#oh shes roaring

[kraviolis]

where are all the 200k word post-day of unity fics where alador is going through a nasty and increasingly messy divorce and trying to help rebuild the boiling isles and also fixing his relationship with his kids but he's also struggling with having his own autonomy again and his own guilt over not being an actual father to his kids and he doesnt know who is outside of his responsibilities of work/family bcus he never had actual friends once he left school and once upon a time alador was the one to show darius there's more to life than what you can do for other people and now darius has the opportunity to help alador relearn the same thing and maybe together they can both rediscover what real love feels like again after years of bitterness

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

Flourish AU - Dragonheart Pirkko - Durmond Priory

Champion of the Caustic Elder Dragon

"Lasting change isn't gentle. It's harsh, abrasive, and inescapable. Either we'll adapt or we'll die trying."

"A better world starts with deciding what we're prepared to lose."

[spiribia]

(timestamped) ZOJJA WILL SAY F*CK?????

[transnightfury]

i saw Penny Pokémon in the wild (eye twitches) NNNGGGGNHHHFBFNFMD I AM NORMA'

[age-of-moonknight]

“Reese,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #1.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 63

Chapter; highlighted

Aedion and Kyllian kept their panicking troops in line as they marched, all the way to the banks of the Florine.

There was no use running northward. Not when the bone drums began pounding. And grew louder with every passing minute that Aedion ordered their legion into formation.

Stalking for the front lines, his armor so heavy it could have been made of stone, the lack of the ancient sword at his side like some phantom limb, Aedion said to Ren, "I need you to do me a favor."

Ren, buckling on his quiver, didn't bother to look up. "Don't tell me to run."

"Never." Close-they were so close to Theralis. How fitting it would have been to at last die on the field where Terrasen had fallen a decade ago. To have his blood soak into the earth where so many of the court he'd loved had died, for his bones to join theirs, unmarked on the plain.

"I need you to call for aid."

Ren looked up then. His scarred face was leaner than it had been weeks ago. When was the last time any of them had a proper meal? Or full night's rest? Where Lysandra was, what form she wore, Aedion didn't know. He had not sought her out last night, and she had stayed away from him entirely.

"I'm no one now," Aedion said, the lines of soldiers parting for them. Bane and Fae, Silent Assassin and Wendlynian and Wastes-hailing soldier alike. "But you are Lord of Allsbrook.

Send out messengers. Send out Nox Owen. Call for aid. Dispatch them to every direction, to anyone they might find. Tell Nox and the others to beg if they have to, but tell them to say that Terrasen calls for aid."

Only Aelin had the authority to do so, or Darrow and his council, but Aedion didn't care.

Ren halted, and Aedion paused with him, well aware of the soldiers within earshot. Of the Fae hearing many possessed. Endymion and Sellene already stood by the front line of the left flank, their faces grave and weary. A home that was what they'd lost, what they now fought to gain. If any should survive this. What would his father make of his son, fighting alongside his people at last?

"Will anyone come?" Ren asked, aware of those listening ears, too. Aware of the grim faces that remained with them, despite the death that marched at their backs.

Aedion fitted his helmet onto his head, the metal bitingly cold. "None came ten years ago. But maybe someone will bother this time."

Ren gripped his arm, tugging him close. "There might be nothing left to defend, Aedion."

"Send out the call anyway." He jerked his chin to the lines they'd passed through. Ilias was polishing his blades amongst a cluster of his father's assassins, his attention pinned on the enemy ahead. Preparing to make a final stand on this snowy plain so far from his warm desert. "You insist I'm still your general? Then here's my final order. Call for aid."

A muscle feathered in Ren's jaw. But he said, "Consider it done." Then he was gone.

They didn't bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.

So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front.

The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.

The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.

Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.

Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?

Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.

Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower?

How soon would its power be unleashed?

He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.

The Bane didn't clash their swords on their shields this time.

There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.

Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.

This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.

Down the line, motion caught his eye-just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.

Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.

Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.

He prayed he went first. So he wouldn't witness it.

Morath drew close enough that Ren's order to the archers rang out.

Arrows flew, fading into the snows.

Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.

"We fight as one," Aedion called down the line, "We die as one."

A horn blared from deep within the enemy ranks. Morath began its all-out run on their front line.

Aedion's boots dug into the mud as he braced his shield arm. Like it could possibly hold back the tide stretching into the horizon.

He counted his breaths, knowing they were limited. A ghost leopard's snarl ripped down the line, a challenge to the charging army.

Fifty feet. Ren's archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty. The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he'd worn with such pride. But he'd make it work. Twenty. Ten. Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets.

Morath's front line angled their swords, their spears—

Roaring fire blasted from the left flank. His left flank.

Aedion didn't dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did.

He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame.

Aelin. Aelin—

Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief.

"Close the gap," Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and sate at last—

It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank. It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.

Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.

But many, so many he couldn't count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.

Rolfe's fleet. The Mycenians.

Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.

Firelances.

A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath's ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.

Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.

As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe's Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.

Morath turned and ran.

Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!

The fools did not realize that there was no magic-none beyond pure luck and good timing.

Then a familiar voice rang out. "Quickly! On board, all of you!" Rolfe.

For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.

Aedion wasted no time. "To the river! To the fleet!" Their soldiers didn't hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and messy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn't care.

Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.

Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.

And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe's Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.

Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.

And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, "Fall back, all of you!" The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.

Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.

But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe's ship, the river deep enough that they'd been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind.

Only the dead.

Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship's helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born. Rolte, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back

Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, "You looked like you were in need of a rescue."

Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe's gloved hands. "I assume we have that map of yours to thank."

"Turns out it's good for something other than plundering." Rolfe smirked. "Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border," he admitted. "They thought you might be in trouble—-and sent us this way." He ran a hand through his hair. "They remain with what's left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won't have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here." The Pirate Lord's tan face tightened. "So here I am."

Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. "Thank you," he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.

Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. "We surprised them, but it won't hold them off for long."

Lysandra stepped to Rolfe's side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. "We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup."

"I can't carry your entire army to Orynth," Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. "But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare." The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. "She's not here, is she." Lysandra shook her head. "No."

"Then we'll make do," was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship's rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.

None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.

Aedion murmured, "Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we'll sail for the city."

"I'll do it," Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn't bother to say anything else.

Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.

Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.

In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen's armored shoulder. Ansel didn't so much as glance up. Aedion asked Rolfe, "How many of those firelances do you have?"

The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. "Not enough to outlast a siege."

And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth's walls.

[invinciblerodent]

apparently act 3 is when I need to push through the desire to start playing a new character, because now that I'm there with Iona too, I'm struck by an intense urge to play this pretty asshole

particularly struck by the thought of how fucked his whole situation must be under that armor

like, being born to druids but with no magic of his own, growing up, he never really needed to learn practical skills like dressing a wound, or anything of the sort (what's the point if your mom can just wave vaguely in your direction and whatever issue you have is gone). But when he left and found himself on his own.... given how stubborn he is, he probably learned all his battle- and survival skills by pure trial and error.

I imagine he has a number of weird and wonky, poorly stitched and awkwardly healed old scars, all over his body. Boken many bones, gotten into weird accidents, and has gotten many a bad infection before, too- really, it's a borderline miracle that he still has not only all his limbs, but all his fingers and toes too.

No wonder that he has 16 con to his (currently) 17 dex and his 8 int; without being preternaturally healthy and hardy, he'd easily be a decade dead. nah, this boy is just rawdogging life, smashing his head against walls and hoping that they'll break before his skull does.

i've played him for only like an hour, and I simultaneously hate and love this asshole cockroach of a man so much already

[mangosaurus]

kenji the type of boyfie to wear brooklynn's heels for her after a formal event because brooklynn's feet are killing her and she just can't keep walking in her heels any longer

[thetisming]

the smallest thing can bring me close to tears sometimes

[kaerinio]

@drakonprince approached her grace: ❝ I will not wed you. ❞ / from Rhaegar bc I couldn't resist akskakaks.

It is quite strange, the smile now dancing on her lips — — — reflective, and just a touch sardonic ; as though her teeth have sunk into something most peculiar, and her tongue seeks to recognize the flavor. A distant luster sheaths the once-attentive gaze she'd directed at her brother ; she is wandering, no doubt, turning over the cool stones sitting atop memories long buried. In recollection, they stir, rousing from beneath the caked dirt of their neglected graves.

For years and years, Viserys whispered, then snapped, then screamed lamentations, then frustrations, then fury about the timing of her birth ( as though she'd some authority over the matter ). The fool. Yet another fabrication : a falsehood of his own construction to legitimize his resentment of her, and, oh, how she, a trembling and subdued thing, had hated him in those moments. How she, diminished and love-starved and frightened, guttered the feeble embers of wrath threatening to spark to wildfire over the blatant dishonoring of their mother. Those infernal complaints rustle in the wind : ‘It is your fault. You should have been born sooner,’ he enjoyed hissing, and once, when temper flared, she barked, pointing a small, shaking finger at his face, ‘You were born before me, what of your fault?’

Now, slender fingers lift, testing a phantom ache on the smooth, unmarred jaw before grazing, tracing up, and traversing a high cheekbone until they press against her forehead.

And peals of laughter erupt from her lips, melodic and round and full ; they reach crescendo when her head falls back, braids shifting, ringing in time with the giggles. A rather startling reaction! Even Viserion and Rhaegal jerk, lifting serpentine heads from the giant mass of their curled bodies. She nearly tumbles back onto the pile of cushions. “Oh! Please, forgive me. You are not the cause of my outburst, dear brother,” she says, quieting herself, hand falling to her heart, eyes bright with some wry form of amusement. “It is only that I am once again astounded by Viserys’ devotion to ignorance.”

IGNORANCE AND FURY AND SHAME ; those had been his favorite weapons ( and, it was upon the softness of both her body and soul that he reveled in whetting his rage . . . and with her tears that he cleansed himself anew, reeling to unleash himself again ). “He was convinced that I could have turned your eye, but he could not have been more incorrect.” Suddenly, that feeling, that fervent wish to have had Rhaegar at her side rather than Viserys stirs. How different things would have been, she ponders, leaning forward on her knees and reaching to place her hands upon his arms ( in hopes of easing the stern set of his brow ). “You’ve naught to worry about from me, Rhaegar. I've no expectations of such a union between the two of us. We are one in spirit, in mind, in blood, and in heart. With that, I am most content.” A reassuring squeeze, and still, even after all this time, wonder sparks ( he is here, here, here! ).

“That beside, my advisors would have me take a husband whose veins are swimming with the blood of Old Ghis,” she quiets, softening her timbre ; violet meets indigo when she frowns. “What would our countrymen do — — — if I ascended the throne with Hizdahr zo Loraq at my side? Would they scorn me?”

[recitedemise]

wax poetry!

Send ‘wax poetic’ for Gale to work some poetry; his muse is you: still accepting.

She is the fork in the road and a divergence in rivers.

Following her currents, you would take me to sea.

And in the cave of her chest, that ominous empty, he hears and sees a sea-salt wave.

Gale swims. Shadowheart, phantom-woman, seems ever to him a sentinel, a lonely thing in a heartless gulf. Her eyes are deep as midnight inkwells, the hollowness of churches with angry gods, and its bitter prayers now echo in her ribs, confused, wretched, and deeply foul. She smells of the coast, the briskness of oceans, and she is so, so familiar with its vicious battering. You take it loyally. You've sea-deep faith.

Her body is a temple, windows of mosiacs both black and bruised. He worries for her greatly, fears her lady's goals, but Gale will approach her shoreline willingly.

And Shadowheart, he moors her, who prays for you?

She kneels at her tent. Gale watches from his.

[transnightfury]

yesterday i was making a very small clay shadow

[kristenbouchard]

we are apparently in such a routine these days that the wm doesn’t even ask if i want to walk after work because now it’s: “we’ll talk about it when we walk later”. and, on another level of somethjng, she has literally put it in our calendars for tomorrow evening. girl HELP ?

[navree]

Vhaegar is much uglier than Syrax cant believe they did Visenya's dragon like that

No need to pit two bad bitches against each other, they can BOTH be ugly as shit

[halinski]

I JUST FOUND OUT THERES A JURASSIC WORLD EXHIBITION NEARBY AND I NEED SOMEONE TO TAKE MY DINO OBSESSED ASS THERE THIS SUMMER OMG

[gxlden-angels]

Following the shitshow that was Trump's inauguration, I wanna repeat this statement!

I don't give a fuck if you're rioting in the street, handing out clothes and food to the homeless, or getting coffee for your coworkers on a rough day, as long as you're doing it. I truly do not care what you are doing as long as you are doing it. And when you do it, take a friend. Don't do shit alone and don't fall over trying to do them

You are not immune to doomerism and you are not immune to propaganda. Remember other people are not immune either. This seems counterintuitive for this account but volunteer at a church too if you think you can manage it. I don't mean passing out Chick Tracts with them or some shit. I mean food and clothing drives. The last thing you want is to isolate church folk further into their own little cults. Make them see the world is kind if you let it be. Make them see their community for what it is: A Community

And again, do not do shit alone! I genuinely cannot express how important that is regardless of what you're doing. You are not Jesus H. Christ and you are not a martyr for everyone else's sins. Don't try to be one.

Do not let the Protestant Work Ethic Beast in your head win!

You are not alone! You are not the sole difference between death and life! You are a person who will at some point need to take a break!

That is why there is community! That is why there is organizing! Do not despair because you, alone, are not currently boots on the ground fixing things! Do something, but do not let that something be collapsing!