#munificent

[unscramblerer]

Todays Word Of The Day is: Munificent

Munificent originates from Latin munificus(generous). Combines munus(gift) and facere(to make). English use of the word began in the 16th century.

[gallimaufry-dictionary]

Munificent

adjective moo-nif-uh-suhnt

extremely generous, something characterized by liberal generosity

Merriam-Webster Dictionary.com

[longnewmedia]

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[writers-weekly-words]

Munificent

//adjective//

1. (of a gift or sum of money) larger or more generous than is usual or necessary.

2. (of a person) very generous.

[gabri-el]

can someone tell me what i want for christmas (that can be bought) because have no idea when asked

[adriansvetozaroff]

I started working on a Star Wars fan comics. The action takes place during the final hours of the Battle of Cato Neimoidia. This is the story of a tactical team on a final, fateful mission in a situation where it is impossible to calculate the likely future. I apologize in advance to those who may be interested in this story, for the fact that work on it will proceed slowly. This work is difficult for me, just like any creativity lately. And yet I want to do it.

[aeide-thea]

oh before i forget: look at the fancy sox @elucubrare made me!!! they're SO nice, guys, i'm just, like, wriggling my toes delightedly :D

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for characterization (pt. 2)

Attributes of behavior: [A-D] abstemious, accident-prone, acid, acrimonious, adamant, affable, affectionate, agreeable, aimless, aloof, amuck, animated, anxious, arbitrary, ardent, arrogant, ascetic, attentive, austere, avid, backhanded, bad, barbarian, barbarous, beaming, belligerent, big, blindly, boisterous, bossy, brassy, brazen, brusque, cagey, calm, capricious, casual, cavalier, cheeky, chill, chummy, clumsy, cocky/cocksure, combative, comic/comical, compassionate, complaisant, compulsive, conciliatory, considerate, contemptuous, contrary, convivial, cordial, corrupt, courageous, courtly, cowardly, crabby/crabbed, cranky, craven, crotchety, cruel, cunning, daring, dauntless, debonair, decent, decided, defensive, defiant, deliberately, delightful, delirious, demure, detached, diffident, disagreeable, disarming, discreet, disgruntled, disinterested, disobedient, disorderly, disputatious, disruptive, dissolute, distraught, divisive, doctrinaire, dolorous, doting, double-dealing, draconian

[E-J] eager, easy, edgy, effervescent, emotionless, envious, equable, evasive, even-tempered, excitable, exuberant, faithful, fake, false, fanatical, favorably, fearful, feigned, ferocious, fervent/fervid, fickle, fiery, finicky, flamboyant, flighty, flirtatious, foolhardy, foolishly, forceful, forward, fractious, freely, fretful, frivolous, fussy, gamely, genteel, glacial, gluttonous, goody-goody, graceless, grandiose, gritty, gruff, gung ho, halfhearted, hardhearted, haram-scarum, headstrong, hearty, helpless, high and mighty, high-handed, high-strung, holier-than-thou, hot, huffy, humble, hypocritical, idle, ill-mannered, ill-natured, ill-tempered, impatient, impertinent, impolite, importunate, impudent, inactive, inconsiderate, ingratiating, inhuman/inhumane, innocuous, insidious, insubordinate, intractable/intransigent, introverted, invidious, irreconcilable, irreverent, jaded, jaunty, jazzed-up, jovial, jumpy

[K-R] keen, kittenish, lax, lecherous, lethargic, liberal, lifeless, light-headed, litigious, lofty, loquacious, loud, loving, Machiavellian, maladroit, malicious, mannered, martial, mean, meat-eating, menacing, merciful, mercurial, militant, mischievous, miserly, mousy, munificent, naive, nasty, naughty, neglectful, neighborly, nervy, nomadic, noncompliant, nonconformist, nosy, obedient, obliging, obsequious, obtrusive, offhand, on edge, on purpose, orderly, ostentatious, overbearing, overwrought, parsimonious, passionate, peevish, pent-up, peppy, peripatetic, permissive, pert, petulant, philosophical/philosophic, phobic, pitiless, plaintive, playful, plucky, politic, pompous, pragmatic, precipitous/precipitate, predatory, presumptuous, prickly, prissy, profane, prompt, propitious, provident, prudish, puerile, pumped, puritanical, quarrelsome, quick-tempered, racy, raffish, rash, ready, rebellious, reckless, regardful, relentless, remiss, remorseless, renegade, repugnant, resigned, responsible, restful, restrained, retiring, revolutionary, rocky, rollicking, rootin’-tootin’, rousing, rude, runaway, ruthless

[S-Z] safe, sanctimonious, sassy, savage, scintillating, secluded, self-conscious, self-righteous, sentimental, serpentine, severe, shameful, sheepish, shifty, short-sighted, shy, simple, sincere, skittish, slippery, sluggish, small, smooth, snappy, snide, snooty, sober, soft, solid, sophomoric, spineless, spontaneous, sporting/sportive, sprightly, square, staid, starchy, staunch, stealthy, stiff, stingy, stoic/stoical, stony, strained, strait-laced, strenuous, stringent, stuck-up, suave, submissive, subversive, supercilious, supine, surly, sympathetic, tactful, tame, tearful, tempestuous, tender, tense, thankful, theatrical, thieving/thievish, thoughtless, tight, tipsy, touchy, traitorous, treasonous, truculent, true-blue, turbulent, two-faced, unaffected, unasked, unattached, unbridled, uncivilized, uncontrollable, uncouth, undependable, underhand, unemotional, unfriendly, unguarded, unintentional/unintended, unkind, unmerciful, unprejudiced, unreasonable, unrelenting, unruly, unseemly, unsettled, unsophisticated, unsympathetic, untoward, unwary, unwise, unworldly, uppity, urbane, vainglorious, valorous, vengeful, vibrant, vicious, vigilant, violent, virile, vital, volatile, wacky, wanton, warm, wary, watchful, wayward, well-bred, wicked, willful, wily, winning/winsome, witless, yellow, zany, zealous

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary.

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ Part 1

[rawrampmag]

MIKE ROSS Third Eye Open #AlbumReview #RawRamp

MIKE ROSS Third Eye Open #AlbumReview #RawRamp

On April 28, 2023, MIKE ROSS will release his rock-influenced, 12-track album, Third Eye Open. The Preacher, th first song taken from the album as a single, is really weighty but completely enjoyable. Darren Lee’s drumming and Derek Randall’s bass notes add dark intensity to a song that is already as hefty as a cruiser, while guest vocalist Jack J Hutchinson’s supporting tones make the mood…

[aenramsden]

The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:

So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...

... is a white dragon.

To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.

Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.

Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?" Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak." Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???" Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."

Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite." "Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away." "…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???" "See? I can't even remember its fucking name." "But my lord-" "DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE" "…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."

But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.

"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?" "I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king." "M-my lord???" "The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king." "And that helps us… how?" "Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him." "…" "This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."

And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.

(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)

He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.

He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.

And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.

His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.

The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:

He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming

He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel

He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him

You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)

So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.

And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.

(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)

[jennastokesart]

🔥 Eris Vanserra - The Autumn Court Heir 🔥

🖤The shadows have spoken true 🖤

Behold, the magnanimous, the munificent. The merciful. Eris Vanserra 🍁

Okay I love him but it hurts to lie like that. I like Eris, to me he is more of what Rhysand tries to be. Truly morally grey. Would I trust him with my life? Hell no.

I really hope SJM develops his character more. When I read “Eris is a dreamer. But there are no stars in his world”. I’ll be honest, I cried a little. I hope SJM gives him his stars in future books. I also am praying overall that the Vanserra brothers do not just become a footnote in the story.

And for those staring at the absolute sex icon in the second image: I was streaming my screen to my friends on a call. What started from a simple “does his eye look right?” led to them art directing the entire thing with the repeated chant “we’re cookin”. This is what happens when non artsy men take over your drawing. I feel like Feyre, trying to draw with Azriel and Cassian peering over my shoulder with "suggestions"

I honestly suggest messing around like this because it fixed my art dysmorphia from staring at Eris too long. (Idk what led them to make him a pirate, though they did tell me to just put an eye patch to fix the whole eye dilemma). When I told them the eyepatch isn’t accurate to Eris, they really said “it should be, that’s why his brother looks cooler”.

Anyways~ I hope you guys enjoy 😉

[longnewmedia]

Get Ready for the Ultimate 3D Spaceship Model Collection This Christmas!

Are you a 3D printing enthusiast, sci-fi fan, or looking for the perfect gift this holiday season? Look no further! We're thrilled to offer an extensive collection of high-quality, highly detailed 3D spaceship models ready for digital download.

Available Formats: OBJ, GLTF, GLB, MTL, STL

Highlights:

Two Star Wars Spaceship Collections

66 Iconic TV/Movie Spaceships including TIE Fighters, Star Trek's Enterprise NCC-1701A, NCC-1701D, NCC-1701, Venator Class, Millennium Falcon, Victory Class, Death Star, 2001 Discovery, Munificent Class, Executor Class, and many more.

These models, originally created for a feature film animation, are perfect for those with 3D printers looking to create stunning, detailed toys for their kids or themselves. Each model is crafted with precision, capturing the essence and detail of your favorite sci-fi ships.

Why Choose My Models?

High Quality: Designed for professional animation, these models boast exceptional detail and accuracy.

Versatile Formats: Available in all major 3D file formats, making them easy to use with any 3D printer.

Perfect Gifts: Impress the sci-fi lovers in your life with unique, collectible models.

Endless Creativity: Use these models for printing, custom painting, or as part of your own creative projects.

[loving-n0t-heyting]

ohmyfuckingshit a bunch of you are living in a fucking fantasy land about hamas. they are not the avatar of the invincible wave of history, they are not clearsightedly doing what needs to be done to decolonise the israeli occupation, their role for the last four decades when it wasnt being coddled and nurtured by israel as an alternative to fatah has been to do objectively manifestly insane shit providing israel with an excuse to exact crippling mass collective punishment on the palestinian ppl, and their vision for palestinian governance after the final victory it is totally and painfully beyond their power to achieve is somewhere between afghanistan under the taliban and turkey under erdogan

not only that but your "support" for them as a westerner is meaningless in the absence of extremely risky and difficult acts of aid ik not one of you is actually willing and able to follow thru on; the immediate, vital task at hand for westerners (especially americans) standing in solidarity with palestinian victims of israeli terror is to help bring an end to the status quo of munificent western aid for the occupiers. aside from any concerns about the status of civilians in resistance to colonialism, you are accomplishing nothing here beyond pointlessly alienating ppl

[morelikeravenbore]

Can I Make It Any More Obvious? Part two.

He Was A Punk, She Did Ballet...

I do not know why I've included so many bloody Shakespearean references into this crackfic about a sk8er boi wizard, but since I'm writing this by the seat of my pants with absolutely no plan or outline, I'ma let my subconscious cook. Also, I'm hesitant to call this a "crack fic” any more. Let's call it tender crack. A crack fic with feelings.

Content: MEET CUTE MODERN AU. 🛹 Mentions of “magical drug use” (the recreational smoking of mallowsweet*), mentions of alcoholism, swearing.

*not my original idea. I've read this idea in a few fics before and think it's genius so credit to whoever wrote it before me!

Word count: 3.2k~

👉 PART ONE HERE.

[read on wattpad]

Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop, previously known as Steeply & Sons, was a garish, pastel-pink nightmare that took prominence in the village square like an overdone sponge cake at a corporate buffet.

The preferred meeting place for first dates, romantic rendezvous and anyone looking to indulge in tiny, outrageously overpriced cakes, Sebastian had been inside only once in his life and didn't wish to repeat the ordeal again: lace doilies, frosted cupcakes and sickeningly sweet tea was not his idea of a good time.

‘In a village brimming with interesting places,’ he grumbled, keeping in step with the little redhead beside him, ‘he invites you to Puddifoot's?’

Having naturally charmed Mr Brown into giving her a special discount on every book in the shop ("...a munificent diminution for the fair danseuse!”), a request to return any time day or night (“Antemeridiem, noonstead, or crepusculum!”), and an invitation to join the village book club (“...whereupon we postulate and divagate into scintillating literary excursuses!”), they'd left Tomes and Scrolls only after Sebastian, growing irritated by not having her full attention, had ushered her out the door and into the bustling street beyond.

Was he jealous of his middle-aged, married landlord simply for speaking to her?

… Yes.

‘What's wrong with Puddifoot's?’ she asked, sparing him no glance as she weaved through the main street.

Across the village square, the tea shop's frosted icing-sugar windows winked merrily at them under the midday sun.

Sebastian pulled a face.

‘Their cakes are small!’

‘Their cakes are small?’

‘Offensively so! And as far as first dates go, it's the most predictable, uninspired place he could have chosen! Puddifoot's, really?’ he scoffed. ‘Ominis might as well have admitted he hated you and been done with it.’

She stifled a laugh behind her hand. ‘Those are some wild aspersions,’ she said delicately. ‘Where do you prefer to take your dates in Hogsmeade, then, if you're such an expert?’

He bit his tongue before he could blurt out the words ‘Shrieking Shack’ — not that he ever took dates there; mostly he went there to smoke mallowsweet by himself and wallow in self-pity. Even so, it'd still be a better choice than squeezing into a lumpy, overstuffed loveseat while fairies dumped confetti over his head and people he wished never to see snogging snogged with unbridled relish and vigour.

‘I would take you somewhere fun,’ he scowled. ‘Like —’

‘Like a wedding altar?’

Sebastian flushed. ‘No —!’

‘Oh, oh! L'hôpital?’ She turned to him with a surprisingly impish grin for someone so renownedly elegant.

Something funny wiggled in Sebastian's chest.

‘Trust me, you don't want to date Ominis — he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse!’

‘I thought he was your best friend?’

‘He is! That's how I know he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse! Look —’

Running a hand through his tangled hair, he pulled her aside to a shady spot beneath an old, gnarled oak and tried not to loom over her: at almost twenty-one years old, Sebastian had started growing early in life and hadn't yet stopped.

Fuck, why was he so bloody gigantic.

‘You won't like him,’ he said, hunching awkwardly. ‘He won't make you laugh, or take you anywhere fun, or —’

‘Propose marriage while bleeding from the head?’

A nearby merchant — a humpbacked witch with one eye and somehow too many teeth — let out an amused cackle, but Sebastian was too distracted by the strange little wiggle in his chest to tell her to sod the fuck off.

Brilliant. As if a head wound wasn't bad enough, now he was having heart palpitations as well? Had he overdone it with the Shakespearean theatrics and inadvertently brought upon his own tragic, untimely death? Was he to die at her feet as Romeo for Juliet — only via self-inflicted concussion over a quick-acting poison?

Fuck it — if today was the day that he died, he'd at least try for a first (or last?) date. As a wise man once sang: Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear?

‘Don't go on a date with Ominis,’ he said, swooping his stupid hair out of his face. ‘Go on a date with me.'

She blinked at him. ‘What, now?’

Let's go, don't wait, this night's almost over.

‘Why not?’

‘Mmm… Because I already have a date?’ She shrugged past him, but he only lumbered after her like the big, brainless troll he was.

‘Wait —!’ He held up his palms. ‘Look, I know you get some blood-soaked guy coming up to you on the street, you don't know me — but I know me, and I promise I'm —’

‘A dirty, rotten, sneaky little rat!’

Sebastian whipped around.

‘Ominis!’ he squeaked.

In all his years of dragging his best friend into detentions, secret underground lairs, and Muggle mosh pits against his will, the sight of Ominis’ sightless eyes boring into his with all the fury of his Slytherin lineage never failed to strike fear into Sebastian's heart.

It also, simultaneously, never failed to amuse him.

He didn't hesitate. With an absurdly high-pitched giggle and not a single logical thought in his addled brain, he grabbed Aurélie by the hand and took off running.

Board in one hand, girl in the other, he pelted through the village, twisting and turning through back alleys and narrow openings, scaring children and the elderly alike as he barrelled past them, cackling hysterically.

Suddenly, he was fifteen again, facing off with Peeves after being caught on another midnight jaunt through the Restricted Section; challenging an unsuspecting victim to an unsanctioned duel simply because he was bored; running from the prefects when he was inevitably caught nosegrinding down the Grand Staircase at two in the morning.

He hadn't felt this alive in years!

Beside him, the ballerina kept pace easily, pivoting round corners and leaping over obstacles with all the grace and finesse befitting her profession. As they dashed across someone's backyard, whipping through rows of freshly hung laundry, Sebastian caught the edge of a smile on her face before a pair of granny knickers slapped him across the cheek.

The wiggly thing in his chest giggled and kicked its feet aaaaall the way to the outskirts of the village, where a low stone wall at the end of an alleyway ended their daring escape. Beyond it, rugged and heather-brushed, lay freedom.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

‘Over?’ he suggested with a hopeful waggle of his brows.

‘Well, I can hardly go back now,’ she returned with a wry shrug.

Grinning, Sebastian piffed his board over the wall and then turned to offer his little companion a helping hand. But to his surprise, she was already up, balancing atop the precariously narrow wall in a position he vaguely recognised as something ballet-shaped.

He gawked for a moment, unashamedly admiring the entire length of her legs, from ankles to knees, from knees to thighs, from thighs to butt.

‘Careful,’ he warned, scrambling up after her. A steep decline on the other side of the wall made him nervous. His hands hovered close, ready to catch her should she lose her balance, but she only peeked at him sideways with a smug expression, footsure and composed.

Cute.

‘This is the fifth position,’ she explained, framing her arms above her head. ‘It is the pinnacle of ballet's basic stances.’

‘The fifth position, huh?’ he said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. ‘Skipping ahead a few bases, I see.’

She ignored him.

‘It may look simple,’ she sniffed, turning her face to the sun, ‘but it takes years of training to reach complete security.’

‘Okay, show off,’ he snorted, climbing gracelessly down the other side of the wall. ‘Nothing about twisting your feet backwards like that looks simple to me.’

Safe now from the wrath of angry best friends and verbose shopkeepers, they picked their way carefully down to the banks of a shallow stream. A copse of willows drew them into a clearing, a dappled green reprieve from the midday sun. Sebastian couldn't remember ever coming across a spot as beautiful as this — but perhaps the company made it so.

In the middle of the clearing, she turned and caught him gawking.

‘Come here,’ she said. ‘I want to take a look at your head.’

Sebastian gulped. ‘My — my head?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh la la, the bump on your forehead!’

‘Oh.’ He'd almost forgotten. ‘My head’s fine,’ he lied, but she looked at him so sternly that he shut up and bent his stupid head for her inspection.

Please don't look at me with those eyes, please don't hint that you're capable of lies.

Gently, she pressed her fingers to the bump above his eyebrow.

‘Does this hurt?’

‘No,’ he winced, his voice rough. And then, ‘...Maybe a bit.’

‘Thought so.’

Her fingers left his face but returned a moment later holding a little jar of funny-smelling ointment.

Sebastian held still.

‘Hold still,’ she said.

Sebastian held more still.

With a touch that gave him full-body tingles, she pushed his hair back and dabbed a little ointment over the cut.

‘That stinks…’ was the best thing he could think to say.

‘It's Essence of Dittany,’ she explained. ‘I use it on my feet after a long day of dancing.’

He pulled a face. ‘You're putting foot cream on my face?’

‘It's Essence of Dittany!’

‘Yeah, for your feet!’

‘Oh, mon dieu.' She rolled her eyes. 'How old are you?’

Sebastian cracked a grin. ‘I'm surprised I didn't tell you that already.’

‘If you did,’ she began, tucking the jar back into her pocket, ‘I wouldn't forget it the way someone forgot my name two times. — Now…’ Without warning, she reached up and cupped his face between her soft little hands.

Sebastian's knees almost gave out.

‘Look at me,’ she said, and he looked, and looked, and looked, and thought he might not look away ever again.

‘Are you dizzy?’ she enquired, her face so close he could feel her breath.

Yes.

‘No.’

‘Dazed?’

Very.

‘No.’

‘Faint?’

Only when you touch me.

‘I'm fine,’ he murmured, but the tremor in his voice said otherwise, and his racing heart racing said otherwise, and the way his gaze kept dropping to her lips definitely definitely said otherwise.

I dread the thought of our very first kiss, a target that I'm probably gonna miss.

‘Okay,’ she said after a good long frown at his face. ‘But if you feel like you're going to fall…’

Sebastian almost told her he already had.

Thankfully, a sudden rustling in the greenery diverted him from embarrassing himself further, and from out of the treeline came another unexpected redhead (this one considerably less pleasing to look at than the one whose hands had just been on his face.)

‘Weasley?’

Garreth Weasley gave a start. ‘Sallow? What are you doing here?’

A fellow Hogwarts graduate and self-proclaimed “potion prodigy”, Garreth supplemented his apprenticeship wages at Pippin's Potions by selling his own “special blend” of mallowsweet on the side (unbeknownst to Pippin, of course, who, like most of the older generation of Hogsmeadians, vehemently decried the “grave misuse” of an otherwise unremarkable magical herb.)

Sebastian suppressed a groan: his mallowsweet dealer was the last person he wanted to see right now — especially when said dealer had an annoying habit of trying to steal his girlfriends.

Unsurprisingly, Garreth's eyes lit up at the sight of the pretty girl before him.

‘Hey, Aurélie!' said he. 'Nice to see you again.’

‘Again?’ Sebastian's mouth fell open. ‘You know Garreth bloody Weasely as well?’

‘Oui. We met just yesterday at your potion shop… Uhh, Peepins?’

‘Pippin's,’ Garreth corrected, his expression so jovial that Sebastian wanted to punch it right off his stupid freckled face. ‘I helped her pick out the best Valerian sprigs for her —’

‘— For my fudge!’ she cut in. ‘Oui, fudge. I'm making some. Fudge, that is. For — erm... Eating… Because it's, um… Nice? I think.’

Sebastian eyed her suspiciously. Why was she so nervous about fudge?

‘Right,’ he said, turning back to Garreth. ‘Anyway, did you want something, Weasley? Because we're in the middle of a date right now, if you can't tell.’

‘A date?’ spluttered the girl he most definitely was not on a date with.

‘A date?’ echoed Garreth, who looked slightly put out by the news. ‘Why aren't you at Puddifoot's, then?’

‘Oh, for fucks—’ Sebastian threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘There are other places besides Puddifoot's to go on dates, you know!’ he exclaimed. ‘All that mallowsweet's annihilated your imagination!’

Garreth's expression brightened. ‘Oh, speaking of —’ he said, procuring a small brown package from his pocket. ‘Got a new strain I'm looking to test out. Figured you'd be the perfect candidate.’

He tossed the package at Sebastian's chest: all three of them watched as it bounced off and hit the ground. Nobody moved to pick it up.

‘I don't know what you're on about,’ Sebastian lied, his eyes flicking nervously over the literal ballerina next to him; the epitome of elegance and refinement, he was certain she'd never smoked a bloody ham let alone indulged in the questionable (mis)use of mallowsweet.

Utterly fucking clueless, Garreth scooped up the package and held it out to him. ‘To be honest, I swore never to sell to you again after last time.’

‘Last —?’

‘Remember? You called me a “soulless fire crotch” and accused me of ripping you off —’

‘I never —!’

‘— but Leander reckons he's “giving it up” again, so now you're the only buyer I've got left who'll test out the experimental stuff.’

Unable to avoid it any longer, Sebastian snatched the package out of Garreth's hands and did his best to look thoroughly mystified. ‘Mallowsweet, you say? For potions, right?’

He sounded ridiculous even to himself.

‘Potions?’ Garreth looked puzzled. ‘No, you're supposed to smo—’

‘Smoulder it over a low flame before brewing, yep, I know, got it! Well, thanks Garreth, always a pleasure seeing you!’

‘But — you —’

‘Goodbye Garreth!’ He gave him a rough shove in the direction from whence he came.

‘Alright, alright, I'm going! Bloody hell. You fall off your wheel board or something?’

‘Skateboard,’ Sebastian said through his teeth. ‘It's a skateboard, Garreth. I know it's got wheels and it's very confusing for you, but —’

‘Oh!’ At this, Garreth turned. ‘Your uncle's up at the village, by the way.’

Brilliant. Uncle Solomon had a way of showing up drunk whenever things were going well for Sebastian; if he was at The Hog's Head already, he was probably halfway drunk by now. By nightfall, he'd be banging on Sebastian's door demanding to know where Anne was.

Sebastian didn't bloody know where his sister was. Nobody did.

‘How long's he been there?’

Garreth shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he was still upright last I saw…’

It was times like these that Sebastian was glad his twin sister had disappeared. Years of trying to hold together a splintered family had taken its toll on her; after all, looking after a drunken uncle and a brother obsessed with the Dark Arts wasn't exactly conducive to healing.

The hastily scribbled note she'd left had read: I can't die in Feldcroft. Please look after our uncle.

By the time Sebastian had found it, she was long gone.

He hadn't heard from her since.

No sooner had Garreth's flaming red hair disappeared into the brush than the baggie of experimental mallowsweet was yoinked unceremoniously out of Sebastian's hands.

‘Oi!’

‘Ooooh, you have a mallowsweet dealer?’ Aurélie danced out of his reach, giggling. ‘Can I try some?’

‘Wh — no, he's not a dealer!’ he spluttered, tailing her across the clearing. ‘And no, you can not “try some”!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s for potion-making!’

Grinning mischievously, she took a little whiff of the package then pulled a face and immediately thrust it back at him.

‘Eurgh, what are you brewing? Dungbombs?’

‘No — Wiggenwald.’

‘You're a terrible liar.’

‘Actually,’ he said, tucking the bundle into his hoodie pocket, ‘I'm a Slytherin. And if you must know, mallowsweet helps me sleep.’

‘So you do smoke it!’

‘Yes, mother, I smoke it.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Can't you just use potions for that?’

‘Oh, you mean like a Sleeping Draught?’ He quirked a brow. ‘Or is it the Draught of Peace you’re brewing up with your precious “Garreth Weasley approved” Valerian roots?’

‘I told you, it's for fudge!’ she snapped.

‘You're a terrible liar,’ he smirked. ‘You don’t use the sprigs of the Valerian plant in fudge unless you intend to knock yourself unconscious for several days. — Or are you hoping to use it on someone else?’ he added, thinking of Ominis.

‘Oh, and you're an expert on fudge now, are you?’

‘I passed N.E.W.T level potions,’ he said smugly. ‘So unless you’re brewing a Fire-Breathing Potion — which, as an aside, I don’t think you need — then you're lying about the fudge.’

‘I don't see why it's any of your business!’ With a dramatic huff, she stomped across the clearing and threw herself a fallen log by the creek's edge.

‘It's not,’ he chuckled, sitting beside her. ‘It's just not very fair for you to accuse me of lying when you're telling little fibs of your own, is it?’

Secretly amused, Sebastian waited out the stubborn silence that followed and tried to act like he wasn't acutely aware of her arm pressing against his. There was a strange sense of familiarity about her presence, as if in some other lifetime they'd sat together just like this, side by side beneath the trees.

Eventually, she spoke again.

'If you must know,’ she began, her voice tight, ‘I've been under some... stress lately. And now I can't sleep without, well…'

'Without knocking yourself out with a Sleeping Draught?' he offered helpfully. ‘I know what that's like.’

'Strictly speaking, I'm not allowed to use “substances". Not that my Muggle instructors would ever recognise the effects of a Sleeping Draught, but still…' She heaved a heavy sigh. 'It's just… I've been dancing almost my entire life. My goals, my plans, my future — everything about me revolves around ballet.’

‘And now?’ he prompted.

‘Something happened…’ she said slowly. ‘Something that made me realise that I don't know who I am outside of the thing I've been trained for my whole life. — That's why I'm here, actually.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘To find yourself?’

‘Oh — no, because I accidentally blew up the dance studio with my magic.’

Sebastian choked.

'I'm the only ballerina with magic, you see,’ she explained, patting him gingerly on the back. ‘The Ministry had to obliterate everyone who witnessed my, erm… mishap, and I was ordered to take the summer off for "stress relief" lest I violate the Statute of Secrecy by exploding on stage or something. So…’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘Here I am.'

Sebastian began to laugh.

‘You blew up your dance studio?’

‘I didn't mean to!’ she wailed. ‘It was awful! I broke all the mirrors! — It's not funnyyy, stop laughing!’

But he couldn't. Too far gone for composure, he hid his face in his hands and laughed til his cheeks hurt.

‘You know…’ he said, nudging her with his elbow. ‘I could teach you a far more effective way of relieving stress.’

Her scandalised look almost set him off laughing again.

‘I'm talking about skateboarding,’ he snickered. ‘Why? What were you thinking of?’

[adriansvetozaroff]

Munificent Sacrifice, graphic novel (2024, W.I.P.)

Pages 3-6

3. We don't know anything about non-verbal Pak Pak at this point, so I had to make it up. Any similarities with real sign languages ​​are coincidental. And there is no decryption here yet intentionally.

4. ARC-170 starfighters have jammers in the nose part. I guess they can be quite effective when there are a lot of them. Mar Tuuk tried to destroy most of them using mass-drivers.

6. The writing on the wall on the first panel says "I'm not dead, I just look like this" (the way I decided it should sound in Pak Pak).

______

3. На данный момент мы ничего не знаем про невербальный пак-пак, так что мне пришлось его придумать. Любые сходства с реальными жестовыми языками случайны. И здесь пока намеренно нет расшифровки.

4. Истребители ARC-170 имеют постановщики помех в носовой части. Думаю, они могут быть весьма эффективны, когда их много. Мар Туук пытался уничтожить большинство из них, используя масс-драйверы.

6. На первой панели на стене написано: «Я не умер, я просто так выгляжу» (так, как, на мой взгляд, это должно звучать на пак-паке).

[thelustybraavosimaid]

There is an unfortunately pervasive aspect of this fandom in that people conflate and replace what is established in canon with what is "true" in fanonland. Or they let their biases run wild and come up with a wide array of baseless ideas.

I tire of this.

Was is when a 22 year old adult started showing interest in a pubescent 14 year old?

This is not out of place in a universe where the author turned Daenerys and Drogo into some love story, twisted as it was, or when he had admitted he was playing around with Sandor and Sansa in the books and that "there was something there," or when he has commissioned Sansan fanart hanging on his wall.

The man does not give two flying fucks about age gaps, even problematic ones by our modern standards.

Was it when he trapped her in Dorne with knights outside ready to kill anyone who tried to help her?

Why would they kill anyone who tried to help her? Lyanna was found in a bed of blood and was ill, so she possibly had puerperal fever after giving birth. There was no way she didn't have a wetnurse to accompany her. Was this wetnurse supposed to have been slain by the Kingsguard for daring to assist Lyanna?

Was it when he joined the war to kill her remaining family and Northerners?

He didn't join the war to specifically kill her family. I find it hard to believe that anyone could forget Rhaegar had stakes of his own, and family of his own. Like, if it wasn't for Rhaegar dying, Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon wouldn't have been killed by the Mountain and Amory Lorch.

He didn't deliberately join the war to kill Lyanna's family, he did it so he could win it, return to King's Landing, and depose Aerys. This has been his goal as far back as the tourney at Harrenhal:

His lordship lacked the funds to pay such munificent prizes, they argued; someone else must surely have stood behind him, someone who did not lack for gold but preferred to remain in the shadows whilst allowing the Lord of Harrenhal to claim the glory for hosting this magnificent event. We have no shred of evidence that such a "shadow host" ever existed, but the notion was widely believed at the time and remains so today.

But if indeed there was a shadow, who was he, and why did he choose to keep his role a secret? A dozen names have been put forward over the years, but only one seems truly compelling: Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.

If this tale be believed, 'twas Prince Rhaegar who urged Lord Walter to hold the tourney, using his lordship's brother Ser Oswell as a gobetween. Rhaegar provided Whent with gold sufficient for splendid prizes in order to bring as many lords and knights to Harrenhal as possible. The prince, it is said, had no interest in the tourney as a tourney; his intent was to gather the great lords of the realm together in what amounted to an informal Great Council, in order to discuss ways and means of dealing with the madness of his father, King Aerys II, possibly by means of a regency or a forced abdication. (The Fall of the Dragons: The Year of the False Spring, The World of Ice and Fire)

—

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but...well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return." (Jaime I, AFfC)

The major wrench thrown in Rhaegar's plans was Aerys attending said tourney.

Was it when he left her to die in a pool of her own blood?

Rhaegar was dead before then, and even as he was dying he whispered Lyanna's name, as was semi-confirmed in the World of Ice and Fire app.

Leading a large host to the Trident, Rhaegar met Robert in battle duelling on horseback in the fording of the river Rhaegar was killed after giving Robert a serious wound. He would die with Lyanna's name on his lips. (Rhaegar Targaryen, AWoIaF app)

She was in his thoughts even while dying.

Was it when she screamed for her brother to save her?

She didn't. And she would never call Ned "Lord Eddard."

As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.

"Lord Eddard," Lyanna called again.

"I promise," he whispered. "Lya, I promise..."

"Lord Eddard," a man echoed from the dark. (Eddard X, AGoT)

This is based on a fever dream, of which George already said that not all dreams are literal. Rose petals certainly were not blowing across a blood-streaked sky, after all, and by Ned's account, the petals in Lyanna's hold were not blue, but crushed and blackened.

Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. (Eddard I, AGoT)

Moreover:

I might mention, though, that Ned's account, which you refer to, was in the context of a dream...and a fever dream at that. Our dreams are not always literal.

[Source]

So we're still, deliberately, in the dark about the events surrounding the tower of joy.

You'll need to wait for future books to find out more about the Tower of Joy and what happened there, I fear.

————

Was it when she begged to be buried with her family in Winterfell?

About this.

It was already a given that Lyanna's body was going to be returned home, as all Starks are traditionally interred in the crypts.

Ned stopped at last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that. (Eddard I, AGoT)

The only exception to this rule has been Brandon the Shipwright, since he was lost at sea. Rickard and Brandon died in King's Landing yet they were returned to Winterfell, so I doubt she'd truly have to beg Ned for that:

They were almost at the end now, and Bran felt a sadness creeping over him. "And there's my grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was beheaded by Mad King Aerys. His daughter Lyanna and his son Brandon are in the tombs beside him. Not me, another Brandon, my father's brother. They're not supposed to have statues, that's only for the lords and the kings, but my father loved them so much he had them done." (Bran VII, AGoT)

The problem is how frequently this allusion to a promise has been in Ned's chapters. I doubt he would be thinking of it nearly as much if it was solely about Lyanna's bones returning home, so her pleading must narratively carry a deeper meaning. We are talking about a man who has said before that he had lived with lies for fourteen years and how it often troubled him at night.

Jon was fourteen at the start of the series.

Please direct me to the "love story"

Regarding the possible nature of Rhaegar and Lyanna's relationship, I believe this quote of George's implies it was indeed a romance, in his own preferred telling of one:

It’s interesting, to get back to this issue of romance that you raised earlier. When I was in Spain a few years ago, I had dinner with a woman — a Spanish academic — and a big fan of both science fiction and romance, and she had read a lot of my stuff because people said I was a very romantic writer. And she sort of launched at me and said, “What are you talking about?! You are not a romantic writer, you know. Nobody ever lives happily ever after in your books!” I was defending it, saying, “Well, but that’s a different tradition of romance. I don’t — I’m a romantic writer in the tradition of The Great Gatsby and Romeo and Juliet, and, you know, the Beauty and the Beast. These things don’t necessarily have happy endings, but aren’t the most powerful romances the unfulfilled romances — the romances where people go their separate ways, but they’ll always have Paris, like in Casablanca, one of the films I showed here. You know, they go separate at the end, but they’ll always have Paris.” And she basically said, “No, you’re wrong. They have to be happily ever after together for it to be romance, otherwise it’s just sad.”

[Source: 03:19]

Rhaegar and Lyanna's story is analogous to the tale of Bael the Bard and the Stark maiden; there was a reason why this tale of the blue winter rose was told to Jon specifically. Like the Stark maiden in the story, Lyanna loved Rhaegar so much that she bore him a son.

Bael and the Stark maiden's tale was not a happily ever after, either; both lovers died in the end. But their union did produce a child.