking his territory. 

Tongues, teeth, and lips met with a clash as Tom carried you over to his desk. His books and journals clattered to the ground as his teeth grazed the column of your throat. The taste of him was intoxicating and you licked, sucked, and nipped at every inch of skin he allowed access to. You gasped into his mouth as Tom parted your legs, not bothering to warn you as he palmed your soaked panties. 

Your core clenched as he slipped a finger inside of your pussy. A squelching sound filled the room as Tom added another digit, pumping you full and fucking you with his middle and pointer fingers as you begged for more. He knew exactly what he was doing. Tom studied you like one of his books, with meticulous precision and alarming intensity, pouring all of his efforts and attention into making your body sing. 

It wasn’t long before that familiar warmth singed your veins, your moans growing louder and more desperate as you clawed at Tom’s back. You were so, so close. You were practically riding his hand as he brought you closer to the precipice. Just when you were about to come, Tom pulled away and denied you the orgasm. 

“Don’t be mistaken, doll. This is still a punishment.” Tom said as you whined from the loss. He silenced your complaints by bending you over his desk. 

“Tom, please—“ You clawed at the wood as he lined up and filled you with one sharp thrust. “Oh my fucking gods.” 

Tom gripped your hips, the slap of his skin against yours echoing in the room as he fucked you from behind. He was relentless, thrusting in and out and arching your back while he railed the absolute life out of you. It wasn’t long before you were getting close again. The sharp angles of his thrusts had him hitting all the right spots, making your knees weak and your pussy sensitive from the roughness of his actions. Sensing that you were close, he rutted into you, letting that tension uncoil before ripping the orgasm away from you once more. You whined, fresh tears soaking your cheeks as you chased after that high. 

“Like I said, this is still a punishment,” Tom taunted, slowing his thrusts to a snail’s pace. “That’s two orgasms I’ve taken from you, which leaves you with two more. Four for every wall you defaced. It should be twelve, given that you had help, but I’m in a forgiving mood. I think I’ll just spank the other eight out of you instead.” 

With your head bowed, you wiped the tears off of your cheeks and braced yourself. You knew that he was telling the truth. To Tom, this was mercy. You should’ve found it sadistic, but you fucking loved it. Maybe you were a masochist. Whatever the case may be, it seemed like the two of you were a match made in heaven. 

“I’ll be good,” you whispered hoarsely. Your throat was still raw and sore from earlier. “I’ll happily take the punishment. I promise I’ll be good, sir.” 

Tom chuckled darkly, relishing in your submission. His hand came down with a hard smack against your right ass cheek, making you jolt from the contact. Before you could recover, he repeated the action on the left. 

“That’s two,” Tom said proudly. “Can you count out the rest, babydoll?” 

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip every time his large hand came down on your ass. His rings bit into the soft flesh of your skin, but it was a delicious sort of pain. One that you could easily become addicted to. 

Three. Tom tugged at your hair. 

Four. Teeth nipped at your shoulder. 

Five. Fingers curled around your throat. 

Six. Hips slammed against you. 

Seven. Lips trailed down your spine.

Eight. Moans echoed in your ears. 

When Tom slipped his fingers down to your clit, your eyes rolled back so hard that you saw fucking heaven. “It’s not a punishment if you’re enjoying yourself so much, little dove. I can feel you creaming my cock. You look so innocent, but you’re just a filthy fucking slut for me, aren’t you?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“So. Fucking. Perfect.” 

Tom emphasized each word with a thrust and worked your clit faster and faster, bringing you to the edge. This time, he didn’t pull back. Tom let the orgasm build until it threatened to wipe you out entirely. White hot heat coursed through your veins as stars exploded behind your eyes. You whimpered through the intensity of the orgasm. After being denied four times, the pleasure ripped through your body so fiercely that you nearly blacked out. 

“Fuck, let me fill you up,” Tom growled. “Take it, doll. I want you dripping with my cum.” 

“Yes, yes, oh gods. Please cum inside of me, sir.” 

Tom released a guttural grunt, gripping your hips in place as he filled you to the brim. Nothing in the world compared to the sensation of Tom filling you with his warm, wet cum. You glanced behind you and found him staring intently as he slipped out of you, stuffing his cum back into your pussy as it dripped down your folds. You bit your lip, utterly aroused by how fucking sexy this man was. 

His gaze met yours, a proud smile curving against his lips as he swept you off your feet and into his arms. “I think I’ll keep you, little dove.” 

[felassan]

DA:TV spoilers under cut.

The Felassan Files (DA:TV-specific post)

Post will be updated if/when needed as I go. This post is a WIP. :)

Please let me know if you have found a codex entry or note etc that I have missed in this post.

DATAMINING

“GENERAL FELASSAN AGE RANGE: 40 CHARACTER DESCRIPTION: The second in command of a resistance army. You’ve an elf who’s fought against the tyranny of your gods, cruel despots who’ve enslaved your people. You’re practical, level-headed, and have good sense for what other people are feeling, which makes you well-suited for your role. Your leader is an elf called Solas, a powerful mage who isn’t quite the people person you are. You respect him, and are there to help him with whatever he needs - especially when he needs guidance about being the face of a resistance.”

“BETRAYAL OF FELASSAN CHARACTER DESCRIPTION: A powerful undead born from Solas’s regrets and betrayals (in this case, Solas’s murder of his friend Felassan by stabbing him in the back).”

[original source, original post]

Betrayal of Felassan is an undead - a revenant - embodying one of Solas' greatest regrets, his murder of his friend.

CODEX ENTRIES

Codex Entry: Introduction to the Lighthouse

"Introduction to the Lighthouse Once, the Lighthouse was a place of learning, with tools to study the secret workings of great magic. When Solas rebelled against those who call themselves our gods, the Lighthouse became his center of operations, with tools to study the best ways to free ourselves from the tyranny of the Evanuris. You are safe here, both those of flesh and those of Fade. Any who wish to help are welcome. The magic of the Lighthouse will provide for your needs, see to your comfort, and even help you understand different tongues, for those who escaped here from distant parts of the empire. Should you have any other needs, ask for the Slow Arrow, and I will help. --Felassan"

Codex Entry: The Dread Wolf's Eluvian

"The Dread Wolf's Eluvian Most of us have only traveled through the eluvians at the whims of those who called themselves our gods. We know them as mirrors that always go from one to another, a bonded pair linked no matter the distance. Solas has outsmarted the so-called gods. If we used normal eluvians, they could track us to our lair. Solas has improved upon June's work by creating a mirror whose singing stone can change its tune to take us to any eluvian and not just its bonded partner. Thus, we can travel wherever this rebellion needs us, with no fear of pursuit. Travel is as safe as a normal eluvian. If you have questions, ask for the Slow Arrow, and I will guide you. --Felassan"

Codex Entry: About the Freed Slaves

"About the Freed Slaves We got word from the warding sites. Many dead, far more than the casualties we inflicted. The story being spread is that we killed everyone. Andruil's servants made examples of a few and claimed the Dread Wolf is trying to weaken Arlathan by attacking servants and destroying the wards. It's hard to tell what people really believe now. I know you're likely berating yourself reading this. Just remember the faces of the people we saved. We can't control what the Evanuris do. And yes, we have to keep playing up the Dread Wolf. The people need someone they believe is strong enough to protect them, or they'll never join us. Don't worry. I promise to mock you viciously if you ever start believing those stories yourself. --Felassan"

Codex entry: Aftermath of Disparaging the Gods

[codex entry is from game files]

"Aftermath of Disparaging the Gods You were right. The Evanuris did not like the insinuation that they need protection. The good news is that public sentiment has turned against the lyrium knights, and our agents got information that let us destroy one of the sarcophagi. The bad news is that Andruil and Ghilan'nain made a big show of putting down a protest in the east personally instead of sending the knights. Andruil left a crater where the town stood, and Ghilan'nain is using the people taken prisoner as fodder for her experiments. This isn't your fault, but still, this is exactly what I was worried about. It's not enough to be right about these things. We have to think about the consequences. --Felassan"

Codex Entry: Felassan's Concerns about the Dagger

[codex entry is from game files]

"Felassan's Concerns about the Dagger I'm keeping calm in front of the new recruits, but you've been dodging me for weeks now. We need to talk about the lyrium dagger. Yes, it's powerful. So is an erupting volcano, and nobody would try to harness that for power. (Well, maybe Andruil, but do you really want to be compared to Andruil?) We need to stop the Evanuris, but I'd rather we didn't destroy the world in the process. If you're certain you can control its power, tell me that. In those words. No equivocating. Also, you and I both know what this dagger means to you. I don't cast my best spells when my spirit is unbalanced. Do you? (That's a real question. Maybe you do!) I'm with you no matter what. --Felassan"

NOTES

Note: Mirrors Upon Mirrors

"MIRRORS UPON MIRRORS This place is amazing. June's normal eluvians function with twinned lyrium fragments. One always leads to another. Solas somehow talked the Crossroads into making Fade-eluvians that override them. His own network to run our rebellion. Provided you ignore all the old stories about holding mirrors up to mirrors and getting caught in the infinite reflections. - Felassan"

Note: An Unknown Artifact

"AN UNKNOWN ARTIFACT What are the Crossroads doing? “The spirits of the Crossroads do as they must, Felassan. As do we all.” Thank you, Solas. That's incredibly useful. Really helps your old friend pull together a rebellion against the Evanuris. - Felassan"

Note: The Blighted Tree

"THE BLIGHTED TREE This is a holy place. The tree draws strength from the earth, just as the first elves did. Some younger elves grow trees in the cities to honor their ancestors. Roots have a tendency to dig down and gnarl up, then twist around things they aren't supposed to, though. Hoping that metaphor doesn't stick. - Felassan"

Note: The Cathedral of Roots

"THE CATHEDRAL OF ROOTS When we first started, this was a safe place for spirits who joined our cause to find peace from the stress of battle. Now... I don't know. Not a lot of spirits use it any longer. Have they grown stronger, or has the fight against the Evanuris made demons of us all? - Felassan"

Note: A Refuge for Mythal

"A REFUGE FOR MYTHAL Solas always thought Mythal would join us eventually, that she was better than the rest of the Evanuris. He made this place so she'd be comfortable here once she joined the rebellion. Now it's too late. Solas has sealed this place off out of grief. He won't let me in. I'm sorry, my friend. There was something left for the war to take from you after all. - Felassan"

Note: Calm Before The Storm

"CALM BEFORE THE STORM I come here sometimes when I need to be myself. Not Solas's friend Felassan. Not the Slow Arrow of the rebellion. Just me. He hasn't been right since what happened with Mythal. He's planning something with the dagger. And if it were a good idea, he'd have told me. Damn it, Solas. I'm with you as long as we're protecting the innocent from the powerful, but you make it hard sometimes. - Felasan"

Note: The Empty Forest

"THE EMPTY FOREST This place used to be full of spirits who flocked to Solas's cause. When his ritual went wrong - when everything went wrong - he vanished, and the spirits stopped coming. Where are you, my friend? You stopped the Evanuris, but broke the world. Please tell me you didn't leave me to fix all this alone. - Felassan"

Note: Faded Note

[this note is not explicitly signed as being by Felassan, but it seems likely to me]

"FADED NOTE Look at this place. We planned a rebellion here once. Said we'd change the future of the elves, throw off tyrants, and we did. Now the path outside is fractured. It'll be hard rekindling all the eluvians. Solas, if you see this: I'll be looking for you, out in this world and in the mortal one. Don't cause too much trouble before I get there."

FELASSAN'S RUNE

"FELASSAN'S RUNE The power of Felassan's Rune is based on how much of the gods' influence you drove back in the Crossroads. Equip Felassan's Rune at the Character screen, and use [buttons] to activate it. This rune can only be used against Elgar'nan."

Close-up of the image of the rune from the pop-up above:

The rune comes in three different strengths, each with a differing design. The design increases in complexity as the rune's strength does. Image of the Ultimate version of the rune, called "The Ultimate Salvation of Felassan":

The design of the carvings of the Felassan runes btw are shaped like arrow-heads, very fitting for the Slow Arrow... :)

I think the two weaker versions of the rune are called The Lesser Salvation of Felassan and The Greater Salvation of Felassan respectively. The appearance of the "Lesser" version is the one shown in the close-up image from the pop-up. And the appearance of the "Greater" version is:

Morrigan's dialogue when she gives Rook the Ultimate version of the rune:

Morrigan: “‘Tis a difficult battle you face, but you are among more allies than you know. You have purified the Crossroads, uncovered ancient truths lost for ages, and earned the essence of Mythal. You are truly the champion of the Fade. Take this. Should your fight against Elgar’nan grow desperate, invoke the memories of the Dread Wolf’s rebels. For you, they will stand against tyranny one las time.”

Rune effects info boxes, explaining what the Ultimate version does in gameplay:

DIALOGUE (this section is a WIP)

The boss "Betrayal of Felassan" has the following lines of dialogue, said as combat barks during its boss fight:

“His back, turned.”

“A story, unfinished.”

“For the Wolf.”

“For freedom.”

These lines of dialogue refer to Solas' murder of Felassan as depicted in Dragon Age: The Masked Empire (and his regrets around this), Felassan's role in their rebellion, and Felassan and Solas' relationship.

MISC

Voice actor: Chris Gordon [IMDB]

Hair: I think Felassan's in-game hairstyle is available in the CC - Hair 47

Vallaslin: Mythal's (as was known before DA:TV released), specifically I think it's Design 34 from the CC

Armor: I think Felassan's in-game armor is available as an appearance Rook can have for theirs. The name and description of it are as follows -

"Arlathan’s Fall (Arlathan) Appearance The harder they hit you, the stronger your resolve. Crafted from ancient Arlathan alloys."

[horatiocomehome]

"Blood magic" as it exists in most generic fantasy settings is so boring and stupid. "ohhhh it's so evil because it needs blooood they're sacrificing virgins it's so inherently evilllll" like okay what if the blood is ethically obtained? What's the problem? "ohh but the magic itself is tainted and makes you evil plus they're wearing black robes" yeah and so is every edgy teenage warlock so what

to ME blood magic should be taboo because it's the ultimate dangerous magic. The normal mage has to throw a fuckoff huge fireball costing 100 magic points to kill another mage in a duel and even then 90% of the time the other mage throws up a simple barrier spell and blocks it.

BLOOD MAGIC is dangerous because a blood mage can just cast "scab level 1" for 2 magic points and now you've got a blood clot in your brain and you have a stroke. BOOM you've lost consciousness. A few minutes later? Permanent brain damage or death.

You think you're the shit? Can block any spell? No you can't because level 1 blood mage apprentice over here can give you a stroke from across the battlefield. You never saw it coming. There was no mega laser blast to deflect. The spell cost them 3 magic points because they cast it from 500 feet away. Instant. Silent. Deadly.

Give me blood magic that's taboo because it's the ultimate magic weapon!! Give me mages that need to hunt down blood mages whenever there's a whisper of them because they're so dangerous!

well then you ask, if they're so dangerous can't they kill all the mage hunters with a thought?

And that's where the wards against blood magic come in! Everyone has at least simple ones, and higher level mages will customize theirs to make them harder to get through.

Of course, that starts an arms race so now blood mages have to get through your wards before they can cast Instant Death.

Now, as anyone who's watched lockpicking lawyer knows, any lock can be picked given enough effort. And no mage wants to block themselves off from magic entirely, because then they can't teleport or fly or heal or make their eyes glow. So of course, a blood mage can get through a ward if they try.

BUT. If a blood mage is trying to get through your ward, right, you can feel them doing it! And that gives you a precious few seconds to FUCK YOU MEGA BOLT them. And that levels the playing field, makes it about who can work faster.

THAT'S the level of thought I want to see for blood magic. Not this "ohhh but they're cultists so of course they're evil and their magic is evil" lazy stuff.

[numberonetrashwitch]

Some observations about Baldurs Gate 3 that hit too close to home.

After another few runs i will probably just make an in-Depth Character Analysis for every character simply because they are good reflections of actual trauma-manifestations and how abuse can manifest in people. They are also so well written that it serves a narrative purpose to explore all the material that is out there about them. I am also personally cursed with actual medically-relevant levels of Empathy and Hyperfixation; so writing this helps me put a pin in it and move on.

But so far here are my highlights

(SPOILERS and obviously content warning bc these are deep)

before you ask; i have almost 300h in this game.

You have to convince Shadowheart to eat the Noblestalk. She actually stells you she rather get her memories back from Shar but when you hit the persuasion or intimidation (what the fuck) check to get her to eat it she'll tell you about her childhood friend. Not her name, not her parents but her best firend. Possibly because she has had a closer bond to that person after being abducted and indoctrinated. With her believing herself to be an orphan, she would've looked elsewhere for comfort and sought out her own family, this is why she falls hard and heavy for Shar and builds the backbone of her indoctrination. She is literally ripped out of her home & given a new identity to server her from all she has known. Religious indoctrination, Gaslighting, Abduction, being forced to let go of your personality are her main themes.

There is a scene out there floating around in which you see Astarions pespective of the night when he bites Tav for the first time, in his meditations he is confronted with the rules Cazador put on him, including that he can't eat intelligent creatures, can't be away from Cazador unless allowed to, has to obey every command and that they are should know that they are property. Which in turn means that Astarion literally didn't just have any autonomy, he was objectified (and not just through seductive/sexual measures) and that is really the crux to understanding why he doesn't believe in kindness, but rather shows self-serving behavior in most cases. Since we know that Astarion was extremely young for an elf before he died and became immortal (literally stopping the aging /maturing process) it is also very telling that Cazador constantly calls him brat, boy or other very juvanile names, refering to them as a family... well it is also the story of a very controlling parent. Themes of (Bodily) autonomy, infantilization ( & puer aeternus, forever-child), slavery, depersonalisation, corruption of life and torture to break someone.

Gale isn't just a guy hung up on his Ex, but also a victim of abuse. In this case a power imbalance none of us can fathom; She is described as being a jealous goddess and rules over the domain of mysteries and magic. So with Gale being a Wizard, she is literally his boss. He admits that he was foolish enough to aspire to be an equal to her, but she is so jealous that she tells him he can't really be worthy as long as he takes breath. She could just take his powers away and be done with it, that would be more than enough punishment for a guy who literally made Mystra and her domain his life's purpose, but she rather makes him do it himself. Add to that, that she literally only tells him this after years of self-isolation (after he put down so many wards that he could've blown up a whole army as he says if you click the right dialogue) to really fuck him up well. He also talks about death pretty much constantly, not surprising giving your situation, but he will tell you that he will kill himself at several points in the game, for instance after he comes clear about his nethrese orb. Themes of romantic abuse, power-imbalance, toxic work enviorment, self-isolating behavior, suicidal ideation

Wyll ... well from the looks of it he is the most well adjusted of all the companions (my opinion) but he has something that i'd describe as the "eldest daughter"-syndrome, more commonly known as parentification. This pattern usually occurs within single-household parents and is commonly described as a parent looking to their child for emotional or practical support, rather than providing it to their kid. We meet Ulder and see that he talks over Wyll a lot, not listening but expecting him to follow the standard he sets for him. That is also why Wyll repeats his fathers words like gospel (because this is what, in his mind, fullfills the expectations bestowed upon him) and why he loves fairytales / bard tales so much (because they are an ecapist view of the job he set out to do) Ulder literally exiled his teenage son because Wyll did the only thing he could to save an entire city, by sacrificing himself. Thats a lot to expect from a 17 year old - even more so, he doesn't stop with the heroics. He expects himself, as a human who hasn't even reached the age of 30 to hold up to mystical creatures such as Astarion or Karlach, or even Gale who is a accomplished Wizard. Themes of parentification, escapism, self-harming through putting himself in danger, chronic-self-sacrifice

In plain words; Gortash, Karlach's Idol sold her to a Devil. But add to that that she must have been pretty young when she was sold (late teens to early twenties possibly) and being that if you play as a Tiefling, you face a lot of predjudice she was likely forced into that position as well. Starstruck she was, with a juvenile naitivy that Gortash used. Appropriately, as he is the chosen of Bane the god of "tyrannical oppression, terror, and hate, known across Faerûn as the face of pure evil through malevolent despotism" (Source: Forgotten-Realms Wiki / Bane) So she pretty much was raised in a toxic enviorment, which forced her to become a killing-machine, first figuretively, then with the extraction of her heart, literally. Themes of slavery, oppression, misuse of trust, being taken advantage by a more powerful/older(?) person, being drafted.

Jaheira - to be honest, you need to know the lore of the previous baldurs gate games or just listen to her dialouge, ask her all the questions. She is a war-veteran against Bhaal, the good of ritual murder, and has a long history of fighting to achieve some sort of balance of power. She lost her husband and several close people all to this, or any other war, but due to her wisdom and strength people look to her for guidance. Themes of: Survivors Guilt.

Halsin - he is really closed off at first but then just casually hits you with "i was captured in the underdark and spent 3 years chained to a bedroom wall by a pair of drows who used me as they pleased". He is reprimanded by some of his druids for leaving the grove as soon as opportunity struck, just to get back and leave the next day, and if you talk to him about his position in the grove he is actually very forthcomming. He actively holds himself back; indulging in simple hobbies because he knows what lies within his heart. He is afraid of himself and his potential (canonnically he can't control his wildshape, which is very weird for an ARCH-druid) Themes of: impostor syndrome, avoidant-based self-harm, sexual opression, loss of control, emotional regulation.

Lae'zel is a very tragic case, and one that closely resembles the stories of Shadowheart and Karlach. Her entire existence is based upon a matriachial war society allowing her to live if she proves she can be of use and that in a culture which only values brutality, dominance & service. All of that culimating in her finding out that her oh-so-beloved Queen is actually just an imposter, and that everything she has lived for up to that point is merely political propaganda created to make her, and the rest of her entire species, willing pawns in a war that has no longer bearing on their survival alone, but is fought to justify Vlaakith's (the reigning monarchs) personal ambitions. Not only is she forced to reconcile that she is turned into the thing that controlled her kind for hundreds of years, that the only cure she knows of would kill her and then on top of that, that her hopes and dreams were lies and that she is now the Nr 1 enemy of the person she has served with all her being. themes of: oppression, propaganda, casual violence, objectification, child-warfare, eternal warfare

Minthara in short, her story is about being shamed for growing up in the same scenario that Lae'zel grew up in. Lolth, the god of the Lolth-sworn drows is a crazy queen who values scheming & backstabbing so much and is so volatile that you can't know what to expect of your deeds (and i mean it; there were people who were appraised by her for scheming against her, but also those who were killed. It's almost random.) She considers Lolth to be cruel and abandoned her for the Absolute, only to then be used and abused the same way Lae'zel has. Not with promises, but erasing her memory and exposing her perceived weakness. Themes of: casual violence, violent culture, her own ambition colliding with her desire to be safe, being a pawn in a larger game.

[mcuamerica]

Him | Eris x Fem!Reader

Summary: You might hate the High Lord of Autumn, but what happens when you get hurt in the middle of the Winter Court? requested by anon here

Warnings: 18+ only, canon level violence, almost drowning, mention of death, let me know if anything was forgotten...

Word Count: 1.5k

Disclaimer: I do not own SJM’s characters, only the ones I create for the purpose of this story. This is a work of fiction. I do not give permission to repost my work on any other platform or medium. Please be respectful.

Eris Masterlist

graphics from @saradika-graphics

You hated the cold. You hated the Winter Court. And most importantly, you hated him. With his annoyingly red, perfect, stupid hair. With his amber eyes that burned with fire when he talked. With his deep, grating, gruff voice. With his ability to stay warm and melt snow around him but not you.

But of course, Rhys chose you to go on this mission with him. Because of course they needed a spell-cleaving fairy from Day to unlock the wards. And short of asking Helion Spell-Cleaver himself, they didn't have many options. Neither Rhys nor Feyre could get through the wards, so here you were. In the Winter Court. With the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn. Who not even a year ago killed his own father.

"If you don't stop talking, I might just rip your throat out." You growled, flexing your hand to show your long, sharp nails.

"Good thing we're close, I won't have to suffer with your brooding silence anymore." Eris retorted, causing you to roll your eyes. "Come now, dear, into the Cave of Wonders..." He joked.

Just when you were about to turn around and leave him for dead, you sensed the glamour in front of you. "Stop." You said, reaching out to grab Eris's arm.

He let out a low growl at your touch, yanking his arm out of your grasp. "I can see it," he said.

You bit back your response and looked towards the glamour, taking a deep breath as you let your magic trail along it, testing it. Once you found no traps, you tore it down.

What was revealed was a large lake, covered in ice of course, and on the other side was the cave you were looking for. The one containing a very important artifact that Rhys needed. Kallias gave him permission to get it, but said he would need to do it himself. He wasn't stupid enough to venture into this part of his territory. From entering the Winter Court with Eris, you encountered three different creatures that all were difficult to kill. But, to your dismay and luck, you had a High Lord with fire powers traveling with you. And with your slow healing abilities, he was able to take care of them himself. Which he so lovingly pointed out every chance he got.

Eris might be good at defending the two of you, but he was an idiot on many other fronts. The Autumn Court High Lord seemed to not now anything about surviving or moving in the cold. Which was evident when he stepped onto the ice. Which immediately cracked under his feet. And he kept walking.

"Eris, if you keep going, you're going to fall into the lake." You said, waiting on the edge.

"It's fine. If it gives, I'll winnow." He said, shrugging his shoulders. Another thing you hated about him, his idiotic arrogance.

"You can't winnow here, Eris." You called out the further he got away. "Can't you feel it with your magic? It's stifled." You said.

"I'm almost across. Come on. It's fine." He said.

You let out a huff and let him get across before you tentatively took a step on the lake. You watched as it help steady and no more cracks formed before taking more steps towards the other side. Towards the insufferable male gazing at you.

“If I could break through these wards I would. But you’re supposed to be the best spell cleaver out there and you’re scared of ice.” He mocked.

“I’m not scared of ice.” You said, looking up at him. “Unlike you, I’m smart. And I know that a lake covered in ice that you can see through is more likely to crack when someone is atop it.”

“I was fine… maybe I can get through these wards.” He said, turning towards the cave.

“Eris, don’t!” You yelled out, feeling the way the magic ripples, retracted as he flung out his fire. You felt the ice beneath you crack. Before you could even blink, you were in the freezing water. Even worse, the ice magically closed on top of you. You banged on the ice, flinging your magic out as much as you could bear. Your magic was meant for warding. For blocking out and breaking other magic. Not for shattering solid ice. You heard a shudder on the ice and saw that burning fire break through it. But it didn’t consume you in the water. Instead, there was a perfect hole in the ice. As you breathed back in air, you grabbed the hand that was reached out to you.

Pulling you out, Eris swore. You were much paler than normal, probably due to the freezing water he causes you to fall into.

“I’m sorry-“ he started.

“Don’t even.” You gritted out, your body shaking. He reached out to keep you warm but you batted his hand away. “I need to fix what you messed up.” You said. You walked to the other side with ease, the ice working to repair the hole Eris’s fire dealt or.

You held your hand up as you took a deep breath, pushing the cold aside as you tested the wards. Just when you thought it was impossible, you found it. Found the small crack that allowed you to shatter the first set of wards easily. Only to reveal another set.

After venturing further into the cave, and getting through five sets of wards, you were getting drained. The pool of magic inside of you was faltering to a small puddle. Not to mention, the further you went in, the colder it got.

You were shaking, and Eris only watched as you got deeper into the cave, shivering. You were getting paler by the second, stumbling over your steps.

“We can rest here.” He said, grabbing your shoulder. He knew something was wrong when you didn’t shrug him off. Or come back with a witty retort. “(Y/N)? We’re going to stop here.” He said.

At that, you turned around and vomited right next to his feet. Luckily avoiding his boots. When you looked up, you looked like you were dying.

He pulled you towards the wall, sitting you down quickly as he probed your body with his magic. Shit. You were dying.

"(Y/N), look at me." Eris said, cupping your cheek to face him. Your eyes were slightly glazed over when you grabbed his wrist.

"Let me go." You murmured. At least you weren't completely out of it.

"You're dying. There must have been something in that water." He said. To any regular fae, it was probably fine to be submerged in it. But for your slow healing abilities, it was clearly deadly. That combined with draining your magic.

"You did this." You muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

"Let me help you." He whispered.

You let out a grumble but nodded. "Fine." You said, not wanting to die alone in a cave.

Eris's warm magic flowed through your veins, warming your core. His magic worked to heal you as best as it could. While he couldn't completely reverse the effects, he could get most of the poisoned water out from your body. When you stopped shaking violently and only did it every few seconds, he stopped his pursuit.

The wards now locked the two of you inside the cave. Since you weren't in any shape to work your magic until it refilled, Eris got to work on laying out the blankets and sleeping pads. The hope was that you didn't have to use them and get done with the mission within a day, but clearly it was going to take longer.

You were conscious enough to lay down on the pad and pull the blanket over you. Since starting a fire would lure unwanted creatures, and most likely suffocate you both, Eris didn't start one. "I can keep you warm." He said.

You moved your head to face him, a scowl on your face. "You're the reason I'm still freezing... You think I want you to touch me?" You asked.

"I don't think you want it. But you need it. If your temperature continues to fall you won't make it out of here." He said.

You huffed, turning your body so your back faced him. "Fine. Whatever." You said.

A small smirk came to his face at the victory. He scooted closer to you, an arm wrapping around your waist. His magic radiated from his body, warming you to the point where you were not only warm, but hot. "Okay, no need to go so hard." You said.

"Isn't that how you like it?" He teased. You only growled in response. He sensed you drifting off to sleep as your breaths slowed down. When he was confident you were warm and comfortable, he allowed himself to pull back ever so slightly. His magic continued to keep the two of your warm, but Eris knew he didn't actually have to hold you. He could send heat over to you from across the room. But wasn't this so much better?

A/N: Hope you enjoyed!

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN GRANDMA!! You already know what I want, nay, what I crave when the days get shorter and the only thing that brings me any solace is my favorite rarepare. Please, Tonks x Percy siat - specifically something abouth Tonks telling Percy about her powers maybe, just an incredibly intimate scene please and thank you 😩🧡

The first time Percy rushes to the St. Mungo's on the heal of a battle and bursts into Tonk's room, he doesn't understand why he'd needed to threaten his way in in the first place. She's stripped to her underwear and looks perfectly fine.

But there are three healers surrounding her and completely ignoring him. "Time?" the oldest asks, her hair pure white and her face a layer of wrinkles.

Tonks closes her eyes. "Eighty seconds."

"External first," she says briskly. "It doesn't do us any good if you bleed out."

She breathes out.

Then blood floods across her body, soaking the bed instantly as wounds big and small erupt over her skin. In some places he sees flashes of what he thinks are bone.

Tonks doesn't scream as magic starts flying, and he doesn't either, keeping himself plastered to the wall.

"Internal," the healer says.

What little of her skin he can see beneath the blood pales and they're casting more healing spells, longer and more complicated the any he's heard before.

"Head," she says. "Go slow."

Tonks swallows and then there's another rush of blood as her eyes roll and she passes out and all three of the healers are flinging spells with a speed and intensity he didn't know was possible.

He's almost grateful that he can't see what injury they're treating.

Then the other two step back and the old healer casts a diagnostic spell that Percy tries to interpret and can't. Her shoulders drop and she says, "Good," casting a scourgify to take care of the blood and pulling the blanket over her with a flick of her wand.

She turns, noticing Percy for the first time. Instead of anger, she just raises an eyebrow. "You're the boyfriend, then?"

He really hates what that implies about how often Tonks needs to be treated by healer quite this talented. "Is she going to be okay?"

His stomach had twisted itself in nots but it finally starts ease when she gives a short nod. "We'll let her get some rest and keep her overnight from observation." She tilts her head to the side. "I'd kick you out, citing the no visitors policy for this ward, but you're already here. Seems like a big of wasted effort."

"A bit," he agrees, pulling a chair next to Tonks's bedside and collapsing into it. "Thank you."

~

Tonks wakes up slowly, feeling the hospital sheets that she hates with the smell she can't stand and she's already trying to figure out how she can get herself released early without bringing Nanu's wrath down on her.

She pushes herself upright - or tries to. She can't mover her arm.

She looks down, alarmed, but her arm is just being used as a pillow.

By Percy, who's asleep and hunched over her bed. Percy, who needed to be coaxed and cajoled into leaving his desk for so much as a tea is here. He doesn't even have any scrolls or work spready out. She wouldn't blame him if he didn't, but he's just here, and from the way his clothing's rumpled he's been here for a while.

Tonks's heart feels so full.

She's going to marry him.

He only just accepted that they were dating, so she'll give him some time before introducing the concept of marriage, but she knows. This man is going to be her husband someday.

[howtofightwrite]

I've got a world-building/combat question. I have these two warring nations in my setting, both medieval-ish tech levels. One of them figures out how to make magical flying craft that are basically WWI airplanes. The other country invents dragon riders in response. Since then, they've been at war for ~60 years. I'm trying to figure out how the heck an air force would alter medieval combat strategies. If you've any suggestions, I'd appreciate it

The first, and biggest world building problem is that magic is part of your overall tech level. Ironically, Diskworld is an excellent example of how magical technology can basically function as an alternate path for social and technical development, though, honestly, a lot of high-magic settings tend to have tech leakage from magic.

One of the more common examples that comes to mind are “magical radios.” Either it's an enchanted device that allows person to person communication, or it's direct telepathic communication, but whatever it is, it serves a fundamentally similar role to a handheld radio, or (depending on how it works) a phone. The thing is, it's functionally a magical replacement, and it would affect society in much the same way those technologies have.

This is a long way to say, if your magical combat technology has WWI-grade planes, there is a very real possibility that a lot of your warfare is also going to be at a similar magi-tech level, if not more advanced. Having written that, I'm reminded of The Red Star comic series; though, that has a heavy Soviet aesthetic, and is not-at-all medieval.

Again, it doesn't really matter if you have fully-automatic firearms, or if you have a bolt thrower that conjures and propels crystals at hyper-sonic speeds into your foes. If they have a similar rate of fire, and similar accuracy, the meaningful change is texture. Your characters might see tiny crystal fragments shattered on the floor, or embedded into walls, instead of bullet holes. There may be no smell, or conjuring the crystals might leave a different odor. A handheld lightning projector might leave scorch marks, and a scent of ozone, for instance.

Magic might also factor into armor and defenses. If you can use a magical ward to dispel conjured objects, that might be extremely useful for fortifying specific targets against incoming conjured attacks, but it would likely be wholly ineffective against the lightning projector, or some other kind of directed energy beam weapon.

“Inventing,” dragon riding as a response to someone else making a magical airship, does strike me as an odd cause-and-effect. If dragon riding was that easy, it would seem likely that someone would have militarized them long before that point. Inventing flying objects that could function as a hard counter to dragons feels a little more natural. Or, magical, AA installations. Though, this is something that could probably be finessed, if you're really committed to the setup. It's also worth remembering that air superiority is an extremely potent advantage, even if you're not sure what to do with it, meaning that if one side suddenly had fliers, and the other side couldn't come up with a counter in short order, they'd be picked apart, and the war wouldn't have this 60 year timescale.

If it seems like I went to ranged weapons very quickly, there's a simple reason. You can't joust from a plane. Your options are to either propel objects at people, or drop things on them from above. Dragons also (usually) have the option to breathe fire on them. Now, firearms did exist in the late medieval era. So, that's not that far out of range. I'm less sure of the invention of bombs. At least, of the variety you could deliver to your enemy on the battlefield. Though, it occurs to me, you could probably use a catapult or trebuchet to deliver an explosive payload, if the explosives were stable enough to survive launch, but sensitive enough to detonate on impact. (Of course, if you have some kind of magically primed explosive, that stays stable until it is ejected from the catapult, and then explodes on impact, that would work.)

Looping back to the timescale again, this would require some pretty potent defensive capabilities. A dragon, with the ability to breathe fire, and the capacity for strategic thinking, could easily starve out an entire kingdom, simply by making a habit of torching all the cropland it could find. It doesn't, particularly matter if it gets all the food, so long as it torches a meaningful percentage of the available crops. When you have farmers going hungry, you're going to see food production dipping, exacerbating the problem. When you have soldiers going hungry, they're not going to be able to fight as effectively. When you have the peasantry going hungry, you're going to see civil unrest, and probably rebellions coming for their lord's head. You can't wage a war against a hostile nation under those circumstances. (In fact, there were multiple peasant revolts during the Hundred Years War, which basically stalled out France's ability to fight. England also suffered multiple peasant uprisings at roughly the same time. Though, those were motivated by taxation, which ends in a similar place.)

A related concept that's somewhat hinted above, is that wars are expensive, and both France and England found themselves facing uprisings because of taxation needed to support the ongoing war. (The irony being that both nations encountered this at roughly the same point in history. Roughly 40 years into the war.) A war that's been going for 60 years will likely have ravaged the economies of the involved nations. This isn't necessarily something that your characters would be aware of, unless you expand the context to show non-wartime economies.

The simplest explanation for why this happens is that any money you spend prosecuting the war are products that you never see returning value from. The money itself doesn't leave the economy, but the natural resources, and labor required, are expended non-productively (from the perspective of economic growth.) So, if you have a peacetime merchant, they're moving money around, but they're paying for their goods, and then those goods are going to consumers, who may also be contributing to economic activity with those goods (this even applies for food, you can think of that as a necessary component to any productive activity.) If you're a wartime merchant, selling weapons to the military, you are contributing to economic activity when you buy the weapons, but when they're sold to the crown, that's no longer productive. Those weapons leave the economy and never return. Worse, any soldiers who are permanently wounded, or killed, are also removed from the economy. Over time, this can destroy the most prosperous of nations. (To be clear, this is more advanced economic analysis than anyone in the middle ages would have had. So, the idea that wars are expensive was understood, but the exact reasons it slowed the economy were not.) And, this kind of thinking is another form of technological advancement. Ideas for understanding complex systems have become more intricate and detailed over time. While it's not the concept of, “invention,” that you might be used to, it is a similar form of progress.

So, how would this look in your world? There's a lot of potential consequences, most of which are not contradictory.

An impoverished lower-class is very likely. Whether that includes wounded veterans or not is a little more up in the air, though after 60 years, military pensioners, and those who suffered life-altering injuries on the battlefield are likely to be a common sight, either on the street or in the poverty line. (Especially if the crown is willing to enforce drafts and conscription.) At this point, that might be a very real possibility.

A struggling aristocracy is also likely, with former major power players who've declined into poverty. This might take the form of borderline abandoned estates that have been taken over by the crown or squatters. (Probably not both at the same time.)

Serious inflation is likely (and could be why formerly stable guild members, merchants, and even some of the aristocracy might now find themselves struggling.) I realize this point isn't something most really think of when you're trying to write a fantasy world, but it's worth considering. More likely this will be seen in food prices having increased over time. So the major symptoms you'd likely see would be decaying structures that no one has the resources to maintain, rising food prices, and generalized poverty. Even in a fairly magically advanced setting, a lot of these things would, likely, still happen. Of course, if the dragons have been used to destroy the agricultural base, things would be even worse in that nation. To be clear, food and taxation riots are not off the table there.

This is sort of a non-sequitur, but if you have a setting with classic transmutation (lead, or other base metals, into gold), you would actually see inflation with every batch of transmuted gold hitting the market. It's sort of an amusing note on the fantasy of being able to produce as much money as you want, but ultimately, it's actually harmful from a macroeconomic perspective. (Basically, the same reason counterfeiting is a problem.) Though, it is a possible hook for criminal groups in one of those nations, producing counterfeit gold via transmutation.

There's also a real world example from 2020, where a jewelry company had fabricated “fake,” gold bars as collateral to secure loans. In total, they claimed to have 83 tons of gold used to obtain loans worth over 2.8 billion dollars, from 14 different creditors. Except, when they defaulted on those loans, and were forced to hand over the gold, it was discovered that these were in fact gold plated copper bars.

I realize the question was about the flying forces specifically, but so long as that advantage is dealt with quickly, and neither side is able to monopolize air superiority, that's not going to change nearly as much as having that level of magical advancement would on its own, and of course, the general consequences of having a war that's been going on for long enough that multiple generations have died on the battlefield. That's going to a bigger effect on your world as a whole.

-Starke

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[windvexer]

Lowering Wards: Steps for new and established spells

"Lowering" a ward means to temporarily pause some or all of its protective effects, usually to make way for other magical actions or divination; "lowering the draw-bridge." Here, a ward is any protective spell.

Although these steps will work for just about any spell. An alternate title for this post is, basic spell administration: managing your spells after they've been cast.

The whole caboodle is deceptively easy. No need to over think it.

Lowering any wards, even for spells not established with convenient lowering in mind

SELECT WHICH EFFECTS SHOULD BE PAUSED. Hypothetically, a ward with multiple effects can have some effects paused, while others are ongoing (*this is highly variable and really depends on how the spell was built).

But technically, if you have a ward that's A) no magic can come into my house, and B) no energies of ill-will can come into my house, you may be able to allow magic to come into your house while a friend sends a positive spell your way, while still filtering out ill-will.

In my experience, protection loopholes are a bit of a beast, and if your magic starts behaving weirdly, or won't work, or friends can't magic on you like they can for others, check out to see if you've sealed yourself in a labyrinth of protective measures.

Sometimes you'll want to pause all effects - that's fine too. Just have in mind what you want to have happen.

IMO, an excellent way to deal with this step is to just state what it is you want the ward to allow for.

"Let this Discord friend do a reading for me."

"Make way for this spirit to leave the house."

Etc.

TAKE ANY BASIC STEP TO MANAGE YOUR MAGIC.

Enter, or at least brush up against, magical mindspace.

Find the spell - this is easier if its attached to a physical object, which just means finding the object.

While in magical mindspace and interacting with the reality that your spell exists, do any of the following:

Just tell it what you'd like it to temporarily do

Put a black cloth over the spell vessel with intent that it be paused

Hide it away in a drawer, or turn it so that it's "facing" a corner

Draw some sort of stopping symbol on top of it (pentagram or an X work well)

Put the ward close to an energy battery and have it take a break and go out for lunch

Any action that, for you, makes sense to represent a "pause, time-out" instruction

WHEN READY, PUT THE WARD BACK UP. Take away the black cloth, put the ward back in its proper position, "wipe away" the blocking symbol. Especially communicate through magical speech, thought, writing, signing, etc., that the ward is to resume its normal mode of behavior.

For those curious about sorcerous theory, reading on a ward before and after you raise and lower it can offer helpful feedback

Of course, that stuff might not work well, so making a ward with an eye for pausing it is a good idea

Spellcrafting can get complex and there could be any number of reasons why a ward created to be a permanent wall doesn't have convenient, easily-workable drawbridges.

Building a ward with drawbridges is easy. First, decide how you want the drawbridge to work.

You can design a ward where one effect ("no ill-energy") is always active, while another is meant to be raised and lowered ("no outside magic.")

You can design a ward with a skeleton key, where all of the doorways are unlocked at once

You can design wards in such a way that outsiders may be able to obtain the key and unlock them (like, a passcode and energy signature you share with others), or you can design them in such a way that only you can unlock them (like, requiring you yourself to draw a symbol over them in the physical realm)

Etc.

One example of an unlocking action is tapping on the spell vessel three times and saying, "stand down until sunset* so [specific thing the ward is blocking] can occur."

*For the forgetful, giving the spell a timeframe is useful.

When casting the spell, whenever the time feels right, go into a portion where you 'teach' the spell how to listen for your instructions to lower defenses, and how it should operate when this occurs. ("Never stay unlocked beyond the next twilight; the guards named No Bane are eternal, but the guards named No Spying sometimes lie down to rest.")

You can always go back and "open up" old spells to modify loopholes and improve unlocking mechanisms

My paradigm allows for certain things:

Most spells are not so much mindless machines but rather are more like garden plots, or animals. They may be bad at performing a certain thing the first time you ask them to, but over multiple lessons, even a very stubborn spell might learn a new trick.

Therefore, it can take time to teach a spell how to do something new that it wasn't designed to do.

Learning can be improved by holding a formal class. This is the equivalent of taking the spell back into spellcasting space and partially re-casting new magic on top of the old base.

The gist of re-forging an old spell is to carefully outline what you want to change, remove, and add. Using your preferred spellcasting or ritual format, connect with the spell and provide new parameters.

I find this process to be different than casting an entirely new spell, so I think it's normal if it all seems a bit different.

Provide the spell with more energy, tie off the ritual as normal, and deploy the spell immediately or give it a little time to firm up, as you prefer.

[victoriadallonfan]

Alien vs Predator vs Parahumans

So, recently, I decided to check out Alien vs Avengers because that art is gorgeous and I was curious about how an author could write a xenomorph outbreak in the Marvel Universe, and what wacky interplays they can do with various aliens, superpowers, and magical stuff.

It was... disappointing. Not to go all power levels on us, but it had Hulk struggle with a single drone and Spider-Man be caught off guard by a face hugger. And randomly immune to magic.

Not great.

So I got to thinking... what would be a cool way to handle Alien, Predator, and the Parahumans franchise?

Spoilers beneath the cut for Ward Spoilers

I think the one that gives the least amount of headaches would be post-Ward, so I'll be going off that timeframe.

They way I envision it, is that Weyland-Yutani (Or just Weyland at this point I suppose) is a wealthy organization focusing on colonizing other Earths, seemingly working with the Wardens, Auzure, and Mortari in helping refugees and allied colonies to have viable successes.

They aren't squeaky clean, obviously, but all their marks against them seem small potatoes when the city of Perpetuity had to deal with winter, anti-parahumans, Shin and Cheit terrorists, supervillains, the Machine Army, and Titans over the course of Ward itself.

So the company grows in power and influence, eventually funding a colony they call Jericho on a pretty barren Earth, claiming to use it as a test bed for more hostile environment technology. Not many people give the useless rock and it's colony much of a glance, beyond noting the oddity of 2000 residents going over there.

Quite a lot for merely scientist and personnel families, but again, bigger issues.

During the epilogue of Ward, the Majors are made up of Sveta (Coach/Mentor), Victoria (assistant coach/mentor), Withdrawal, Caryatid, Finale, and Limerick. The team as a whole has made waves with their travels across the multiverse, protecting colonies from supervillains, monsters, and natural disasters.

With Victoria flying off to Japan to help with the cape resurrection project, The Majors are content with doing a final lap of known colonies when Withdrawal picks up an SOS from Jericho on his scanner, only for the signal to cut out.

Curious, the team heads out to the portal leading to the colony... and are met with Weyland Yutani security and a Project Executive, who greet the heroes with artificial cheeriness ("Server malfunction, you know how the tech acts with these wacky powers!" "Oh the armed security? Well, you know, can't be too careful with the wildlife and all that supervillain nonsense." "Oh, you want to check in with the colony? Uhhh, wow, hm, I'll need to bump it up to my bosses boss - paperwork am I right - and I'll need to see about permits and gosh- Oh, what was that? You... You know the Mayor personally? Oh you're going to call her to grease the wheels? Well, you know what, I don't want to bother her with such a small issue so how about you stick around and you don't tell on me that I'm looking the other way a bit wink wink hahahaaaa.....")

The tension is not quite high, but everyone feels a bit on edge with each other as they go through the portal. The security team leader explains the colony is actually several miles away from the portal to better work with the natural earths hostile environment, so it's not uncommon for some issues to come up and these check-ups are mandatory (though it's clear she's upset that the Executive is on the ground here with his own goons). The Majors aren't quite used to the military types beyond Limerick, but they do their best to try and bond with the group.

Tensions don't lessen when radio contact continues to be unreciprocated by the colony as they drive in, though it's still explained away with bad reception from the harsh Earth.

This quickly changes when the colony is abandoned. A ghost town. Ruined cars are in the street, windows busted and interiors ruined by the harsh conditions of Earth. Shell casings randomly across the colony, along with discarded guns.

Checking the databases finds that the records - all of them - have been deleted.

Yeah, this is a problem now.

There's more tension, more arguments about what happened and what to do, but the Executive eventually reveals that there is technically another site further off in the distance: an archeological dig site for what they thought were past Earth inhabitants.

The group heads there and finds the dig site ruined, thrashed apart at the opening of a massive tunnel leading into the earth below.

The story from there follows the Majors and WY team exploring the cave and running into the Xenomorphs, the cave morphing and activating various traps or leading into biomes that make no sense for existing underground.

Meanwhile, a trio of young predators are being led to the ritual site by an Elder, and find these superpowered humans to be the perfect chance to hunt new prey....

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hey!! I’m really hoping you or your followers can help me find a sterek fic. Literally the only scene I can remember is stiles going down to the basement of a library that Laura manages and he was warned to stay away from the locked area that is essentially the Beacon Hills restricted section but bc he’s stiles he obvs didn’t listen and the gate/door had protective wards so it shocked stiles and sent him flying back. Stiles either worked at the library as well or was just a patron. I think Lydia worked there too? Or maybe Isaac?? I think they find out later on that stiles is magic. Oh and I believe there’s a bulletin board in the library that has flyers that are magicked bc they have hidden messages and magical requests in them that only the supernatural can see. I’m really hoping im not confusing that last bit with another fic. Thank you!!!!!!!!!!

I know this one too!

What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm

(4/4 I 118,749 I Explicit I Sterek)

There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life.

There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

[daydreaming-nerd]

Young Love and Old Money (Cassian x Female! Reader) Part 15

Young Love and Old Money Masterlist

AN: I'm sorry I haven't been writing a bunch lately. I've been going through a pretty big transitional period in my life and it has my mental health in the absolute shitter. Please be patient I promise I'm writing whenever I can. Love you all I hope you enjoy the second-to-last chapter of this series.

Summary: She was the most beautiful woman in Prythian, sister to the High Lord of Night, and now she is the soon-to-be wife of Eris Vanserra. Despite her many titles and her aura of unattainability, Cassian can't help but fall deeply in love with the princess of the Night Court. But will it be enough to stop her impending wedding to a man who is sure to destroy her from the inside out?

Warnings: jealous cassian, angst but fluffy at the end

Word Count: 6,517

It’s been three weeks since we went to Hybern and I hadn’t left the cell. 

The first time I woke up Rhys had to come into the cell and cleave into my mind to make me sleep. Thankfully the burn marks on his hands and wrists are fully healed now. Feyre is in the Spring Court acting as our spy and when he’s not talking to her, Rhys is down here with me and Cassian. 

Cassian hadn't left my side for a moment since I woke. He had a small cot placed outside my cell so that I wouldn’t have to sleep down here alone. Despite my protests he wouldn't leave to see Madja, he made her come here in this dark, dingy place. I had yet to touch anyone, even him, and it was starting to weigh on me. It was as if my skin turned colder in the absence of him, of anyone. I had taken for granted all the times I hugged my brother around the neck or sparred with Azriel. Not fully appreciated waking up in Cassian’s arms and being engulfed in his embrace when he came home sweaty and stinking from training. 

But it wasn’t just me who was suffering from lack of touch. Cassian was a broken male. Many times he fought with Rhys and I to simply be allowed in the cell with me, but both of us declined. While Cassian was a strong male, Rhys had magic that could help protect him. If something happened he wouldn’t be gravely injured. Cassian argued and argued with the two of us for days. He only gave up when I told him I couldn’t live with myself if I had hurt him. I asked him to imagine the situation in reverse. 

Rhys and Amren have been working tirelessly to teach me how to control my power. Even Cassain pitched in, teaching me the breathing techniques of Valkyries to keep my emotions calm when things seemed lost. I had made progress, but with the wards on the cell it was hard to measure the true extent of my control. The flame that danced on my skin was more of a flicker now, but who knew if that was the wards doing or my own. 

“Keep pressing your power down into that well, what does it look like? What does it feel like?” Rhysand coached me. 

We had found that the best way for me to put a damper on my power was to put it somewhere else. To seal it off from the rest of me in a way. Putting it in a vault and locking the door was effective until my emotions came into play, then Cassian’s breathing techniques worked their own magic. 

“Good, good! You’re doing fantastic!” Rhys praised his voice the most enthusiastic it had been in a while.

I opened my eyes to see the flames on my skin extinguished, though I could feel them simmering under the surface, waiting to ignite once more. It hadn’t been the first time I was able to control my power, I had been doing well for the past week. Rhys figured I would do better if I let some of it out, like a cauldron that needed to boil over in order to simmer down. But I couldn’t do that here. 

“How do you feel?” Rhys asked again, stepping closer to me. 

“I feel more me now, not that I really know what that means anymore,” I say looking at my hands just waiting for them to ignite again. 

Rhys takes my hands in his own, his wards up to keep from being singed. I look up to see his eyes sparkling, the happiest he’s been in a while, a smile lighting up his face.      

“I think you’re ready to leave the cell,” he smiles and I hear Cassian remove his arms from the bars of the cell where he always rested them. 

“Rhys I don’t know,” I shake my head as he holds my hands tighter. 

“Well I do, you’re ready y/n and I can’t stand to see you in this cell any longer,” he pleads with me. 

My eyes flit to my mate, who waits dutifully on the other side of the bars. His knuckles white from where he grips the iron. Like he was praying I’d cross that threshold just so I could be in the same room as him. It was that pain, that longing in his hazel eyes, that prompted me to nod my head yes. 

“Thank the cauldron,” Rhys sighed in relief, bringing me towards the door. “Now the wards won’t be there to help you keep your power down, you’ll have to focus just as hard as you have been.”

The second my feet step over the threshold I feel it. The wards felt like a heavy blanket placed on top of me, without them I felt like I was laid bare. The violet flames under my skin flickered a bit but went out as soon as I pushed them back into that vault that kept us all from being burnt to a crisp. 

Once I feel that vault door seal itself shut I look up to see Cassian staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. His eyes hold hope, and longing, and unmistakable sadness. My mate, my Cassian. Just three feet away from me.

I reach for him, feeling the need to comfort him but the second I do I stop myself and look down at my hands. There are no flames, but the simmering remains, icey and hot all at once. My hands clench into fists as I feel the pain in my chest. My eyes meet Cassian’s glassed over hazel ones and I feel the last piece of me break. 

“I can’t- I can’t hold you,” I say, my voice breaking mid sentence. How long would it be till I could touch my mate again? Would I ever touch him again? 

“It’s okay, I can still feel you, in here,” Cassian says, placing a hand over his chest and tugging on the bond so I could feel it. 

I feel my throat bob as tears prick my eyes, suddenly it’s harder to breathe and flames ignite at my fingertips. My tears evaporate as they fall down my face and suddenly the room is caving in. 

“Princess you need to breathe,” Cassian coos, placing his hand on my shoulder, the hiss of burning flesh echoes through the room as my mate rips his hands away from me and cradles his burnt hand. “FUCK!” he shouts. 

“Cassian I-” my words get caught in my throat. “I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to.” I say moving towards him, but Rhys steps in front of me.

“y/n stop, you’re burning up. Let it wash over you, like a wave washing over a rock.” he says calmly. 

I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. I picture my power being shoved back in that vault, I imagine a wave of calm washing over me like a warm blanket. Only when I hear my heartbeat slow do I open my eyes. The flames have danced out again. 

“That was incredible, you did that without the wards and without my help,” Rhys smiles proudly. “Today feels like a setback but you’ve made more progress than you know.” 

I nod and turn my attention to Cassian who still holds his hand, “Cass I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to-” 

“Shh princess, I know you didn’t mean to. I should’ve been more careful.” he says warmly, thankfully he doesn’t reach for me again.

“He’ll be okay, from the amount of times I’ve been burned Madja has the healing process down to a science,” Rhys chuckles trying to lighten the mood.

I wish his words were enough. I just burned my mate while he was trying to help him, and what’s worse, I couldn’t even hold him. I couldn’t comfort him, or ‘kiss it better’ or even inspect the injury. It was like every bone in my body wanted to see if he was alright and I couldn’t. 

“I can put some wards on your bedroom, they won’t be as strong as down here but they will help,” Rhys assures me. 

My mind wanders to  my room. I had been sleeping in Cassian’s room for forever now, it was our room. But I couldn't sleep next to him anymore. Those days were gone. 

“Put the wards on my old room, not Cassian’s,” I say calmly, averting my eyes to the stone floor. 

“Like hell you’re sleeping in there,” Cassian grumbles. “You’re sleeping with me, in our bed, in our room.” 

“Cass I can’t and you know it,” I say a little harsher than I should. I shudder a sigh and continue, “Look at what just happened, I won’t hurt you again, I refuse to.” 

“She’s right Cassian, she could have a nightmare or a flare up in the night. Trust me when I say that little burn you got was nothing compared to her full power.” Rhysand says, knowing that there needs to be another voice of reason. 

Cassain purses his lips, “Fine, then I’ll sleep in the reading chair next to your bed.” he says. 

“No it’s not comfortable, you don’t have to do that,” I pleaded with him. 

Cassian goes to argue but Rhys steps in, “I can have a bed moved into your room sister. Cassian can be close to you and he will be far enough away that he won’t be roasted alive.”

I nod solemnly, I still don’t like the idea of my mate being anywhere near me at the moment, especially after what just happened. But I knew that if I didn’t let him sleep in the room with me that he would sleep in the hall outside, and that wouldn’t do either. And besides, who knew how long things would be this way…

One month later…

Things are getting better. However I have yet to touch anyone but Rhys. 

With my brother's help, I’ve gained more control over my power. We discovered that releasing it makes it easier to manage. When I depleted my reserves, there was less to burn off. However, the problem was that my reserves kept growing every day, as if I were gaining more and more power continuously.

There was no telling if it would ever stop growing and even more alarming, we didn’t know what would happen if I burnt out. 

On top of that came new revelations. It seemed my power was more linked to the Night Court than we initially thought. I could now manipulate darkness and winnow just like Rhys could. Turns out winnowing was incredibly handy, especially since Cassian couldn’t fly me anywhere anymore.  

Rhys and I worked everyday to let out some power. He taught me how to control my fire, how to aim it, and wield it as the weapon it was. It was during one of these very lessons that he got the news that Feyre had finally returned to us. 

The reunion was teary and beautiful as I watched my brother and his mate embrace so warmly on the floor of the townhouse. Though, there was a certain pang in my heart knowing I couldn’t hold my own mate that way. I looked up at Cassian from across the room to find him already staring at me. I pursed my lips and looked away, trying my best to keep myself from crying.

“Oh y/n!” Feyre smiles and begins to run over and embrace me but Rhyand catches her around her middle. 

“Feyre no!” he shouts, a male clearly worried for his mate.

His booming voice made me curl in a little on myself as Cassian took a protective step towards me, eyeing both of them. 

“I’m sorry Feyre, but I can’t touch you. I can’t touch anyone actually, even Cassian.” I say sadly the shame washing over me like the tide. 

“W-what? Why?” she asks from where she stands a safe distance away in my brother's arms. 

I let out a breath, “When I went into the cauldron I changed, power awakened inside of me and I can’t control it. I’ve burnt Rhys about a hundred times now.” I sigh, knowing the last thing she wants to hear is how I’ve harmed her mate. 

She turns and slaps Rhys across the chest, “I knew you were lying! I could feel the heat down the bond! Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. 

My brother chuckles at his applauded mate, clearly just happy that she’s finally back in his arms. “You had enough to worry about already, and besides I had it under control. Y/n is doing much better now.” he assures Feyre. 

“As I live and breathe,” croons a voice that I hadn’t heard in years. 

My eyes flit to behind Feyre, where Lucien Vanserra stands, his eyes raking over me. I knew him when we were young and Rhys and Tamling were still friends. I was always fond of the male, and his flirtatious ways. Rhys used to call us childhood sweethearts, though we were never anything more than good friends.

“Lucien-fucking-Vanserra,” I laugh as Lucein prowls towards me. 

“It can’t be? Is that the precious Jewel of Prythian?” he jests. “If I had known I’d be seeing you I would’ve brought flowers. I think I recall the Spring Courts peonies being your favorite?” he smirks, cocking an eyebrow. 

“You’re a terrible guest Vanserra, we should throw you out,” I laughed, shaking my head at the silver tongued fox. 

“Then allow me to gift you this instead,” he drawls before reaching for my hand. 

“Lucien I wouldn’t” warns Rhys but it’s already too late. 

The fox ignites flames across his fingers and picks up my hand. He doesn’t hiss or even flinch as he brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it in greeting. His eyes of gold and russet burning into mine. 

Cassian growls in warning at the sight of the Autumn Court prince touching me, but if Lucien cares or is even afraid he doesn’t let it show. Instead he flips my hand over so my palm is facing up, using his free hand to graze over the skin of my palm down to my forearm. 

“Her power is not like mine,” he says to no one in particular. “It feels darker and perhaps stronger.” 

“But you can touch her?” Amren questions watching Lucien inspect my hand. 

“Of course I can touch her,” he smirks, winking at me. “My flames burn at the same temperature as hers. I don’t feel anything but her lovely skin.” 

“That’s enough,” Cassain growls, stepping forward a bit. 

Lucien’s eyes turn to the general, nothing but sheer amusement in them. 

“Yes, yes, Feyre told me that The Jewel was spoken fort now,” Lucien tuts releasing my hand. “Forgive me for trying to ignite old flames.” he chuckles, turning away. 

Rhys and Feyre promptly excuse themselves and we all take it as our queue to get lost, clearing the room at lightning speed. I walked out of the house with Cassian in tow, and I could practically feel his anger radiating behind me.

Since going into the cauldron things between Cassian and I had been, well… different. We were so physical before I was cursed with a power I couldn’t control. Always holding hands or cuddling whenever we could. It cleaved a hole in our relationship we couldn't find a way to replace. 

While we still spent every waking moment together, we talked less. I missed the conversations we used to have about books or training (which I had kept up on in my own time). However, I knew that my new powers were a lifestyle change for him too. It felt like grieving who I once used to be, who I may never be again. 

Part of me wondered if we would survive this “new me”. Cassian fell in love with me when I was weak and meager, he might not like this new me. This female he had to walk on eggshells around. What I did know was this, he had to adjust in his own way, and I would stand by him through whatever that process was for him. 

I thought I could keep quiet about his intense brooding, until he grunted once more. I stopped and turned around to face him. My neck craned up to where his jaw ticked in frustration.

“You sound pretty angry back there big guy,” I tease, trying to keep the mood light. 

“I haven’t been able to touch you in almost two months and Lucien Vanserra walks in and holds your hand like it’s no big deal,” he grumbles looking off to the side. 

If things were the way they used to be I would be turning his chin to meet my gaze. 

“Maybe he can help Cass,” I say softly, trying to give him something to root for. 

“Yeah, yeah, but I’m always going to be upset he was the first one to touch you,” he says, lip curling into a half smile as if he realizes how ridiculous he’s being. 

“Rhys says I’m doing better, and I feel better too.” I tell him. “Better days could just be around the corner.” 

Cassain lets my words hang in the air a bit and I can practically see the wheels in his head churning, like he’s waging a war against his thoughts and instincts. 

“Can we- can we try again?” he asks hopelessly. 

Cass had been asking me the same thing for the past few weeks. He wanted to try and touch me, just for a moment. The male just wanted to hold my hand.  But I told him no every time, for every time he asked I could hear the singing of his flesh and see him cradling a burnt hand. Like a bad nightmare on a loop.

“Cass no I won’t hurt you,” I say firmly, taking a step back from him just in case he got any ideas. 

“Baby please, I just want to hold you again. I just want to feel my mate.” he begs and my heart shatters.

“I’m sorry Cass, but I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you again.” I say sadly, casting my head down. “We just have to hope that things get better tomorrow.” 

Cassian goes to brush a hair out of my face and when he realizes he can’t he clenches his hand into a fist and clenches his jaw. And so the invisible wall that had been built between us raises again, and I feel that pang in my chest that, just. Won’t. Go. Away. 

“What do you mean that was pretty close?” I cry looking at the scorched bit of grass next to the large rock I was supposed to hit.

“Pretty close could be the difference between hitting Hybern and hitting me in the heat of battle sister,” Rhys chortles. 

We had been at it for hours today. After the week-long disappearance of him and Feyre he had finally come back to the real world to help me control my magic. 

My well of power was turning shallow after hours of practice and my aim was starting to get sloppy. Which of course was dangerous for all involved, but mostly for the spring grass on the secluded hill we were on. 

“Keep trying,” Rhys urges me from the boulder he sits on. I’m sure the thing had a permanent imprint of his ass by now.

“I can’t!” I say frustrated, running my hands through my hair.  “I can’t break into people's minds, I can’t shapeshift.” 

Rhys cocks and eyebrow and gracefully stands from the rock walking over to me.

“You wouldn’t know, you haven’t tried,” he says, summoning a kernel of his magic to rest in the palm of his hand, pure violet light. I do the same, but like always, it only manifests as violet flame. “Your power resembles mine, I can feel the traces of it that you carry. Try shapeshifting, amuse me sister.” 

I look up at him with a sour face, “Into what? It’s not that simple.” I scoff, my brother always made magic seem so carefree, I was jealous of how easy he made it all look. 

Rhys smirks and the snap of leather rings in my ears. The shit eating grin he wears as his wings spread out, basking in the sun makes my blood boil. Rhys was always a show off, especially when he was trying to push all my buttons.

“Maybe we’re the same, you are half Illyrian, even though you never got the wing gene.” he says, stretching his wings like he might stretch his arms when he first woke up in the morning. 

“Rhys,” I grit out. He was toying with me, trying to poke fun at me so I might aim better or spew some more fire. 

“Oh come on, humor your big brother.” he laughs. “Picture them in your mind, what do they look like?” 

I let out a huff and rolled my eyes, and despite my better judgment I scrunch up my face and let my eyelids flutter shut. I try to picture what I might look like with wings, the same way I used to do when I was a little girl. I used to imagine myself flying around with my brother and his friends, going to far away places, anywhere but the townhouse I was raised in and caged in. 

Weight crashes over me and when I open my eyes Rhys stands there with a smug grin on his face. His eyes gleamed with that ‘I told you so’ look only a big brother could possess. I dare to shift my shoulder blade behind me, and then there they are… that weight on my back that feels all too comfortable, like it was always meant to be there. 

“Ha ha!” Rhys laughs, pumping his fists in the air.

Before I can protest he’s running over to pull me into a hug and ruffle up my hair with his knuckles. 

“Look at that! My baby sister has wings!” he smiles, his eyes taking in the sight of them as they light up brighter than I had ever seen before. 

I curl my back muscles so that my right wing comes in front of me. They look just like Rhys’, except unscarred from years of battle and much smaller, even smaller than Feyre’s. But the weight of them was perfect, like they were made for me. 

“You’ve been training with Cassian haven’t you?” he asks, circling me as if he is taking in my posture and the muscles of my back. 

“Yeah I have, why?” I ask, watching as his gaze rakes over my wings. 

Even when I was in the cell I worked hard to continue doing the exercises that Cassin has taught me. It was hard to be cooped up in there all the time. While I trained and motivated I was able to escape if only for a little bit.

“Because the drills he has you running? They’re the same ones they put us through when we were young. They’re meant to strengthen our backs so we might carry our wings,” he explains, coming back to stand in front of me. “And by the looks of it you bear yours quite well.”

I look at my wings and flex them a bit. My brother was right, I was carrying my wings like they were second nature. My back didn’t scream from the pain, instead it almost seemed to welcome their weight. However, it was another change I would have to get used to. Unrelenting power, winnowing, not being able to touch my mate, and now wings? 

I shook my head and thought for a moment. I was a completely unrecognizable person now. Far from the person Cassian fell in love with. My mind drifted back to the talk we had the other day, how I could feel the distance between us. I wondered if maybe this new me wasn’t one that he wanted. Wondered if perhaps he had preferred me to be nothing more than a princess… his mate. And now the wings? Could I possibly change any more? 

“Do you think Cassian will care?” I ask softly bracing myself for any answer my brother might provide. “I mean I’ve changed so much, and he married me without wings and now all the sudden-” 

“Sister,” Rhys says, grasping my arms to stop me from speaking. “Cassian is going to love your wings. He’s going to drool all over my carpets when he sees them.”

“Yeah but-” 

My words get caught in my throat as I feel my brother's fingers digging into my arms. Into my skin. My eyes turn down to where he grasps my bare forearms. No wards, no magic, just him and me. Rhys was touching me. And he was unburnt. 

“You-you’re touching me,” I breathe, grasping his forearms back. 

“I had a suspicion that if you deplenished that well of power enough that I would be able to touch you. Looks like I was right,” he smiles. 

I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a soul crushing hug. It had been so long since I had been hugged or held or touched in any way. I didn’t know how badly it would burden my soul, not to feel my brothers warm hugs or my mates lingering touches. But here I was, happy and whole again. 

When I pull back there are tears in both of our eyes. Tears of hope. Hope that I might make it through whatever this power was that sought to bring me down, hope that I could make a difference in the upcoming war, and hope that when all this was over, I might have a normal life. 

“I think there’s someone who is desperately wanting to see you right now,” he smiles as a tear rolls down his face. 

The townhouse is quiet when we walk in, both of us wingless and searching for one person… Cassian.  Of course we knew he would be here, he was always here when Rhys and I went to train. Pacing and patiently waiting for me to return with some hope, some kernel of a possibility that I might be able to touch him or hold his hand that day. 

That’s where we found him, wearing a hole in Rhysand’s beloved carpet waiting for any semblance of good news. 

“Hey, how was training today?” he asked from where he stood a good few feet away. 

“It went well,” I say timidly. Despite my brother's assurance I was still scared of what Cass might have to say about my new changes. 

“It went well, that’s all you have to say? It went well,” Rhys protests from where he leans against his desk, arms crossed and looking every bit of the swaggering High Lord he was painted to be. 

“Rhys,” I growl under my breath, he had promised not to butt in if I let him see Cassian’s reaction to his winged mate. 

Rhys holds his hands up in mock surrender before signaling that he’s going to shut up now and enjoy the show. 

I sigh and prepare myself for the worst, “Rhys and I discovered yet another new aspect of my power,” I say, looking to Cassian whose face is nothing but apprehensive, like he won’t let himself get his hopes up. 

“And it’s a physical manifestation of sorts, one I’m not sure how you’ll react to,” I continue wearily. 

Cassian relaxes a bit, “You’re my mate, and you always will be. You could sprout a tail and I would still love you.” he chuckles. 

“I don’t know Cass, this one is pretty unforgivable,” Rhys teases, breaking his promise once again. 

I shoot him a pointed glare that tells him he’s run out of warnings and he closes his mouth again. I take a deep breath in, visualizing my wings just like Rhys had instructed me and when I breathe out again I can feel their comforting weight. 

When I open my eyes I find Cassian standing slack jawed in the middle of the room, Rhys’ booming laugh echoing off the walls at his usually composed brother's appearance. I can’t help but let my lip turn up at Rhys’s good humor, it was nice to have him break the tension. 

“Y-You have wings?” Cassian sputters out taking a step closer to me.

“I’ve always been half Illyrian just like Rhys, but I never had the magic to shift into wings like he did. Now I do,” I explained to him.

“How could you for one moment think I wouldn’t be overjoyed by this?” he laughs stepping closer so that he’s towering over me. The movement feels so natural, the position feels so us. 

I smile softly, my cheeks no doubt flushing under his lovesick gaze. My hand reaches out to touch him, like it had so many times before, but this time I don’t stop myself as I slowly go to touch his cheek. 

As my fingers get closer he flinches ever so slightly, I can tell it’s a knee jerk reaction from being burnt, but my gaze never falters. Not as my fingers brush over the stubble of his unshaved jaw, and my palm  comes to cup his face. 

The tension in his body releases and his eyes flutter closed for a brief moment. He opens them and a tear falls down his face as he lets out a ragged breath. 

“I can feel you,” he breathes out and I feel a piece of my soul come back to me. 

I shudder a breath as I realize I’m crying too, “I can feel you,” I cry putting my other hand on his cheek. 

“We…well I, figured out that her power is a well, when it’s near empty she doesn’t burn,” Rhys smiles from the corner of the room. 

Cassian’s hands encircle my waist as he pulls me to his chest. I breathe in his scent, cedar and leather, and thank the mother that I can be in his arms again. 

“What happens if she burns out? Uses all her power?” Cassian asks, already looking towards the future while I was still taking in the moment we had now. 

Rhys sighs and shakes his head, “I’m not sure what happens. But I’m not willing to test her limits to find out, not when the possibility could be losing her forever.” he says sadly. 

Cassian nods, I can tell that the answer Rhys gave him didn’t sit right with him. That he wanted to know more, wanted to make sure that very real possibility of losing me wouldn’t happen anytime soon. But then he tilted my chin up to meet his gaze and I could tell that he had decided that this moment was more important. 

“You’re so cold,” he breathes. “But you’re still you. You still feel like you.”

“Oh Cass,” I laugh, throwing my arms around his neck.

His arms encircled me pulling me to him in a soul crushing hug, no doubt releasing all the tension between us that had been building for nearly two months now. I can’t help but let out a sob at the feeling of being in his arms again. At some point I feel us both hit the floor as we hold each other. 

Cassian pulls back to brush the hair from my face, a movement I know he missed doing. Both of our faces streaked in tears but I didn’t care. 

“Let’s go home,” he says softly. “To our room and our bed, so I can show you how much I’ve missed you, my beautiful mate.” he says.

I wasn’t able to fly myself to the House of Wind, despite having wings of my own now I had no clue how to even begin to fly. But Cassian didn’t mind carrying me, hells I didn’t mind either. For the first time in a long time we felt like us. 

I lie on my stomach cradling a pillow as the sheets drape around my bare skin. Cassian lies next to me, propped up on his elbow as he runs a finger up and down my back, like even a simple touch like this meant the world to him. I know it did to me. 

We had been at it for hours, I had to take a couple breaks to release my flames on the balcony but somehow the display of my power only seemed to turn Cassian on more. It wasn’t until now that we were truly spent and basking in the glow of just lying in our bed together. 

“Show me again,” he muses, placing a kiss on my shoulder. 

I knew what he meant. He had asked to see my wings a million times already. The first time he wanted to touch them, feel every inch of them. He opted to show me how sensitive they could be and I was greedily taking every touch he gave them. If I had known how easily affected his wings were I would’ve been far more careful when I washed them. 

I roll my eyes and muster a kernel of power to summon my wings. His eyes light up immediately as he runs a hand down the leathery material. The hair on my skin raised and I couldn’t help but smile at the tenderness. My feared general admires my wings like they were expensive art. 

“Beautiful,” he smiles, kissing the edge near him. “My mate is so beautiful” 

I hum in delight as he repeats the phrase, fearsome general indeed. I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he looked in this moment. How long had it been since I saw him bare? His sculpted muscles that  make him look like a god. Hair falling from where it was tied at the nape of his neck, face worn from coupling but still aglow with love? It had been so long. I could’ve stayed there forever. 

“Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to fly,” he tells me softly, still brushing his hand over my wings and down my spine. 

“Rhys says he wants Azriel to teach me since he also learned later in life.” I reply, my voice tired as the late hours creep in. 

Cassian shakes his head, “No, you’re my mate. I’ll teach you.” he said in a tone that left no room for arguing.

“Rhys didn’t teach Feyre how to fly,” I pointed out with a smug smile. I knew how important it was to him that he be the one to teach me, but it was fun to push his buttons like this. 

“Yes and because of that Azriel pushed Feyre off a cliff as a flying lesson,” he chuckled. 

I remember the day my brother's mate came home with twigs in her hair, we all made fun of her then. Now I fear I will be living the same fate. 

“But she did in fact learn how to fly,” I say, needing to push his buttons one last time. 

“The answer is no princess,” he grumbles, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Besides I feel like I just got you back.” 

I sighed knowing the feeling all too well. While Cassian and I weren’t apart physically it felt like it. Sure I saw him every single day, and he slept in a bed next to mine, but we weren’t the same. 

“I know how you feel,” I say, reaching out my hand to stroke his cheek, his eyes fluttering for a moment as if savoring the feeling. 

He was silent for a moment, the air between us thick with things we never talked about. Hybern, the Cauldron, the war. It was something we should’ve talked about weeks ago. But if I had to talk about watching him die and not be able to hold him after? I don’t think I could do that. Clearly he felt the same. 

“When you went into the Cauldron,” he said, drifting off as if recalling the horrid event. “I thought you were dead. I thought I was sitting there watching you die.” 

My breath caught in my throat as I watched him come to terms with his thoughts, his emotions. 

“I- there are no words to describe how it felt. To sit there and watch you die and not do anything about it. It was a mercy that I lost consciousness,” he continues. “When I woke up I thought you were gone. I thought I had woken up to a world where you weren’t alive anymore. Worst of all I thought they had left your body in that horrible place. That I wouldn’t be able to hold you one last time, even in death.” 

“Cass-” I start to comfort him but he cuts me off. 

“Azriel said you were here and that you were breathing and I nearly cried with happiness. But then I saw you in that cell, cold and on the dirty floor. I just wanted to hold you and…god, I wasn’t sure if we were ever going to be able to do this again.” he says, voice filled with emotion as he strokes my cheek. 

“It’s not going to be easy Cass, the road going forward. There will be war and ruin, but I know that we can get through it. We’re going to be okay,” I smile cupping the hand he has rested on my cheek. 

He smiles down and pulls me to him so that I’m laying on his chest.  “We’re going to be okay,” he repeats back. 

I had laid on his chest like this a hundred times before, but now it meant more. I sigh, breathing him in, enjoying the feel of his skin under my cheek once more. He was very adamant that this be the way I sleep tonight even though I was scared. 

“But Cass what if I burn you in the middle of the night-”

“No. You will sleep in our bed, in my arms and that’s final.” 

I didn’t argue with him after that. 

As if on queue the second I feel myself drifting into sleep Cassian shakes my shoulder a bit. 

“Princess you’re heating up a bit,” he whispers in my ear. 

We found that whenever my skin started getting hot that my power started to grow, when I expelled the excess my skin turned cold. A welcome meter of where I was at, but good lord I simply wanted to rest. 

“Ugh, I’ll go light something on fire,” I groan, pulling myself from the bed and tossing Cassian’s shirt over my head. 

It was going to be a long road back to normalcy, if there could even be a “normal” after this. But I wasn’t walking the path alone, I never would be.

Last chapter coming soon….

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[hollowed-theory-hall]

How does the protection magic that Lily's sacrifice placed on Harry work? On that note- how do the blood wards placed on the Dursley household operate?

Like- does the latter act as a notice me not/ fidelius of its own? Protecting Harry's location from other magicals? (It would have been easy for another Longbottom tragedy to occur after all) from what I remember the blood wards have no affect on the protection cast by Lily's sacrifice, and instead sort of extend the effect to the household???

Also on the topic of the protection- we saw the end Quirrel met. And... I just wondered- why didn't this sort of reaction extend to all the people - the Dursleys included- who laid their hands + spells on Harry with the intent to harm? By all means the blood wards should have fallen the moment The Dursleys tried to physically harm Harry. Can't see a protection powered by Lily's intent, extending to people who mean her son harm.

Unless of course the magic and the wards are targetted at Riddle specifically. Which brings the question- why didn't it set on fire/ harm anything considering even the traces of Riddle's presence/ influence. Eg. The people with the death Eater brands, the horcruxes, the soul shard inside Harry himself??

Ugh. Just so many questions.

Ps. Could the blood wards have been transferred/ worked in a residence comprising of the people Harry considered as his family and who reciprocated this sentiment? (based on the importance of intent to keep the spell going)

Wow, @ana-lyz, just like with the veil and death asks, I just started drafting a post about Lily's blood protections and what Dumbledore says about them. So...

Lily's Love Protection and Dumbledore's Blood Wards

Alright, strap in...

Okay, so let's start by seeing what we're told about the blood protections and whether we can gather something cohesive that makes magical sense out of it.

We have Voldemort's statement on this piece of magic:

“...I wanted Harry Potter’s blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago . . . for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too. . . . “But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been better protected than I think even he knows, protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to arrange the boy’s future. Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the boy’s protection as long as he is in his relations’ care. Not even I can touch him there. . . .

(GoF, 657)

Notice there is the lingering protection from Lily's magic and the ancient magic Dumbledore invoked. These are, I believe separate spells.

Dumbledore's statements:

“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?” “Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign…to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”

(PS, 215)

“But I knew too where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated — to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother’s blood. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative.” “She doesn’t love me,” said Harry at once. “She doesn’t give a damn —” “But she took you,” Dumbledore cut across him. “She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother’s sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you.” “I still don’t —” “While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years.”

(OotP, 835-836)

Here again, Dumbledore mentions the ancient magic he made the decision to protect Harry with as a separate thing from the lingering protection from Lily.

And (as per this post) the Dumbledore Harry hallucinates statement:

“He took my blood.” said Harry. “Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!”

(DH, 598)

And then we have what happened to Quirrell:

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face — “AAAARGH!” Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse. Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”

(PS, 212)

What we know from this

Well, from the above quotes we can divide the magical protections on Harry into 2 different spells as I mentioned above:

Lily's sacrificial love protection - the intention magic Lily cast by protecting her son. This is the magic that blocked the Killing Curse and killed Quirrell.

Dumbledore's blood ward - this is the spell Dumbledore cast that (supposedly) protects Harry in his relatives' home. Voldemort says Dumbledore invoked this magic, and Dumbledore also mentions it's a ward he left that built upon Lily's protection, but it's not a spell Lily left.

So, what can Lil'y Sacrificial Love Protection do:

Makes the Killing Curse not kill Harry.

Returns the Killing Curse back to the sender.

Continues to hurt that initial "sender" whenever he tries to kill Harry.

What about Dumbledore's Blood Wards what do they do:

Nothing.

Dumbledore and Voldemort say this magic exists but it never does anything. We never see it active, it never protects Harry from anyone, neither his relatives nor Death Eaters. So, we don't know what it's supposed to be doing since it doesn't do anything in the books.

Voldemort says it won't allow him to touch Harry in his relatives' house.

How I think these spells actually work

I'll start with Dumbledore's Blood Wards:

I simply don't think this ward actually exists.

Dumbledore isn't very consistent with how this protection works. He says Harry needs to return for a bit to live with Petunia for the magic to work, but if that's all the requirement, why long weeks? Couldn't he return for a shorter time? And each year he spends a different amount of time at Private Drive? Couldn't he always be sent back just for the minimal required time? At first, the ward was about love but then it isn't, he says this: "While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort."

Harry didn't think of Private Drive as a home:

Harry could hardly believe it when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had.

(PS, 123)

“I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore. “Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home.” Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.

(HBP, 431)

Harry never considered Private Drive and the Dursleys his home. Hogwarts was his first home.

If there is no love and it isn't a home, even if Dumbledore did cast a blood ward based on Petunia and Lily's sacrifice it won't actually be active. But personally, I don't think this ward actually exists.

Dumbledore needs a reason to keep Harry with his relatives.

Dumbledore needs Harry malleable, low on self-esteem, and lacking in a support network. Because he knew since October 1981 (but probably before) that he'd likely need Harry to die. He suspected Harry was a Horcrux from practically day 1:

Under a tuft of jetblack hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. “Is that where —?” whispered Professor McGonagall. “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.” “Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?” “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy...

(PS, 13-14)

And being raised by the Dursleys ensured that when the time came, when Dumbledore needed Harry to die to destroy Voldemort, Harry would be willing. Because Harry would not put much worth in his own life. Because of that, I think it's not outside the realm of possibility Dumbledore would lie about this ward to have an excuse to keep sending Harry to the Dursleys.

(Sure, Dumbledore would've preferred not to kill Harry if it could be avoided, but he had been preparing for the situation since October 1981)

It's not like he did anything to better their treatment of Harry until book 6, when he needed Harry to start trusting him more...

And like I mentioned above, even if the ward was there, it would not be active because Private Drive was never a home for Harry. And after year 4, when Voldemort took his blood, any protection from any blood-related magic would be moot. Because Voldemort would not be counted as a threat by the ward.

So Dumbledore sending Harry back to the Dursleys after he knew the wards he left (if they were there at all) were gone, proves to me Harry's placement at the Dursleys was never about the wards to begin with. Because if the blood wards are gone, literally anywhere else around wizards who could protect Harry would be safer than at the Dursleys, even when thinking of Death Eaters and Voldemort as the only threat. If they came to find Harry at Private Drive, nothing would've stopped them (except Harry himself).

I could guess wards like this, if they actually were active, would have been an extension of Lily's protection and stopped Voldemrot from being able to enter the Dursleys' residence. From what's said, it seems this ward seems to target Voldemrot specifically, and no one else. But, as I mentioned, I don't think it's really there.

Lil'y Sacrificial Love Protection:

I mentioned in the past how intention and emotion mean a lot for magic in the HP universe. Lily, a witch who we are told repeatedly was powerful, intelligent, and talented, could very well cast a powerful protection out of her love and intention to protect her son. That is 100% possible with what we see magic is capable of and how magic seems to work.

That being said, the fact this never happened before suggests to me Lily did something different than just having a very strong wish for her son to survive. Dumbledore says it's because she had a choice, and in a way it is, but not because Voldemort gave her the option not to die, but because she chose to die instead of Harry.

I'll try to explain it, bear with me.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” “Stand aside, you silly girl. . . stand aside now.” “Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—” “This is my last warning—” “Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy. . . have mercy. . . . Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I’ll do anything—” “Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

(DH, 297)

This is the "spell" Lily casts — the incantation. This is her wish moments before her death: "Not Harry, kill me instead," that's what she says, that's her promise, that's her wish, that's the magic.

Lily's protection only works on Voldemort because her spell essentially made a bargain with Voldemort (that he didn't agree to). that he'd kill her instead of Harry. Once he killed Lily, he couldn't kill Harry because that was the protection she left him, and Voldemort won't be able to kill him because she died in his stead.

That's why we don't see the same thing happen after James dies to buy Lily and Harry time, why when others die to protect someone they aren't protected from the killing curse. What Lily did is a combination of a few extraordinary circumstances coming together:

She's an incredibly powerful witch (shown by her childhood magic that was very controlled and advanced (not unlike Tom Riddle) and Slughorn's boasting)

She loved Harry dearly. Loved him enough to power an accidental spell.

Chose and intended to die instead of her son. She had intent when making her plea, intent required for any spell.

So what essentially happened is that Lily created a situation where Voldemort physically can't kill Harry because Lily died in his stead. If, for example, Quirrell touched Harry without intending to kill him (like he did when they shook hands in Diagon Alley or when he pulled Harry to stand in front of the mirror) the protection won't activate. All it does is stop Voldemort from killing Harry because he already killed Lily in Harry's stead.

So, Voldemort, as I mentioned in the past, wants to kill Harry, this is his only ambition in the 2nd war. So he takes Harry's blood into himself so the protection won't work anymore. And we see it doesn't in the woods when Voldemort casts the killing curse and it doesn't rebound back on him (which would've happened otherwise).

This love protection from Lily doesn't require anything to stay active. It was cast because Voldemort killed her and Harry doesn't need to do anything to keep it active. Staying with the Dursleys wasn't for the sake of Lily's spell but for Dumbledore's ward.

As for Lily's spell not protecting Hary from anything else, like I mentioned, the bargain was that Voldemort would kill her instead of Harry, it would only protect Harry from being killed by Voldemort. If Voldemort just asked a random Death Eater to kill Harry it still wouldn't have worked, but that won't be because of Lily's love magic, but because of Harry pretty much always being the Master of Death.

Basically, Voldemort was doomed because he had no chance of killing Harry. Ever.

But what about when Harry died in book 7 and said he cast the same sacrificial love?

Well, I don't think Harry cast the same sacrificial love. His feelings and intentions were completely different. In his case, I think he just took the mastership of the Elder Wand so it wasn't performing as well for Voldemort afterward.

Conclusions

There are actually two different and distinct spells referred to by the characters when it comes to the protections Lily left for Harry.

The first is Lily's Sacrificial Love Spell which worked like a bargain. She pleaded with Voldemort to kill her instead of Harry and after he killed her, he could no longer kill Harry because he was protected.

Voldemort taking Harry's blood does indeed circumvent this spell and allows him to kill Harry in the woods (if temporarily).

The second is the Blood Ward Dumbledore talks about that is supposedly placed on the Dursleys' home. This spell was invoked by Dumbledore and is not part of Lily's spell.

It's supposed to build on and strengthen Lily's protection from what's implied.

this second spell would've stopped its activity the moment Harry stopped considering number 4, Private Drive his home (which happened quite young, as he doesn't remember ever considering it a home)

Personally, I don't think this blood ward ever existed, but even if it did, it was moot from the get-go and never done anything.

Voldemort taking Harry's blood in year 4, circumvented this ward too.

Basically, Dumbledore kept Harry at the Durselys less because of the wards and more because it suited him to ensure Harry would become the martyr he needed him to be (something I should write a full post about eventually).

[angel-of-the-moons]

Idk how tumblr works so, apologies ig this isnt a request place.

But i was thinking poly johnny cage and kenshi x reader, where its just fluff with johnny and reader helping kenshi get dressed, bc hes blind, or something like that♡

Gods im soft for this poly relationship😫

Nahhh you getting something because ashslnsl this shit is cute as fuuuuck

Little Wonders

Kenshi x Johnny x Reader

TW/CW: None!

A/N: This is what I was talking about @crimsonbubble lol

🗡️🎥🗡️🎥🗡️🎥🗡️🎥🗡️🎥

Yet again, Kenshi ripped the shirt open to try and rebutton it. He had been at it for almost twenty minutes, now; having to undo the pearl baubles and slip them back into their holes again.

Only to find that this time, he was not one--but two buttons off and the shirt was still lopsided.

He let out a frustrated hiss and yanked the buttons free, this time snagging one so hard the little object popped out of its stitching and skittered across the bedroom floor.

Hanging his head in defeat, Kenshi felt around until he found the foot of your ridiculously large bed, plopping down and sinking into the downy soft mattress with a hefty sigh.

Kenshi could easily call Sento to him; use the magic sword to grant him his sight so he could see enough to map out the buttons, to get dressed by himself like a grown adult should be able to do.

But without Sento, he was as blind as a newborn kitten. And Sento wasn't a crutch. Kenshi needed to learn how to do things without his eyes, to adjust. Because it's not exactly subtle or publicly acceptable to carry a goddamn katana with you to a red carpet event. Which is what he had been trying to get ready for. He just wanted to wait until you and Johnny were preoccupied with swimming out some of your pre-event jitters in his pool to try, to get some of the privacy he needed to spare his dignity. He needed to learn how to do this, how to cope...

He couldn't walk around like you or Johnny without some sort of aid, couldn't dress himself properly anymore... he was damn lucky he could still feed himself without assistance.

"Oh, Kenshi..." He heard you sigh from the threshold of your bedroom door. You and Johnny smelled like the chlorine from the pool; your bathing suits had been stripped away and you both wore your plush bath robes to ward the chill off your naked bodies.

"If you'd asked us, we could have helped you, Ken." Johnny replied as well, moving to sit next to him as you began to gently unbutton the expensive silk blouse.

"You shouldn't have to." He retorted, "I should be able to do it--"

"Hush." You say to him gently, your fingers gently touching his lips to quiet him. Johnny slipped a hand around the back of Kenshi's neck, kneading the thick knots of tension he found there. His mouth twisted briefly into a slight frown when he felt just how tense he was.

"C'mon, babe!" Johnny said. Kenshi could practically hear the cock-eyed smirk Johnny had on his face. "You know we don't mind. Though, taking your shirt off is more fun than putting one on--"

"Oi! Shut it!" You snort, swatting at him before putting Kenshi's popped shirt on the dresser before pulling out one of Johnny's to put on him.

"Abuse! Abuse!" Johnny laid across his lap dramatically, feigning injury. "Oh, oh my god! Kenshi, do you hear how our lovely partner is treating me?! I swear, I should have you locked up!"

He can't help but smile, despite it all. It never failed. Whenever he was down in the dumps, dealing with his new "handicap" as he so deprecatingly referred to it as, the two of you swooped in to cheer him up, pulling a smile out of him when he thought there was none to be had.

"Hah! Like they'd believe you, you drama queen." You scoff, flicking him in his nose. "Now get up, you cry baby!"

Johnny snickered and laughed as he sat up, crawling onto the bed so he was sitting behind Kenshi, his legs spread to wrap around him from behind casually as he leaned back on his hands.

"Kenshi, hands." You hum to him, brushing a hand through his short dark hair, bringing your hand down to touch his cheek, your thumb caressing the corners of where his eyes used to be, feeling the cratered scars left behind by Mileena's sais.

He complies, his body posture softening as you and Johnny help him slip into the soft, buttery smooth shirt.

Johnny buttons his cuffs while you button his front.

"I..." Kenshi tried to find the words; anything to say to the two of you about why you shouldn't be helping him, that he needs to relearn these things on his own.

Johnny interrupts him first: "Nope." He hums, burying his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the mixed scent of his own shirt and Kenshi's favorite body wash that still lingered on his skin.

"Can already hear those gears working on your head, Ken. Stop it."

"We're a team, Kenshi." You say to him, cupping his cheeks in your hand as Johnny effectively becomes a human koala bear.

"And we aren't going to let you struggle on your own. It's not weakness to ask for help from those you love. A strong individual knows you can't survive without it."

"Without what exactly?" He sighed, relaxing into the two of you.

"Love, you fuckin' goober." You snicker, leaning down to kiss him, his stubble brushing your face softly.

If he could, Kenshi Takahashi would have cried.

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A banner-style graphic featuring a coyote's open mouth on a dark black background. Orange all-caps text near the bottom of the image reads: "happy birthday Greenwarden." /end ID]

Happy birthday to my firstborn problem!! I'm trying really hard to not think about how long it's actually been, but to celebrate Greenwarden being mysteriously old I'm posting a former Patreon snippet! I'm also announcing that 1) I quit me day job, and 2) I'm going to be compiling a bunch of Greenwarden shorts that would have gone up on Patreon if I had kept it up. More on that to come when I get all my ducks in a line.

GRAVEROBBING AND NECROMANCY FOR DUMMIES

Marianna & Tracker. 16+. Grimdark Fantasy AU. Scofiddle Pepper Rating: Bell Pepper.

Content Warnings: Blood, minor wounds, implied mind-control, mentions of death.

Mausoleums always have a certain smell — mold, mildew, cracking damp stone. The decay of rock and mortar, but never flesh. The sarcophagi are tightly sealed with both wards and wax, partially to keep the smell at bay. No air, nor Light, nor hands will ever creep inside them. The Silent Mercies do their grim work and do it well, keeping them locked up tight. Then they leave — that's the extent of their dues to the dead.

They can count themselves lucky. Corpses don't exactly make great company. Particularly when some of them are itching to come back.

You can't help but feel like there are eyes on you, your torch cutting through the dark, damp guts of the tomb. An intrusion. Indigestion. The violent, flickering orange light makes the shadows greasy. You'd use a magelight, but you're already dancing on the razor-thin line between bravery and stupidity; you don't want to risk waking something. Someone. 

They were people once, allegedly, but you know what pride morphs people into.

Particularly powerful necromancers resist even the cleansing fire of holy Light, their sentience existing in each molecule of ash, slowly piecing themself back together with sheer will and hate. It may take hundreds — maybe thousands — of years, but eventually they will come back. So, the Temple does what it can. The liches are bound, still conscious, and placed in a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is sealed — with prayer, with wax, with chains and locks both physical and magical — and a mausoleum built around it. The Silent Mercies make their rounds indefinitely, strengthening the wards and installing ever more complex locks. Hundreds of years turn into thousands.

The hopeful end result is a stark raving mad lich warlock that will, if all goes well, blissfully prefer the judgment of the Light before they suffer one more second of silent, unmoving, stagnant solitude. Time and again the methods of the Temple are proven effective. Terrifying, and effective. Most choose to vacate their own bodies than live in the dark for an undetermined amount of time. Unable to move. Unable to see. Slowly withering away, mummifying, rotting in your own skin. Whatever you’re going to find will not be human anymore – if it was ever human in the first place.

You cross the dusty, time-ravaged stone floor to the sarcophagus at the far end of the room. It's a short walk. Mausoleums are traditionally small, most especially the ones outside of temples, reserved for the vilest of the old guard, the lichkings who dared to try and defy death. Beings that rejected humanity, even rejected immolation, and should not under any circumstances be within spitting distance of a residential area.

Zoning laws: the bane of all undead tyrants. 

There's only one — which is nerve-wracking. It sits placidly on a raised dais set with small, half-melted candles, as if it’s waiting for you. A frozen slime trail of old wax meanders down the dais, caught in time. The thrum of magic tickles your fingertips. Brushing, like a cat would, up against your palms and skittering up your arms. Both a beckoning and a warning. Temptation.

It's wrong. A singular coffin is like finding a singular roach. Not wholly uncommon, but it sets your teeth on edge. 

It means one of two things: either the Temple managed to burn the master’s undead servants, even the stubborn ones. Or, worse – they’re afraid of what it might do with nearby corpses, even sealed away.

Your arms itch. You set your torch in a conveniently placed wall sconce and start working to get your mind off things.

The Temple of Light may not like to admit it, but what they do is magic. The prayers wielded by their paladins and clerics are incantations; the talismans created by their monks are charms, woven out of somewhat less mathematically inclined sigils. Magic. They hang and burn people for it in the streets, but it keeps their mausoleums tightly locked and their church in power.

Like any spell, a prayer can be broken with a little bit of reverse engineering. And you are very good at breaking things.

Maybe it's the uniqueness of your situation, or maybe you were just created with something special, but seeing the patterns in the weave and weft of magic comes second nature to you. Almost like a physical thing. A golden projection of arcane artistry.

It's a complicated spell; the Woodsman lived hundreds of years ago, long enough that even its very name was forgotten. The ward is centuries of layers, each one getting more and more complex as the Silent Mercies learned what incantations and motions were most effective at keeping the dead at bay. Trails of cold, melted wax dripping down time. A beautiful puzzle, just for you. You're always half-giddy, knowing that you may very well be the only one who can truly see the work, the history behind it, and that you might be the only one smart enough not just to break it to pieces, but coax it open.

Enough. You need to be fast.

Your forehead tenses, brows knit as you start reversing half a millennia of spellcraft. Delicately, slowly, you work out the motions, but in reverse. A twist of your hand, fingers curled, your arm moving in hypnotic diamonds and stars and spirals. Shapes designed to trap and contain. The fingers on your other hand open and close in the same fractal rhythm half a canto ahead, parsing out the right steps in the dance before you walk the dancefloor.  You're a conductor, ripping carefully crafted sheet music to shreds. The torch flickers.

There's no sound but your own short, elated huff of laughter when your hand slides into place at the ward's terminus. Deep in your hindbrain, a lock falls open with a satisfying click!

“Don't move.” 

Oh. That's a sword — you feel the tip of it caressing the nape of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands to the sides of your head. You’re unarmed, and thankful you have gloves on.

“Turn around.” 

It’s not like you have room to argue.

You’re face-to-face with the tip of a shiny, well-polished blade. The silver coating makes your back teeth itch. You feel it vibrating, still coming down, hypersensitive to atomic changes in the air. You’re also face-to-chest with an extraordinarily tall cleric in their classic white and gold armor. An immediate, violent chill settles into your spine.

She’s hard-faced, hair cut bluntly short; she gives you the impression that her only expression is scowl. You prepare yourself to fire and run. It’ll set your research back months – maybe even a year – but you’ll live.

“Explain yourself.” You’re taken aback by that – you do a quick three-point look around the room and with your head and then spread your hands out a little further.

“I mean,” you say, “I think we both know I’m not supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t like that. Her hands choke a little tighter around her sword grip, leather squealing and platemail clicking as she shifts even deeper into a fighting stance. The sword gets a little closer to your face. A sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades.

“You’re a mage.”

“And you’re a cleric.” Impasse. Stand off. Stare down. Neither of you are willing to make the first move – maybe she’s hoping for a peaceful resolution. That you’ll go gracefully to the stake.

Fat chance, but something changes when she opens her mouth to reply.

You don’t like the look that falls over the cleric’s face – wide eyed, eyebrows to the hairline, mouth half-open. The blood leaving her face. The slight tremble in her steady hands. Fear.

Slowly, you twist your neck to look behind you.

The Woodsman’s coffin is open – a deep, yawning blackness slides out of it, liquid trapped inside thin film. On the coattails of the light-drinking sludge, a skeletal hand slides, damn near leisurely, out of the sarcophagus. What follows is a horror of ancient science. Half human, half… something else.

The antlers crown its head, but the head is canine, deep pinpoints of light inside empty sockets. Mummified skin knits across bone, thin as paper and patchy in places. Its teeth are bare to the world and yellowed with centuries. You watch the slick, black flesh form an amorphous mass beneath the skull, the arms nothing but bone haphazardly slapped onto an overgorged slug.

You were hoping it wasn’t in there – everything you’ve learned told you it had probably vacated its body years ago. There had been no activity for so long – no plague of nightmares, no major possessions, no strange activity in the flora and fauna  – and yet. The Woodsman slithers out of its unlocked tomb on a tide of melted void-flesh, rises on it until it has to bend, its shoulders scraping the ceiling of the mausoleum. It opens its mouth wide – skin and gristle clinging to its jaw in loose strings – and shrieks.

It’s shrill and piercing. You’re concussed, briefly, slapping your hands over your ears. You feel it – in your head. Scraping the inside of your skull, dark wordless whispers in your hindbrain. It knows you. It sees you. It’s in your head.

The cleric pushes you behind her, nearly to the door in the tiny mausoleum. You’re confused – still concussed. You don’t run.

“Go!” She shouts, swinging and hacking at the growing sea of rotting flesh. She swings too wide – the silver-steel scrapes against the walls of the mausoleum and sparks. The Woodsman just keeps growing. One by one, the candles and torch are swallowed whole. A deep, endless black. A tidal wave of nothing. 

You’re not about to argue. You turn tail and run out the door.

Two steps past the tomb, you stumble to a stop. A quick, hard-breathing glance behind you lets you know that the cleric already isn’t doing well. She’s fighting like an animal, punching what she can’t cut. Every slice is swallowed up by more reeling, lightless flesh. You still feel the Woodsman’s scritching little claws, furrows in your soft, pliant brain. Every iota of you recoils away from it. But that cleric – she let you go. 

You look down at your hands. The dark leather gloves, fingertips worn, the edges frayed.

Shaking, you slip them off your hands and leave them in the grass.

You grab the back of the cleric’s breastplate and yank her back into fresh air, swapping places in one smooth transition. You don’t know what she sees. If she notices the dark, blue-black corrupted skin of your hands or the bright runes squirming over your arms while you reach deep in yourself for something destructive. The bands around your wrists and throat mark you as a Thing – something broken loose. The Woodsman tugs at your tattered ghost leash with an interested spiritual hand, head cocked. Your programming demands you kneel for consumption, and your knees twitch before you get yourself back under control. You almost see a wink of recognition.

Little homunculus, the Woodsman whispers, curling around the base of your skull like a cat, so far from home.

“Shut up,” you say, and light up the room.

The Temple of Light has claimed the lichkings reject holy fire and immolation – they just haven’t tried something hot enough. Your fire is pure destruction, white with heat, blinding against the greasy black corruption sludge coating the walls. The Woodsman shrieks – pain, rage, confusion. Spikes of pain explode behind your eyes, and you burn them away too.

You wade through the muck, scorching it all to ash, beating the Woodsman back until it tries to seek refuge again in its sarcophagus, huddling in the pit. A child taking refuge in a cellar.  Curled at the back of a cell. Useless, useless.

You reach out with a flame-licked hand and clamp down hard on its muzzle.

“Shut up,” you hiss, and watch fire make cracks in its skull. It rakes your arms with bony claws, opening bloody gashes in your flesh. The blood sizzles and evaporates almost instantly. 

The Woodsman’s head explodes with a loud crack, bone shards ripping through the skin of your cheek. The rest of it goes limp in a heap. What’s left, you turn to coal dust, just in case. When you’re done, all that’s left of the Woodsman is a greasy soot stain coating the floor, walls, and ceiling. It’s a little gruesome. Reminds you uncomfortably of blood.

You coax the flames back in, lower and lower, wobbling with exhaustion, until a comfortable, warm dark swallows you. There’s light in it – ambient, soft reflections of the moon outside. The sarcophagus is a welcome resting spot, using its high lip to stay half-standing. Even then, you see little spots in your vision, the edges going blurry. A few drops of blood slide out of your nose and splatter on the ground. Your ears are ringing.

“You’ve got red on you.” You jump.

The cleric is standing there, wiping blood and slime off her face. One of her eyes is nearly glued shut, an open wound on her brow pouring red down her cheek and under her collar. You give her a once-over before you weakly tilt your chin up.

“So do you,” you say. She nods – holds out her hand.

“Marianna.”

Cautiously, you cross the floor on shaky legs to take it, and give her your name. The one you picked for yourself – it feels nice. To introduce yourself, for once. She almost crushes your hand. You’re comparatively weak.

“You saved my life, mage,” Marianna says. You grin with a mouthful of bloody teeth, an acknowledgement.

Then, your body finally gives up. You’re blissfully unconscious before you hit the ground.

[senualothbrok]

Hello friend!! I have been thinking about undiagnosed sorcerer Gale a lot lately, so I am making it your problem too.

You only gradually become aware of it, and once you are you wonder how you hadn't noticed. Maybe it's the passage of time, each day one step away from the nautiloid and the Netherbrain and all of it--each day that much more distance from Gale's last audience with Mystra. The burden of the Orb hadn't been yours, but it had been heavy enough that you felt lighter when you saw his face as he stepped out that portal. Maybe, like the wounds you both bring back with you to Waterdeep, your mind needed the chance to heal before it could process even more.

More in this case is living with Gale. It had been one thing being on the road, chased from danger to danger; all you'd been able to think those nights you'd collapsed into his tent with him was we made it, with a fervent hope he'd be next to you when you woke and still next to you the night following. Now, you lie down with him night after night and wake up to him morning after morning, and as you let yourself accept that this is how things will be, you start to notice.

The tower is suffused with magic.

It's not only the spells and wards that Gale has woven into the very heart of it, or the numerous enchantments he's created to make life easier, or the artifacts and books you've brought home with you. It's Gale himself.

Surrounded by magic and slow to shed the exhaustion that's clung to you since Baldur's Gate, you need some time to sense the difference, but once you do it's there, a touch on your sleeve or a whisper to catch your attention. When you search for it you can't see it, there's no breeze to stir the curtains or the profusion of flowers Gale brings home day after day. You don't smell that dreaded rosewater or taste cloying honey-sweetness on your tongue. It's a sense that goes beyond sense, speaking to the parts of you that lie under your bones and between your nerves--it's something that escapes your words just as you think you've found the ones to describe it. The sense of him wraps around you like a comforting memory, smoothing its unfelt fingers across your unquiet spirit; the happiness you feel, the life that suffuses you, doesn't compel you but invites you just to be.

It's different when you're in bed together, like tonight, when Gale is salting your skin with kisses. Tonight he's all around you, flowing into and filling every part of you like water, Gale himself spilling over at the edges. He's not glowing but you feel alight with him, woven into him, his threads twisting around yours to draw you close. You're not in one of his illusions--the world around you is very real, if hazy and distant, and Gale's body is hungry, solid flesh and bone against yours. The sensation doesn't vanish even when Gale pauses to ask you what's wrong and you realize you're staring at him.

"I can feel you," you say awkwardly.

"I'd hope so," Gale says laughingly, though he notices your uncertainty and sits up, bracing himself back on his haunches. "What is it?"

You explain as best you can, though every word out of your mouth sounds more foolish and inaccurate than the last. You find yourself tangled in a thicket of your own making and are just about to panic your way out of it when Gale says, faintly embarrassed, "Oh. That--that hasn't happened in quite some time. Years."

I'm so sorry, friend, that it's taken me so long to reply to your once again beautiful piece. I feel like my writing is pretty awful at the moment so I do apologise. I just wanted to get it out though (despite being in a weird creative space and putting off writing a little bit!)

Thank you so much, as always, for your exquisite work <3 ---

You do not need to ask. There is an intuition that exists between you, so that you often know his intentions before he speaks, and he senses your desire before you tell him. You know that part of this comes from the joining of your souls, sealed by your love. But you suspect the other part comes from something altogether different, that sensation that you cannot yet name.

“Admittedly, it wasn’t as innocuous as what you’ve described, back then.”

He pulls you closer, as if he needs your skin on his, even though you feel his being like a flame inside you.

“By all accounts, there was more force to it. It was more of an explosion, if you would.”

You arch an eyebrow. He flashes you that languid half smirk that drives you wild. You wonder if he feels your arousal as his own, like two rivers flowing into each other. He watches you with dancing eyes, savouring your reaction.

“Not that kind of explosion.”

You laugh a little. His lips are smooth and warm as they graze the tips of your fingers. For a while, you fumble for words to explain, ever grateful for his patience.

“It feels like a spell,” you manage eventually. “Even when you’re not casting. Like I’m floating in the Weave, except that you’re the Weave. You’re all around me, inside me, everywhere.”

He gazes at you, fingering this chin absently. And then he nods. There is a kind of solemnity in the gesture, the slight gathering of Gale’s brow. You wonder how long Gale has hidden this part of his nature, or shied away from examining it too closely.

“When I was a child, I learned to control it. But with you…”

He buries his head into the crook of your neck, the heat of his sigh blazing like your pulse. There is a force to it, then, an ache to his longing. You feel it like a flood.

“I want all of you,” he rasps. “And I want to give you all of me. Perhaps that’s why.”

Your open mouth finds his, wet and desperate. His breaths are ragged, swirling into yours like a clouds swallowing clouds. He is a warm bath, lapping at every inch of you. You are about to drown yourself in him when he draws back, so abruptly you feel bereft.

“Does it disturb you?”

The wavering in his eyes almost makes you wince. Traces of his uncertainty, the measure against which he still judges himself. You shake your head sharply, immediately.

“No.” You press yourself against him, swelling with tenderness and desire. “The more I find out about you, the more I love you. Nothing could make me love you less.”

He hesitates for a moment. You feel, as well as see, the last of his doubt fading. His smile is a ripple of light through you, a pleasure almost as intense as pain.

“That’s a relief,” he whispers, as his fingers flutter downwards, and his taste becomes your own.