#on a higher throne than mine own

[autisticwurm]

IM SAYING THIS BECAUSE ITS IMPORTANT TO ME

REBLOG IF ITS OKAY FOR RP BLOGS TO INTERACT WITH YOU !!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

huh...

Recently I was researching Malleus in preparation to write some things for my "10 years later" blog event. And you know what I noticed?

MALLEUS SEEMS TO HAVE LIKE NO CLEARLY STATED POLICY POSITIONS WHATSOEVER 💀 Across 4+ years of content (voice lines, vignettes, events, main story, etc.), Malleus does not really indicate how he plans to rule once he ascends to the throne. I keep thinking I missed something and go back to comb over everything, but I swear to you that it was pretty threadbare. The closest examples I could find were him being familiar with the concept of noblesse oblige (those of higher status have a duty to aid the weak), thinking it prudent to maintain friendly relationships with representatives of foreign lands, and going along with various traditions and ceremonies. I guess you can also throw in Malleus saying he was told by his grandma that the Draconias are meant to use their powers to protect the smiles of their people? But there's nothing concrete, like how exactly Malleus would achieve his goals once in power or what his specific goals are. (This is not counting fan speculation, such as him potentially eliminating the current senate due to how they treated Lilia so callously.)

Malleus will often talk about how the things he's experiencing are different than what he knows of back home. Malleus will talk about how others wait on him (his birthday is a national holiday, he has private chefs and tutors, etc.). But he doesn't talk about how he would rule. That's like... so wild to me considering that he's the crown prince of Briar Valley. I would have expected at least one or two dedicated voice lines about such a BIG for Malleus, especially with how often he speaks about himself being a royal and being groomed for the position of future ruler of his nation. Malleus sometimes shares about his grandmother, who is the current ruler, but again never specifies what her ruling style is like or what her policies are like. It's also strange to me that Sebek, Silver, and Lilia also never speak about Malleus's positions on anything. The best we get is Lilia trying to encourage Malleus to get out of his comfort zone more and to make the most of his time to learn about his non-fae peers. That doesn't speak to any of his current thoughts though, only what Lilia hopes will enhance Malleus's understanding now and perhaps inform his decisions in the future. We're mostly left to assume how Briar Valley's political landscape works--but even then, there's not much to make of it, besides being aware of the senate, a reliance on magic, and the general adversity to humans and technology.

Compare this to Leona, the other prince of the cast (not counting Silver, since he learns of his prince heritage very late into the main story and may not even feasibly have a country or people to his name anymore). Leona is the second prince of Sunset Savanna, meaning he's not even expected to become king someday--yet we consistently hear what his thoughts on policies and political planning are. He comments that he worries for his country's future due to how lax, kind-hearted, and extravagant his older brother and acting king Falena is. On top of that, Leona's own views on what would most benefit his country are explicitly laid out. He doesn't care much for stuffy traditions or living in harmony with nature (a value many of his countrymen have); he prioritizes progress and thinks proactively about it. Even on his own birthday, Leona talks about how the gift he received from Falena could be better served as a gift to a neighboring country to bolster the relationship between their nations. The mining and energy internship he chooses in book 7 is also geared towards making sustainable advancements back home (presumably to make use of his country’s natural resources while minimizing damage to the land). We get a very clear sense of how Leona would go about improving his country, even if not from the position of king and even if his ideas wouldn’t be received well by his people or by the land. (If this topic interests you, then please check out this post, where I discuss Leona vs Falena's priorities and ruling styles.)

So what's up with Malleus, an actual king-to-be, not talking about politics at all????? Is it maybe just something Malleus is not thinking about (it's possible that he could become king much later in life, since he’s not considered an “adult” until 1000 years old)? Is he maybe focusing on his current school experience? Or is it that he just... keeps the plans to himself since they aren't immediately relevant? Or is it that he feels he doesn't need to implement many changes once he does become king (since he seems to already be accustomed to his grandmother's way of ruling), so there's no need for him to consider it now? (Briar Valley itself and Malleus are particularly old-fashioned and appear to have issues adapting or changing with the times.) Is it that Malleus secretly dreads his ascension because it means he can no longer go back to his carefree school days? Maybe it's just the Twst devs intentionally keeping Briar Valley vague for meta reasons/to maintain Diasomnia's mystique??? It could be any combination of reasons.

I guess I'm a little frustrated myself at this realization because a personal gripe I have with Malleus is how he's treated and talked about like he's a great leader (especially by Diasomnia; *stares at Sebek shouting and Lilia's book 2 speech*), but we never get real instances of him acting like that great leader he supposedly is. It feels like lip service (think about how often Diasomnia and the general cast hypes him up) without him being able to back it up. When has Malleus led anyone in a serious group effort? How does he intend to lead in the future? I feel like it's mostly him wandering off to do his own thing or to clear the challenge with his OP-ness. But if Twst is really going to sell us on Malleus being a "great leader", then he should be given more chances to be one. It's such a wasted opportunity that we don't get to know more about this. The only instance I can think of (off the top of my head) where Malleus "leads" is GloMasq, and even then I don't know if I would count it??? Because Malleus isn't really leading the group so much as he is tagging along with them because there's safety in numbers given the situation. Everyone else throws themselves out there to protect him and the other event SSRs... and the way Malleus acts kind of implies he would march up that tower and try to decimate Rollo with or without anyone's help if he could. That doesn't really read to me as him taking charge, even if he's technically going to these great lengths to protect his country, which primarily relies on magic (ie their way of life would be destroyed if Rollo's plan succeeds). Maybe I'm missing something though??? If you can think of any examples of Malleus being a leader and/or times when he mentions how he'd rule Briar Valley, let me know. it's very possible that I have overlooked an example, given the extensive amount of content out at the moment. Sharing general thoughts on this topic is also fine.

[caitlynspistol]

watching ror again (this time with more attention to detail), and here is what i've newly picked up on/noticed/want to point out again:

red doesn't want to be queen, doesn't like to be called princess

chloe has a very high sense of duty and honor to her family ("but when i'm out there i'm not just another competitor, i represent cinderellasburg" when talking about her dad signing her up for sns and reminding her that it was supposed to be about having fun)

chloe is part of the auradon historical society??

"and why you'll make a great queen" what about chad??

queen of hearts= empress of wonderland (ie. higher title than chloe should red take the throne)

"get it right or i'll show you punishment!!" yeaaa red had a SHITTY and traumatic childhood under a controlling and abusive mother

"im just a girl, arms open wide, looking for kindness, somewhere in your eyes" soooo even after all that red just wants her mom to love her and accept her and show her kindness! she was never a villain

wait. how does bridget know what red was thinking/singing about if red hadn't opened her mouth? this might just be a musical thing but hm. ability to detect emotions? they somehow connected in a way?

"rule a million years with you right next to me" okay so they probably live longer than auradonian people

og bridget doesn't allow red to eat sweets but red likes them

so qoh's cards have magic that connect directly to wonderland and can summon guards out of thin air, be used as ninja stars (strong enough to break fg's wand in half) and enlargen to create obstacles

lmao without mal as security auradon prep has none (substantial enough)

"everything i do is for you" qoh loves red in her own twisted way

umm i do think cinderella was (intentionally or not) involved in the prank. bridget directed the "humiliating a girl at her first dance, turning her into a monster in front of everyone" at ella and ella just said "you're right" ("you didn't care then, you were off with your prince")

"now make me proud, for once" red only indirectly sentenced ella to death to satisfy her mother and gain acceptance 🗣🗣 bottom alert (and bc ella indirectly challenged her lmao) also what she actually said was "treason. she's guilty of treason" qoh actually called the beheading

qoh kissed red's cheek when she did what she wanted (ie. physical affection as a reward??)

CHLOE WAS PULLING OUT HER SWORD AND WAS ABOUT TO CHARGE AT HER MOM AND THAT WAS WHY RED CHARGED AT HER AND ACCIDENTALLY PULLED HER ALONG THROUGH THE TIME TRAVEL

wait red is actually pretty good at fighting/athletic/stealthy. she held her own against a charming with skilled swordsmanship

("you're not gonna catch me when i fall" "maybe" with the lil up down checking out red look, chloe PLS)

("princess, goody two shoes, boo" just throwing nicknames are we)

"and if i'm the next princess of auradon, it's only a matter of time before she tries to turn me into a mini-me. i'm not gonna let that happen" okay so that's her worst fear. of turning into her mom

"okay i accept your mission" very knight-ly behavior much?

"i love history! don't you?" "uh uh" help-

whoa merlin academy has a lot of wands and magic around, esp compared to auradon prep

awww hades holding maleficent's hand

it looks like red's never seen musical instruments before with the way she looking at everything and picking them up lmao

bridgella <33

red's reaction to ella's punishment and grounding by her stepmother shows that she's experienced the same thing and is Traumatized

red comforting chloe after they look through the looking glasssss

okayy so chloe thinks red is a bad person just bc she wants to "break in and steal" even though that's like the only option?

gay conversation about red being a good person, "your own person" in front of the frozen vks

red believes she's a bad person herself, "a lost cause" bc she "lie, cheat, steal"

chloe believes she's a good person bc she stood up to a bully and "risked your life to save mine"

okay so morgie was the only one not with uliana and her crew bc he was on the lookout... which i think is an important detail that is different from the og timeline... and he seems nice... maybe he was the one who helped uliana actually open and read the cookbook instead? for the prank? hm

[tadpolesonalgae]

Dark!Cassian x reader: Lie to Me [***]

A/N: i tried, I really did, but it’s so difficult for me to imagine him not being regretful of the way he acted :/ (maybe I’ll just have to get some more practice in since I think I accidentally combined dark!Cassian with soft!dom!Cassian)

Warnings: noncon, smut, biting, light oral (f! receiving)

Summary: reader is friends with both Cassian and Eris, though has a marriage of convenience to the heir of the Autumn Court. Despite their feelings being no deeper than friendship, reader refuses to take things further with anyone else—much to the General’s frustration.

Word Count: 3,369

-Part 2-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“We’re going to have to start trying for an heir soon.”

He goes rigid, poised to tip the bottle higher, wine just at the lip—on the verge of spilling into your glass. Lowers it. “What?”

His voice is hoarse, strain carving itself into the downward twist of his mouth. Peer at your empty cup; bring it back to your chest, figuring he’s not going to fill it. Swallow thickly. “We’ve been married for nearly half a century, and…plans are moving faster than we anticipated.”

Plans, Cassian thinks. For Eris to ascend the throne. Of course he’ll need an heir, but… “So soon?”

Nod solemnly, still peering at your empty cup, not meeting his eyes. The hurt that will be there. You’re in desperate need of more alcohol, suddenly finding yourself sobered and too clear in the head. “As I said, things are moving faster than we expected.”

He blinks slowly, fisting the neck of the bottle. “But a baby,” he emphasises lowly. “You’re going to have that bastard’s child?”

You shoot him a dark glance. “My child,” you correct, “it will be mine as much as his.” You don’t bother wasting breath on starting down that already worn path with him—your fundamental disagreement over your husband’s character; his morals.

Lower your gaze, attempting to soften the situation. It can’t be easy for him. To watch this happen to you. “It’s not a decision we take lightly, Cassian,” you say, quietly. “We’ve spoken about this together. Spoken about it for a while now.” Run your thumb over the lip of the mug, feeling the rough, unglazed ceramic. “We’ve agreed on this. We’re fine with it.”

“You don’t even love one another,” he reminds, tersely. “How are you planning on raising it?”

“We do love each other,” you say softly. Stare deeper into your cup. “Just…just not in the way married couples are traditionally supposed to.” Swallow again. “You know this, Cassian. It was going to happen eventually.” Beside you he shakes his head, lowering the bottle to the bedside table—the two of you having made the trip to his chambers hours ago. It’s comfier when it’s just the two of you—instead of being forced to mingle with the rest of his family. Sometimes it’s better when it’s just the two of you.

“You said it wouldn’t happen for another few centuries,” he reminds, drinking directly from the bottle this time. “Two hundred years,” he states softly, “I had two hundred years to…” Lower your head, guilt settling in the pit of your belly.

“I’m sorry, Cassian.”

Silence stretches between you, allowing it to settle while he comprehends the truth you’ve just revealed to him. You’ll never be his. Not now Eris is claiming you.

“So when you go back tomorrow…” he begins slowly, knuckles whitening as he grips the bottle. “When you go back to him. And night falls…”

“Don’t think about it,” you murmur, circling the rim of the mug. “I just…I wanted to tell you so it wouldn’t come as a surprise. So you’d have time to…”

He nods slowly, almost absently, “so I’d have time to…”

Lick your lips; turn your head to look at him. “Cassian, I—”

“You could stay here.”

Blink…twice. Stare at him. “I… What?”

“You could stay here,” he states firmly, hand warming your own. “Rhys could help. He would help.”

Blink again in confusion. “Cassian…”

“You don’t have to go through with it,” he says, head turned to the side to peer down at you. “You can— You can stay.” Throat bobs, gripping your hand tighter.

Neither of you have ever really gotten around to discussing this. His feelings for you. Always left alone, neglected. Gently shunned away, encouraged to stay out of sight. Now the consequences are arising, having been disregarded for too long.

“Cassian,” you sigh, brows curving with sorrow. You don’t enjoy hurting him. “You know I can’t do that. Eris and I agreed to this nearly a century ago. I’m not backing out now—not when we’ve come so far.” Sigh again, averting your gaze to your lap. “I… I want you to be the godfather,” you admit softly. “If things go wrong… If for some reason they get left alone in this world…I trust you to take care of them.”

Inhale deeply, eyes lock with his. “But I understand if that’s not what you want.”

He stares at you, emotion swirling in the depths of his hazel gaze. Breath shudders out of him, pupils dilating as he takes you in, nostrils flaring delicately. “Are you serious?” Swallow, but nod your head solemnly. Your name whispers from his lips, a pained breath rattling from his lungs. Strained and hoarse. “You can’t do that to me,” he begs, softly. “I’ve done awful things,” he whispers, shifting to face you. Stiffen as he cups your cheek. “Terrible, butchering things…” …but I don’t deserve this.

Eyes flick down to your mouth; wariness twists in your chest. He’s not drunk, but he’s certainly not sober. Heartbeat spikes.

“You know how I feel about you,” he whispers, tilting your face upward. “You know what I want from you. What I want for you.”

“Cassian…”

“I can’t give you what he can,” he breathes, pain flickering in hazel eyes. “I can’t give you a fancy title, or treat you with the reverence you deserve. But I’d be good to you. I’d love you. Thoroughly.”

“Cassian—”

“Stop torturing yourself,” he grits out, brows digging to the centre. “Stop torturing me.”

His hand slinks down your jaw, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck, hairs rising with apprehension as he stalks closer, prowling in on your senses. “You’re throwing away your life,” he pleads roughly, “can’t you see that?” Carefully holds you still, delicately angling your head to face him. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Put your hand against his chest—firmly. “You’re taking this too far.”

Cassian stiffens, looking as though you just smacked him.

Jaw tightens, gripping your hair in his fist.

“That’s all you have to say?” He mutters. “I carve out my own heart, and you return it in a bucket? Beaten, and bloody?” Breathing quickens, no longer deep nor slow. “I love you. I love you so much I ache” —brows knit together, pain searing through his eyes— “and yet you’re going to let that snake put a baby in you?”

Lips part in a sharp inhale, one he tracks keenly. “Let me go.”

“No.”

You blink, eyes widening marginally. Taken aback. “I—…what? Let me go.”

“No.”

Breathing quickens, gripping the handle of your mug before raising it, swinging for his jaw but—

Quick as lightening, rough as thunder, he surges forward, mug colliding with his shoulder as you’re flipped on your back, shoved down into his mattress. The cup flies from your hand, knocked away, shattering on the floor. Warrior’s hands pin you by your collar bone and waist, his touch brutal and merciless.

“I just need you once,” he whispers, your hands shaking as they try to pry him off you. Horror sluices through your gut, the veiled implication having bile rise in your throat. “Just once,” he breathes, lips grazing your own. “Just once to taste you. To have you.” The flat of his palm glides up your front, tracing the curve of your breasts. Spanning between them, feeling your heartbeat.

Fingers try to slide beneath his hands, attempting to pry him off you, one joint at a time but he stays secure, latched onto your body. “Cassian,” you stammer, panic pumping in your blood, fear leeching through your clothes, his nostrils flaring delicately. Hurt flickers, then he’s leaning down, attaching the warm, wet heat of his mouth to your throat.

Inhale sharply, frozen to the bed as his tongue licks over your neck, sick roiling in the pit of your stomach. Lips seal over your skin, sucking a mark into you. Teeth nip at your throat, biting a bruise into you. Fingers tremble as you shake beneath him, utterly overpowered by his warrior’s strength.

“Cassian,” you beg, voice breaking. “Cassian, stop.” Canines pierce deeper, shoulders bunching as you try to squirm away. He pulls back, pupils dilated, skin flushed as he peers down at his catch, greedily devouring the way you wriggle and writhe—how beautifully supple your movements are. And his mark on your neck, the imprint of his teeth…

Hands drop to the hem of your top, head quietening as he raises the fabric, peeling it from your stomach. Mouth waters as he takes you in, the softness of your breasts; the perkiness of your nipples. Exhales heavily, finally allowing himself to ponder all the ways to have you. Accepting them as reality.

Below him, tears stream silently, too shocked to fully acknowledge the events. Blessed numbness tingles across your skin, unable to feel as his lips press to yours, tongue exploring the wet heat of your mouth, tasting everything he can get. Arm slides beneath your waist, spine arching into him, hand gripping your hair, angling your mouth so he can go deeper. The corners of your mouth wetting as saliva builds until he pulls away, a stray, gleaming thread connecting you.

Thumb swipes your lip, brushing it away. Calls your name faintly. It’s far off; distant. “I need you with me,” he murmurs over your lips. “Need you to feel this. Need you to feel me.”

Panic crashes into you, terror spurring you into action as you curl your hand into a fist, moving to slam it into his jaw. His large palm softens the blow, dulling the impact as you shove his shoulder, legs raising to kick at his hips, jab your heel into the top of his thigh to make the muscle spasm.

He snarls roughly at the attack, hips pressing between your own before you even have a change to pull back, arms move to pin your wrists, his lip curled in fury and pain. “Let me go,” you breathe shakily, voice cracking, breaths shallow and fast. “Cassian please,” you cry, “don’t do this. You can’t— You can’t do this.” Lip wobbles as you stare up at him, despair carved into your features.

Hazel softens at the edges, and he hushes you in attempts to soothe. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, wanting nothing more than to cup your face in his hands and pull your lips to his, to press kisses to your skin. To press them into your skin. “It’s okay,” he repeats softly, “you’ll feel good.” Struggle intensifies, thrashing as you try to yank your arms away.

He grits his teeth, not liking having to see you so desperate to get away from him. Hurt singing in his heart. Is he really that bad?

Puts his mouth over your own, kissing desperately, attempting to fix what he’s already begun to break. Tears run back into your hair, whimpering as his tongue strokes over your own, hips grinding against your soft centre. Toes curl, thighs squeeze, hating your response to this. To him.

This isn’t how he was supposed to have you. He was supposed to wait until it was over. Then you’d have your happily ever after.

Bite down on him, metallic liquid spilling into your mouth as he hisses, pulling away. His blood is thick and rich on your tongue, almost spicy. Dark crimson blooms at the corner of his lips, and your heart picks up as he stares down at you, the look of utter betrayal in his eyes.

“I thought you wanted this,” he murmurs softly, so softly. “You—… We had something together.” The devastation on his features has your stomach roiling. “We were good together.” Brows curve upward in pain as he holds you down, hands putting bruises into your wrists. “You—… Cassian…” Pain flickers in your chest at the carnage he’s wrought in bare minutes. Decades of friendship and something more set to ash.

His eyes cloud, conflict warring behind the lenses. Swallows thickly…releases one hand to cup your cheek, thumbing away the tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, head bowing in sorrow. Maybe you can still work through this. All he’s done is kiss you, and… You swallow thickly.

The General stares down at you, emotion clouding his gaze. Lust and hunger dancing their painful waltz, torturing his soul as he’s set ablaze by the need for you. To feel your softness beneath his fingertips. Just once. Just once all to himself. And if he’s already started…

Blood ices over as he roughly flips you round, pressing your face into the mattress as his arm snakes beneath your hips, ass sticking in the air. Scream and thrash as he rolls against you, groaning with relief as pressure is assuaged. Curses lowly as he grinds into the softness of your heat. Slow, decadent rolls of his hips as he basks in the pleasure, lips parted breathlessly.

“I know this isn’t how you wanted it,” he groans quietly, feeling how his fingers tremble as they grip your waist. “I know you wanted me to wait.” Hands lower to the hem of your skirts, fabric dragging up the backs of your thighs. “I know I’ve ruined it for you.”

Presses a kiss to the highest notch of your spine, other hand dipping beneath your top, working it away from your body. Palms at your breast, feeling your softness filling his hand. “But I can’t,” he grits out, pain evident in his voice. Hearing as he tears the both of you apart. “I can’t let him take this from me too,” he confesses quietly. “I need you to be mine—for one night. I need to have you completely, or he’ll—” voice catches, breaking off, brow resting on the uppermost knuckle of your back. “He can’t have you, too. Not when he has everything else. Not when you’re the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.”

His hand slides between your legs, and you sob into the mattress, knowing you can’t push him off. Nailing digging into the sheets until your hands feel like they’ll cramp.

Fingers find your clit, rubbing tenderly to soften you for him, so you’ll be ready to take him. Circles your entrance, gentling touching and prodding, then drops back to the apex of your thighs. Teeth graze your neck, tongue licking over your skin tenderly, sucking his marks over the previous ones—as if he can fix them.

You cry, muffled by his bed, his scent invading your lungs. It’s everywhere. Infused into his sheets, filling his room, warming your chest as he presses against your back. Wings drape over the mattress, content to laze as he allows wetness to build between your thighs before turning to the strings of his leathers.

A small part of him is relieved that you’re no longer struggling when he pulls away to loosen the ties—it would be too much. Instead your shoulders shudder with hushed sobs, hands fisting the sheets as you wait for him to shatter you completely. Regret and lust twine together, bejewelled in barbs that scratch and tear at the bloody chambers of his heart.

He hesitates, cock aching in his large hand, needing to be inside of you already. You’re right there, back arched so perfectly, glistening in the low light. Mouth waters.

Within your own mind you’re slowly counting back from one thousand, subtracting seven at a time, attempting to pull away from him as you await the almost inevitable pain that will come when he attempts to breech you. You’ve seen his wingspan, and you know he’ll be large. Prepare yourself for the sting.

Instead his mouth latches over your cunt, tongue licking gently, flicking over your clit, ravishing you with wet warmth, softening you further. Getting you to relax before the split. Nails slice deeper into the mattress with fear and anticipation as he indulges. Lapping up the traitorous arousal that’s slicking your entrance.

The General groans, feeling dizzy as he tastes you, wishing to simply seat you on his face for the rest of the night, but…

A painful twinge of arousal lacerates through his lower body, aching to press into you, to join together at last.

Swallowing, he pulls away, a silvery string of arousal connecting his lips to your cunt. Strokes himself at the sight, biting his lip as he attempts to restrain himself.

“I’ll be gentle,” he comforts, hand rubbing soothingly over your hip. “I promise it won’t hurt. You’ll like it.” A small, broken sound makes it’s way up to his ears, and his heart nearly breaks in response. But he can’t stop now. Not when he’s so close.

His tip presses to your entrance, your own hips squirming until he grips them lightly, keeping you in place. Your toes curl with fear, tears long since dampening the duvet below as you cry. Thighs squeeze together as he holds you tight, insisting on pulling you back against him, instead of pushing into you. Perhaps a pathetic attempt to convince himself that you want it too. To save himself from wrecking his own mind.

But your mouth parts as he eases you against him, lips stretching wide as he fills you up. Feel him in your stomach, hips tight against the backs of your thighs. Soft, heavy pants breathe from behind you, his chest heating your back. Arms leave your waist to fold over your stomach, palming your breasts; sliding between your thighs as he grinds into you.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, thumbing at your clit gently. Rubbing in slow, tantalising circles. When you don’t reply—don’t so much as react—he tries again. “Does it feel good? Finally being connected like this?” Lips brush the nape of your neck, hairs rising as he pinches your nipple, rough and calloused fingertips playing with the sensitive peak.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Hips roll forward, a quiet little sound being forced from your throat as horrifying pleasure unspools itself. His ears perk up, attention piercing into you. Repeats the action, dragging the sound from you again. Feeling as you tighten around him. His heart aches with relief, kissing up your neck, nipping at your ear. “Yeah? You’re enjoying it? Can you feel me there?”

His palm spans your lower abdomen, pressing lightly to increase the pressure, your lips parting wider in pleasure. Somehow touching all those lovely spots.

His breathing quickens as he drags his hips back, then presses in to the hilt, arousal spilling down your heat as he moves a little faster, keeping a gentle but regular pace. “Forget about him,” he urges. “For tonight, you can be mine. Without consequence, or worry.” Noses up your throat, mouth latching to a spot beneath your ear. “Be mine,” he pants, hips bucking sharply. “Release yourself,” he urges, “just let go.”

Pace becomes rougher; more intense as the rhythm becomes punishing, slamming in. Fucking you into his bed. “Let go, and I’ll catch you.”

Spine stretches beneath his hands, nails tearing at the fabric as you flutter around him, lips parted in shocked pleasure as the high crests over you, intense and daunting. Confused sounds spill from your lips as the ecstasy sweeps you away, his cock abusing spots that have you sobbing, fingers easily swiping across your clit, easing you into the climax.

Cassian groans at your back, no doubt feeling the evidence of your orgasm as you squeeze him. Canines pierce his lip, biting as you send him to the heavens, leathery wings going taut, snapping closed, then shuddering as he grinds his cock into your heat. Hot spurts of cum shooting from his tip, filling you up.

Arousal blurs your mind, muscles spasming while your mind goes blessedly blank, narrowing to the feel of him inside, rubbing against you perfectly.

It’s not until both of you are still and panting that he moves to pull out, and you know without seeing that his cum is spilling down your thighs.

Trembles as his fingers run over your glistening heat, collecting it up. Pressing it back inside, making sure it’s kept deep and warm.

He’ll face the consequences in the morning.

But for tonight…

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General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

[wittyrogue]

we all like to joke that zevran's failed contract in origins has lost the crows an entire country but in this essay i will tell you how actually crows are afraid to go further south than the free marches because the black shadow will get them.

lets set the scene: early 9:30 dragon, a hit goes out on two grey wardens from the "ruler" of ferelden. zevran wins the bid and effectively disappears. two grey wardens are still seen out and about. taliesen is later sent to clean it up and also disappears.

their fates, canonically, are "unknown" (per world of thedas, vol. 2 pg 96, screen capped at the bottom of the post for reference).

grandmaster eoman arainai (zevran's master and the one who ordered rinna killed) is killed four months after the blight ends. four other members of house arainai are also killed over the next three years (9:30-33 dragon), taking house arainai from being the house with the eighth talon to obscurity.

grandmaster runn and grandmaster availa are also killed (honestly unclear if they're house arainai or not, but we'll run with them being eoman's replacements 1 and 2), likely around 9:33 or at the latest, 9:34 dragon.

at some point, zevran makes some friends and seems to have worked to fill the ranks of those rising within the crows with those who are similar in his mindset--those that have been cheated out of well earned coin, driven into hiding, or silenced in one way or another, slowly building a rising generation of crows less keen on the old house structure way of doing things.

during this time, whenever zevran is discovered in antiva, he's chased out by the crows, who get as far as rivain or the free marches and then those crows go missing--the implication here being that they chase zevran, only to at some point have the chase twisted and end up killed by zevran's own blade.

also at some point, zevran is caught in a trap by the crows, who continued to hunt him "for the honor of antivan crows" aka a crow never breaks a contract (though at this point claiming zevran as a crow seems like a clerical oversight).

in case you were wondering: - crows: 1 - zevran: 3 grandmasters, 5 assassins (rank or higher), innumerable rank and file lured south

by 9:35 dragon, the guildmaster of rialto has been killed and two guildmasters are said to be in zevran's pocket. first caveat: unclear if this is widespread to all of the crows, or limited to just house arainai. second caveat: guildmaster and grandmaster seem to be used interchangeably? which is mildly frustrating but it is what it is. this is also assumed to do with zevran's escape from wherever they were keeping him captive.

relative radio silence from the maker's perfect boy until 9:40 dragon when he sends an "oops i did it again ;)" letter to leliana apologizing for killing a crow hired to do inquisition business. for the record, this crow is doing business in hercinia at the time, which is in the free marches. this exchange speaks to a pattern of continuing the crow killing business, specifically those going south to the free marches.

now we're up to the current year and lucanis and harding have our oh so charming exchange below (emphasis mine):

Harding: Lucanis, you've never really been to Ferelden? But I thought you traveled all over!

Lucanis: The Crows don't take many contracts there. Not since the Fifth Blight.

Harding: I heard Teyrn Loghain hired Crows in his fight over the throne.

Lucanis: And that's why we don't work there anymore.

Harding: So the Crows don't work in Ferelden anymore because of Loghain? Why, exactly?

Lucanis: House Arainai embarrassed themselves so badly on that job, the Crows buried six different Eighth Talons.

Harding: You're... you're saying they actually die of embarrassment.

Lucanis: Some of them weren't dead at the time. But they got it eventually.

hey scroll up for a second, back to the part where i told you the crows vs zevran tally.

ok come back. thanks.

now at least one of those six #confirmed kills of zevran's is grandmaster eoman arainai, the eighth talon. clearly being a grandmaster and a talon are not conflicting roles. i'd gather, actually, that being grandmaster of the house holding a talon position makes you the talon as well. so zevran's killed at least three arainai talons (eoman, runn, availa). if we put house arainai in rialto, that makes a fourth in 9:35 dragon during zevran's escape from imprisonment for four dead talons, just between 9:30 and 9:35 dragon. i really think in the following handful of years, zevran can do two more. as a treat.

all this to say--in this dialogue with harding, lucanis is putting on his professional customer service voice and saying that no, they just don't really like working in fereldan all that much.

please don't look at the line of dead crows that starts in the free marches.

please ignore the pile of dead eighth talons.

please stop looking at house arainai.

honestly, i think there's a solid argument to be made that zevran's hunting of crows affected a widespread change in his generation of rank and file crows, to the benefit of any follow-on generations. it was mentioned a little how zevran was gathering allies, even paying off guildmasters, and i think it's seen in the fact that arainai hasn't prospered and crows like teia even exist at all.

references under the cut.

[howyouloveyourdragon]

one of alicents Brothers don't love otto much and know he can only cause problems. both him and rhaenyra feeling dissatisfied with their fathers, they get married and ruin ottos plans one by one. in this situation I can not see the reader hightower son being the one otto wants near the throne cause he would not be able to easily manipulate them. Headcanons and thanks for writing

hey anon! thank you so much for this ask i was really looking forward to writing it <3 i am really loving alicent's y/n brother rn

pronouns: he/him warnings: none other than parental issues that i can think of but please correct me if i'm wrong! A/N: i could barely stop myself writing im so obsessed lmao, the amount of errors i got from this

you were never one to indulge in your father's ambition as he paraded you after another won tourney and beckoned your sister as though she were not a Queen now and much higher in position than he would ever be

you rolled your eyes and huffed, folding your broad arms across your chest

you roam your stubborn eyes across the room as Otto attempts to entertain his fellow Lords and more importantly, ask about their daughters

your eyes widened when they caught sight of your father approaching with Lord Borros Baratheon, you ducked and began crawling under a series of tables hurriedly and regardless of how ungentlemanly it may seem, you turn your head quickly straight after peeking over your shoulder only for it to meet something hard and a yelp to sound from in front of you

your lips part in surprise as a silver head of hair comes into view, a porcelain hand flying to her forehead. The woman groans and you recognise that familiar voice. "What is wrong with you?" Rhaenyra Targaryen uttered with a huff and met your dark eyes with hers of violet. Your mouth gaped before you felt a hard hit to your shoulder, your brows pinched together. "What was that for?" You asked with a guttural groan. Her steel gaze remained. "You hit me first!" She threw back in a childish hiss. You scoffed. "Mine was an accident." You retorted only for her to drive her lips into a thin line and slump on the floor. "If I find that I am concussed, I will have yor head." Rhaenyra grumbled and you begrudgingly settled. Her eyes shot to yours.

"Move. I was here first." "No." She lets out a gruff chuckle in shock. "Excuse me?" "No." Her eyes narrow into slits at your defiance. "I am your future Queen." "Sorry." Your murmured and flushed pink. You looked down bashfully and picked at your rough fingernails. You turned oblivious as her eyes rolled across you inquisitively. She hesitated but her lips open quicker than she can think–not that that is unusual. "You are Y/n, aren't you? Not Gwayne, his jaw is wider." You snickered and nod. Her lips twitched upward without her consent. She leans on her left hand and smiles charming as she can manage. "I suppose I can allow you a sliver of my company since you are clearly so desperate for it." She grins playfully at your protesting lips and the way your body stiffens at the familiar shoes beneath the table. Her brows raise and she almost gives up her own hiding just to see the look on your face if she pushed you into his sight. Soon the feet retreated however and a breath of relief propelled out of your throat. Rhaenyra watches you carefully. You intrigue her infuriatingly enough. She nudged you with her knee enough to catch your eyes. "Why are you hiding?" You asked curiously "I could ask you the same thing." Your princess teased. "Ah then who am I to deny my future Queen?" She hates how her stomach twists in knots at the title passing your lips. Her breath hitches. "My father is..." You struggle to find the word, using your hands to gesture uselessly. "domineering?" It sounds more like a question and she briefly wonders whether she knows your father better than yourself.

that's the first time she has ever had a full conversation–or possibly one at all–with you but Rhaenyra doesn't regret it as she notes the stiffness of your brow and your unexpectedly soft voice

she finds herself listening to you intently until the night is over

she even forgets you're both supposed to be hiding and laughs boldly which results in a share of wide eyes as two pairs of rough hands haul you both out from under the table

your fathers have never looked more disappointed as you glance sheepishly at one another

you both are sent to your respective chambers but before you leave, her soft hand shoves a piece of parchment in your hand and smirks as you stare after her

your father blocks your gaze when he wrenches a grip on your neck and drives you back to your quarters

you open your palm to find the crumpled paper has her scribbled handwriting 'Meet me in my chambers', you grow a grin and obey like the obedient subject your dear father wishes you to be

you decide to take unorthodox methods to do so however and climb up the walls to her window, clutching to vines and stones alike

she almost thinks you're never going to come before your tumbling inside

she snickers and beams as she brings you through and like clockwork the cycle repeats in secret and neither of you are particularly good at hiding the budding relationship between you

until the dreaded year that her mother passes

she had seemed so excited and humoured as you beat her uncle's arse into the ground, wielding a sword to his neck unless he chose to yield and the princess' forever favour strapped to you securely

you couldn't bite back the smirk until your eyes settled on the missing figures

her brows furrowed and her gaze followed yours

you still remember how her body tensed and panic became summoned to her face

how she had bolted away

and the moment you found out how slowly the hand had told the King? Without haste or worry regarding the Queen? That was when you pledged the deepest loyalty to Rhaenyra, bending the knee before she was even pronounced heir

and she pledged herself back to you in a much different manner

and when she is announced heir, it is not your father you stand beside but rather the Velaryons

and so with every visit to her chambers you share new promises and old vows

it is difficult to juggle the romantic affection for your princess and the friendship with your siblings but you manage

one night you approach your father's chambers to request permission to begin courting but instead you hear something much darker

the lump in your throat largens and when your sister bursts through the doors with trembling fingers, you don't take any time to embrace her

with every planned visit to the King, you take her to Rhaenyra's chambers instead and personally escort her on her travels

it's a dutiful side to you that Rhaenyra has never seen to you before, you had always been as rambunctious and rebellious as she and yet so kind and soft when it came to Alicent

the both of you smirk at Otto when Viserys announces his engagement, you personally delight in the clench of Otto's fists

you can't call him your father anymore

not after that

it's late at night with Alicent asleep and strewn across you both when you interlace your fingers with her own and grin at her

"If I didn't know any better, I would think we were the most intelligent in the realm." you snicker and she raises her brows playfully. "Oh?" she asks and you hum mischievously. You nod and look down at Alicent's gentle face. "I think we should put our team to it's limits." She glances at you sceptically and agrees

and so the first of many occurrences begins

the first he attempts without any remorse; separating you and The Realm's Delight

first by steering potential matches at you and when that fails, he suggests an alliance with House Velaryon after Viserys' rejection of Laena who you have grown fast friends with

he insists upon allowing Laenor to at least court the princess and the King agrees quickly and desperate to repair old wounds

so again you devise a plan to diverge her suitor's attention and lucky for you your old friend Laenor Velaryon is also not pleased with the possible arrangement

however she needs a chance to catch his eye and you have the perfect plan

Your gaze roams her face as you cup her cheek, both of you laying in bed. Her soft skin, her soft eyes, sloped nose and plush lips. "If you grace me by your mere presence alone I will lay every flower at your feet," You start and her breath hitches. "but if you agreed to wed me then I will fight against the swords of a thousand just to secure your heart and if you wish it, your crown."

it is early in the morn when Rhaenyra is rushed into the throne room and sees you knelt before her father with your head bowed

and that's when she hears it, eyes snapping to her father's face

"This man wishes for your hand in marriage." Viserys announces, standing and watching her carefully. Your gaze flickers up at her and softens. It's not long before she swallows her pride and takes slow steps forward. Her hands engulf yours without a second thought.

Otto notices of course as you pull away from him

he decides to direct your sister's place instead, he begins his second beginning conquest; taming Daemon Targaryen and producing a Targaryen heir

reluctantly and uncharacteristically he acts in favour to the request of Daemon annulling his marriage to Lady Rhea. He may hate the man but he needs protection and a male Targaryen heir

Rhaenyra is still a woman and he knows that there will always be an uprising, if he can manage to coax Alicent once more into a Targaryen's embrace he will be able to succeed the throne with Hightower blood

lucky for you, you have an ally who is very keen to assist you

it seems that Laena Velaryon has held affections for the prince from afar and is happy to snatch his attention herself

it's at the engagement banquet that she makes her move Otto can do nothing but grit his teeth as he watches and whispers into Alicent's ear but she's slowly beginning to resent him and slip out of his grasp

it's not long before the wedding is being planned and Otto is growing more and more desperate

then Viserys' wife is announced to be pregnant and much to his luck it's a boy

perhaps his own children will not listen to him but what of this child? he may not be Hightower blood but that doesn't mean he cannot commend his intelligent advisor and future hand

he just needs to sneak into the child's head and gain his favour

a mentor if you will

he attempts to sabotage the wedding by encouraging his spies to seek out you both but any rumours they begin to spread are instantly shut down and discredited

Rhaenyra begins to take a stronger interest in her siblings and Alicent surprises everyone by joining the faith of The Seven

she has newly devoted herself to the faith as a Septa, away from the cursed childbed and dreaded expectation of her father

Otto takes advantage of this yet again however and insists with the King that your wedding to Rhaenyra be in a ceremony in the Sept but you have other plans, sneaking through passageways with your closest comrades and performing an intimate Valyrian ceremony in the dead of night

you brandish your wounded palm proudly before the court and revel in their shocked faces and whisperings

Otto turns red in the face and even more once he sees little Aegon and Helaena peek out from behind Rhaenyra's traditional garments

and when the many years pass and Viserys the peaceful is sent to a new realm, Rhaenyra glides down the large throne room with you, deja vu coursing through the air as you stand beside the Velaryons beaming at her

[wanderingthroughsands]

VIII. If you don’t know where you are going…

Can you help me out, can you lend a hand? It’s safe to say that I’m stuck again Trapped between this life and the light I just can’t figure out how to make it right

– "Rain" by Creed

The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was the face of Dreamlord, mere inches away from my own. My ears rang, and my entire body felt helpless, limp, stripped of any ability to move. Lord Morpheus gripped my shoulders firmly, kneeling before me on the marble floor, his endless gaze piercing through me. As my thoughts slowly began to return, and the palace surroundings sharpened, I noticed something in his face… fatigue. His brows were furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. I felt his slow, deep breaths on my cheeks, and his strong hold on my arms, as though he wouldn’t allow me to collapse.

“Dreamlord,” I spoke weakly, letting our eyes meet. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer, just continued to gaze at me unflinchingly. With each passing second, my strength and awareness of what had happened returned, but I didn’t dare move even a fraction while he was so close to me. His grip loosened slightly, yet the intensity of his stare remained. His presence, nearer than ever before, awakened something new in me—something that nearly displaced the fear and anticipation I had long known.

“For a moment, I thought… I was certain… But you let me live. What happened?” I asked, almost in a whisper, afraid that careless words might disturb the extraordinary energy surrounding us.

“Something went wrong,” Dreamlord replied just as softly. “You weren’t supposed to feel that pain. Your power…”

“You didn’t take it from me?”

“My lord!”

Lucienne found us kneeling across from one another in the middle of the throne room, speaking in hushed tones, our closeness almost making us appear as one. At the sound of her voice, Dreamlord finally tore his gaze from mine and, standing, extended his hand to help me rise.

"Is everything all right?" Lucienne asked, concern in her voice as she stood beside me, facing Lord Morpheus. "Something happened in the Dreaming, my lord—something like a tremor, but it felt as if the very foundations of the realm were shaking."

"I attempted to extract a fragment of my Nightmare from Rebecca Surrey's existence, but..." He turned to the woman, and in the colorful light streaming through the stained glass windows, the exhaustion on his face was even more evident. "Her power would not submit to me. It attacked me."

"Attacked you...?" Lucienne's words faltered, and she cast a surprised glance in my direction. "Are you... unharmed, my lord?"

"That power..." Dreamlord continued, as if he hadn’t heard her question. "I cannot comprehend it, Lucienne. Even the Corinthian, my most perfected Nightmare, couldn’t fight me like that. It wanted to repel me, to wound me, without regard for the life of its bearer."

"How is that possible?" Lucienne's expression was already one of astonishment, yet somehow her brows rose even higher. "If Rebecca was born from the Nightmare..."

"...then why did she not yield to her creator, to Dream of the Endless? What have you done to preserve your power, Rebecca Surrey?" he turned his attention back to me, and once again, that familiar dark shadow settled over his sharp features.

"I..." I stammered as fear suddenly surged back into me, crashing like a wave. "I really, truly don’t know, Lord Morpheus."

"Mind that you are addressing King of the Dreaming, the Ruler of this realm, the Endless, Master of Dreams and Nightmares, of hope and of torment..." With each word, his voice, which could shake the very pillars of the universe, echoed more menacingly through the palace chamber. "I expect you to answer my question truthfully."

"I swear on my life," I said, remaining rooted to the spot, though every fiber of my being wanted to flee from the overwhelming force of his energy. "That I did nothing to defend my power. You know I was willing to give it up to you, Dreamlord."

We fell silent, locked in a gaze like predator and prey before the final battle. I could see the anger in his eyes, and he must have seen my fear, but surely he also saw my resolve. Like him, I couldn't understand why the power I had already resigned myself to losing refused to leave me. The attack on him had happened as if without my will, manifesting as pain in the deepest recesses of my being.

And Lord Morpheus, instead of continuing the fight, had spared me. He had spared me yet again.

"We must find out why Rebecca's power resists yours, my lord," Lucienne said cautiously after the silence had stretched on. "There is no record of her second parent in the Book of her history. If the Corinthian is indeed the father, as the traces he left suggest, perhaps he can help us understand..."

"I will not restore the Corinthian to the Dreaming, Lucienne," Dreamlord interrupted coldly. "He caused too much damage here and in the waking world."

Lucienne lowered her gaze for a moment.

"Then perhaps the fault lies with the Vortex?"

"The Vortex appeared years after Rebecca Surrey was born. And, like no Vortex before in millennia, it would not have been able to instill such power in a human child." He turned his gaze back to me, as if analyzing me from head to toe. I remained silent, waiting for him to pass his divine judgment, unaware of what might be brewing behind the unreadable facade of his face. "In recent times, I have presented you with many choices," he said at last. "You chose to surrender your power to me, yet I am unable to take it from you. You are something I cannot explain. And until I learn why your power opposed mine, I will have to keep you in my realm."

"Dreamlord," I responded, a surge of defiance rising within me at the cold, hollow look in his eyes. "You seek the truth about the origin of my power, and so do I. I would gladly help you in the search for answers... but you just cannot imprison me here."

The calm aura that surrounded him almost perpetually suddenly vanished. He stepped toward me, and as I lifted my gaze to meet his, he seemed larger and more powerful than ever before. Darkness enveloped his eyes, swallowed his features, and instead of the pale man I had once seen in the park just before the accident, I saw an infinite, dangerous night, slowly wrapping its tendrils around me.

He was no longer the person I had first encountered. He was the Endless. The Lord of the Dreaming. A being of unimaginable power.

"I have endured your defiance time and again, Rebecca Surrey," he spoke, his voice so deep and filled with rage that I felt it reverberate through my fingertips. "You dare to make demands of Dream of the Endless, and instead of destroying you the moment I found you, I try to fulfill them to save your fragile human life. So now, you will heed my demand."

"I wanted to give you my life," I whispered, struggling to catch my breath as my racing heart constricted my chest. "I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me."

"By defying me? Hiding within my Nightmares? Failing the purpose for which you were created?" He leaned in closer, and I stopped breathing altogether, staring into the dangerous darkness of the night he had become. "I know you could wake now and return to your world. But you won't do this. Not until I allow it. I need to hear it from you, Rebecca Surrey. I need you to promise that you will not leave the Dreaming until I give you permission."

I swallowed hard, fighting against the rising tide of fear. He was right, I actually could close my eyes and open them back in the waking world. I could slip away from the snares of the night that Lord Morpheus wove around me. I could leave him here, once more, and condemn myself to endless flight through Nightmares.

And yet...

"I promise not to leave, Dreamlord," I said quietly, my facial muscles tightening with each word. "Not until you give me permission."

The darkness vanished, and with it, so did Lord Morpheus. The throne room felt smaller, quieter as I finally took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to compose myself. Slowly, second by second, the colorful light from the stained-glass windows crept back into my awareness, and the thunderous pulse of blood in my ears began to fade. Only then did I also realize Lucienne was standing not far from me, silent and as unsettled as I was. My hands were still trembling as I wrapped them around my arms, trying to shake off the lingering chill within.

"Rebecca," Lucienne’s voice was gentle as she extended her hand toward me. "You can’t stay here. Come with me."

Lucienne led me to one of the deep, soft chairs in her library and allowed me to sit in silence for several minutes, while she busied herself organizing books. I watched her, first absentmindedly, then with increasing focus as she carefully sorted through the volumes and arranged them in neat rows on the vast wooden shelves. Her movements were steady, full of certainty and calm, as though she knew her library as intimately as a mother knows her child. Watching her soothed me, slowly dissolving the fear that had taken root in my chest.

And though she seemed absorbed in her task, I knew she was waiting for me to be ready to speak.

"Lucienne..." I finally began, and she immediately turned from her books to offer me a warm, kind look. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"Each of us in the Dreaming has been where you are now," she smiled and sat down in the chair opposite mine, her voice gentle and soothing. "Lord Morpheus has been the great ruler of this realm since the dawn of time. But since that very same dawn, he has never taken well to defiance."

"Matthew told me the exact same thing," I muttered, sinking deeper into my seat.

"I’ve served Lord Morpheus longer than you could ever imagine," Lucienne continued with a soft chuckle. "And more than anyone, I know that everything he does is for the safety and well-being of the Dreaming. Don’t judge him too harshly, Rebecca. From your first encounter, he has been trying to protect the life you hold so dear."

"I know," I sighed, though I couldn’t quite shake the edge of stubbornness in my voice.

"You are a bit alike, you and Lord Morpheus," she said, sounding amused. "He’s just as stubborn and just as unwilling to let others decide his fate. But trust me, if he didn’t care about your safety, he wouldn’t ask you to stay in his palace, where nothing can harm you."

"I don’t think it’s my safety that concerns Dreamlord so much," I replied, rolling my eyes, though Lucienne’s smile only grew warmer.

"Then why didn’t he fight back against your power when it attacked him?" she asked, her tone probing but kind. "You don’t trust him, and I can’t entirely blame you for that... but Lord Morpheus rarely cares for human life as much as he does for yours. Those emotions you just witnessed—they weren’t a sign of indifference. They were the opposite of that."

The opposite?

"Lucienne," I leaned slightly towards her, clasping my hands on my knees. "I want to help him understand why he can’t take my power. But here, in the Dreaming, I feel helpless. I made him a promise, and if I were to break it..." He would hate me—that’s what I intended to say, but the words just wouldn’t pass my lips.

"He will eventually turn to you for help, I’m sure of it," Lucienne said, drifting off into thought, as if a distant memory had resurfaced. "He must, if he wishes to reclaim the power you now possess. But for now, you should stay here, let your emotions settle, give yourself and Lord Morpheus some time."

"Time..." As she said it, a question suddenly sprang into my mind, and I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it sooner. "Lucienne, what about my world, the time that’s passing there? If I don’t wake by morning, and my mom sees me lying lifeless in bed..."

"You needn’t worry about that, Rebecca," she replied soothingly. "Months might pass here before a single night in your world comes to an end."

"She has nightmares about me not waking up. It’s been that way ever since the accident, the one that left me unconscious and started these journeys into the Dreaming. It’s always been just the two of us, her and me, so when she thought she might lose me back then..."

And as soon as I said it aloud, another thought instantly filled my head.

"It’s always been just the two of us," I continued, feeling excitement rise within me with each word. "Lucienne, your books lack any mention of my father, but my mother—she actually met him! Perhaps she remembers something, knows something we can’t discover on our own. Maybe staying here, in the Dreaming, would be a mistake after all. Maybe I should return to the waking world... and simply talk to my mom."

[la-pheacienne]

Top 5: quotes from asoiaf 🙂

Sorry nonnie I procrastinated so much on this because it was impossible for me to choose just 5. I won't mention the quotes that encapsulate asoiaf the best necessarily, but the quotes that speak to me the most personally.

The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings. She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond that door, green fields and great stone houses and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door. "… the dragon …" And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. "The last dragon," Ser Jorah's voice whispered faintly. "The last, the last." Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.

A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX

And no matter how far the dragon flew each day, come nightfall some instinct drew him home to Dragonstone. His home, not mine. Her home was back in Meereen, with her husband and her lover. That was where she belonged, surely. Keep walking. If I look back I am lost. Memories walked with her. Clouds seen from above. Horses small as ants thundering through the grass. A silver moon, almost close enough to touch. Rivers running bright and blue below, glimmering in the sun. Will I ever see such sights again? On Drogon's back she felt whole. Up in the sky the woes of this world could not touch her. How could she abandon that?

A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys X

Jaime lay on his back afterward, staring at the night sky, trying not to feel the pain that snaked up his right arm every time he moved it. The night was strangely beautiful. The moon was a graceful crescent, and it seemed as though he had never seen so many stars. The King’s Crown was at the zenith, and he could see the Stallion rearing, and there the Swan. The Moonmaid, shy as ever, was half-hidden behind a pine tree. How can such a night be beautiful? he asked himself. Why would the stars want to look down on such as me? "Jaime," Brienne whispered, so faintly he thought he was dreaming it. "Jaime, what are you doing?" "Dying," he whispered back. "No," she said, "no, you must live." He wanted to laugh. "Stop telling me what do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me." "Are you so craven?" The word shocked him. […] "What else can I do, but die?" "Live," she said, "live, and fight, and take revenge."

A Storm of Swords - Jaime IV

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.” Those were the last words Rhaegar Targaryen ever spoke to him. Outside the gates an army had assembled, whilst another descended on the Trident. So the Prince of Dragonstone mounted up and donned his tall black helm, and rode forth to his doom. He was more right than he knew. When the battle was done, there were changes made […]. It was queer, but he felt no grief. Where are my tears? Where is my rage? Jaime Lannister had never lacked for rage. “Father,” he told the corpse, “it was you who told me that tears were a mark of weakness in a man, so you cannot expect that I should cry for you.”

A Feast for Crows - Jaime I

Marsh flushed a deeper shade of red. "The lord commander must pardon my bluntness, but I have no softer way to say this. What you propose is nothing less than treason. For eight thousand years the men of the Night's Watch have stood upon the Wall and fought these wildlings. Now you mean to let them pass, to shelter them in our castles, to feed them and clothe them and teach them how to fight. Lord Snow, must I remind you? You swore an oath." "I know what I swore." Jon said the words. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. [...] Are you certain that I have not forgotten some? The ones about the king and his laws, and how we must defend every foot of his land and cling to each ruined castle? How does that part go?" Jon waited for an answer. None came. "I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Those are the words. So tell me, my lord—what are these wildlings, if not men?"

A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

[ginger-grimm]

SOME MORE DESCENDANTS PLOT BUNNIES

Zenna Hebe Olympos

daughter of Zeus and Hera, sister of Hercules

fled Mount Olympus to experience adventures on Earth and to see her brother and his wife more

has the power to activate the fountain of youth located in a cave in the north of Auradon, but won't use it because she knows how dangerous it can be

is considered to be childish but really just has a young spirit

is often spotted with colorful nails and dancing around campus

is actually of a lot higher standing than even Ben but doesn't let that get to her head

goes by Hebe

loves to spend her days in the grass field

Uma ship

Beau Dwarf

Bashful's son

is very similar to his father, definitely the most quiet of the cousins, even more than Happy's depressed son

loves to spend time in the mines; he enjoys the darkness and quiet down there

too much noise and flurry of motion makes him nervous

is usually the first person you can come to for advice out of his cousins

is shy but that doesn't mean he won't snap back if you're mean to him

Harry Hook ship (?)

Maite Madrigal

Dolores and Mariano's daughter

bit of a gamer

also obsessed with musicals of any kind, really

is constantly swiping sweets to eat and is showing no signs of being stopped

can manipulate people's minds and control them, doesn't really like to do it though unless absolutely necessary because it makes her feel icky

loves to spend time with aunt Luisa and watch her lift heavy stuff; it's always fascinated, she's kind of like a real-life video game character in Maite's mind

is pretty much ostrichsized at Auradon because people fear her powers

very much always in defiance of the dress code

owns giant collection of DVDs

OC ship

Prospero "Perry" Rose

Aurora and Phillip's son, Audrey's older brother

very polar opposite of Audrey

headphones are permanently attached to him

a lot more chill about royal matters, would happily give Audrey the throne

though Audrey can be annoying, he is pissed at Ben (and moreso Mal) for playing with her heart

does not particularly like his grandmother (he thinks she's to blame for Audrey's shitty behavior)

likes to house little creatures in his room (much to Faye's chagrin); his most recent roommate was a racoon

has a million flavored chapsticks on him at all times so if you lose yours, he will share

unhealthy obsession with maccaroni

always leaves notes of encouragement for Audrey, tends to slip them under her door

OC ship

Tagging Descendants moots as per use: @rose-of-oz, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, and also @luucypevensie for helping me with developments!

[sabraeal]

a heart felled by you, held by you; Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2024, Day 1: Quadrille

It’s not that Suzu didn’t know Lata’s name or whatever; it’s impossible to forget when it’s stamped right across the office he refuses to use three months out of the academic year— why should I let the university know where to find me? he’d huff, stoking the forge. If they’re going to interrupt my work to harangue me about class numbers and securing grant funding, I have no interest in making it easy for them— and scrawled on every lower right corner of his notes. It’s what every colleague calls across the university atrium before he hurries to out pace the persistence hunter that is professional collaboration; and what Ryuu had tried to stutter through for a whole week when he confused formality for maturity.

But between the towering aisles of his yet-to-be-catalogued accessions, and the number of times Shirayuki— and sometimes even Suzu himself— have been left to make his excuses to professors and professionals far above their pay grade, the idea that’s he’s a noble— a capital ‘F,’ weasel-thing-rampant Forzeno— well, it doesn’t seem quite real.

Not until now, when the doors on this stately manor swing open, and—

���I thought you lived in a shithole,” Suzu blurts out, momentarily blinded by polished marble and gold filigree. He’s no expert on architecture and has only a dubious grasp on history, but even he can tell this place is old. Storied, his mental Kazaha supplies, buzzing through his thoughts like flies over an ungrammatical carcass. “Or at least, that’s what Shidan said when—”

“I said apartment.” Shidan glares at him, like it’s Suzu’s fault he spent ten highly memorable minutes complaining about the stack of specimens that almost toppled onto him that one time he tried to brave Lata’s front parlor.

“It’s a townhouse.” Lata’s all noblesse oblige now that they’re ensconced in his family’s home, acting generous and tolerant, like they’re a good friend’s dogs that he knows are going to piddle on the carpet and he’s determined to be gracious about it. The kind of patience that’s pushed out between a man’s teeth instead of welling up from some internal font of goodness or whatever. “Private land ownership is the only way to receive permission for a forge of that size. And yes, I do.”

“But why not hang out here?” Suzu peeks into one of the fancy urns lining the walkway— disappointingly empty— before letting it rock back onto its pedestal. “It’s big and fancy and there’s a bunch of people whose job is to wait on you hand and foot. I’d never leave.”

“The commute,” Obi offers, sticking his own head down some fancy pot too.  “Or maybe the wallpaper bothers him.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Lata mutters, steering Obi away from the crockery with a scowl. “This is family land, owned by countless generations of Forzeno since time immemorial—”

“672.” Kazaha strides down the runner with his hands clasped behind his back, like he’s the king of the castle— or like it might convince the man who is that he’s not about to have any sticky fingers. “That’s when Motouji Forzeno ordered a fitting home to be built for him within a day’s ride of the capital, which at that point was still based in Wirant, not in Wistal. That only happened once the Wisteria family inherited the throne from a series of strategic marriages over the previous three generations—”

“And in any case, not mine.” He clears his throat, shoulders pulling straight beneath the heavy wool over his tunic, looking more lordly per inch than he ever has at the university. “At least, not in name.”

For as long as Suzu’s known him, Shidan’s never been a confrontational kind of guy; Lata might duck and dodge and, if cornered, bite and rend any interference from the university’s board, but Shidan chooses the path of least resistance. Or more accurately, the path of least surveillance— he might sit and stay and sign the papers the higher up sent his way, but as soon as they had their back turned cajoling some of the more recalcitrant academics in their department, he’d slip right off the leash, doing what needed doing before the deans were any the wiser. That’s how they’d gotten into this whole orimmallys project anyhow, and that all worked out in the end. Mostly.

So when Shidan hums, all considering— the way he does when he’s about to quibble over wording on a paper, but so nicely Suzu won’t even know he’s gotten the run-around until he’s halfway to the dorms— it’s a sign. A portent, even.

“Your father gave you lease over the entire place, didn’t he?” He’s got his gloves caught in his hand, running fingers along some fancy wainscoting. There’s some gold leaf on it, gilding a few fussy fleur-de-lis, and his fingers run slow enough that there’s got to be some grit. Dust, even. “That’s what Garrack said, at least.”

Lata’s brow sours like samples left too long on the bench. “And of course, Head Pharmacist Gazelt would be the expert on my family’s internal affairs.”

“No,” Ryuu murmurs ponderously, so soft they all hush up to hear him. “But she’d be less invested in avoiding them.”

Big blue eyes blink up at his lordship, and if they were any less guileless— or maybe, if Ryuu was any less fifteen— there’d be some sort of dust up. Some flavor of raised voices and shaking fists, and maybe someone would end up with a cold ass on the big field of snow Lata calls the front lawn. But instead he just sucks in a breath, whistling like a hole in a window when the wind’s got its back up, and says, “I thought I was being quite generous offering you all a place to ready yourselves before the gala, but now I’m quite wondering just why I extended the invitation.”

“Because you’d rather be annoyed with us than risk being left alone with one of those lords?” Suzu barely realizes he’s spoken until five sets of eyes swing his way, goggling like he’s hauled off and said something out of band. Again. “Or ladies?”

A laugh’s dour cousin scrapes out from Lata’s chest as they climb what Suzu assumes is the grand stair, if only because it’s larger than the last three. “Yes,” he agrees, more weary than waggish. “Something like that.”

“Hey.” Obi hangs back, lingering on the landing with one thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Is that you?”

There’s a portrait beside him, larger than he is— or Suzu, or Shidan, or any man he’s seen living; so big that it must have taken a whole crew of footmen to install, if only to keep one of them from being crushed under a lordly boot. He’s got to squint to see above the knee, daubs of oils glistening in the gaslight, making it hard to pick out more than the curve of thick, dark hair, or the stern, squarish set the to jaw, or—

“I gotta say,” Obi hums, arms folding over his coat. “Quail hunter isn’t what comes to mind when I look at you.”

“I’m not.” Lata paces a step back toward them, then two, glowering up at the most detailed bird carcass Suzu’s ever seen outside the ruts of a country road. “That would be my father, in his youth. He had a great love of…working his will on the world, one way or another.”

“Ah…” Kazaha sighs, searching for something properly ingratiating to say. “There’s a certain, hm, strong family resemblance.”

Suzu seizes the opportunity to inform the professor, “He means that you both look grumpy.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Right,” he agrees blithely. “It’s what you meant. Like I said.”

Lata snorts, starting back down the hall. “If you think I am ill-tempered, wait until you meet my sire. Why, I’m practically a ray of sunshine next to that old—”

“Oh, are we gonna?” Obi whips around, determined to be underfoot as he asks, “Will I finally get to meet my Knight Grandpa? Sir Grandpa—?”

“I would thank you not to call him that.  And no.” Lata’s mouth thins to a line as tight as his shoulders. “Besides, if we are to take Knight Grandpa at its most literal, it would not be my father, but instead the man who was my master as a squire.”

“Is he gonna be here? Can I meet him?” It’s not physically possible for Obi to wend himself around Lata’s legs, but by the way he bats his eyes up at him, he’s spiritually there. “I promise I’ll be a good little knight. I’ll even bow and scrape and write poetry about women lying in ponds—”

“No.” After a begrudging pause, Lata adds, “He’s dead, actually.”

Obi pops up, shoulders suddenly soldier-straight beside him. “Oh, well. That’s a pretty good excuse. Did he die from some battle wound or…?”

“The drink,” Lata confirms. “He wasn’t, honestly, a very good master. But he was a friend of my father’s. That seemed to matter more back then.”

A laugh saws out of Obi, rough enough Suzu’s surprised it doesn’t take a bit of throat with it. “Seems to matter just as much now.”

The professor doesn’t do anything so obvious as look at Obi, oh no— he just simply clasps his hands behind his back, favoring the hall in front of him with an approving nod. “Doesn’t it just.”

“You frown the same way.” Both men peer over their shoulders, but Obi makes confusion seem casual, whereas Lata just scowls. Ryuu, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice. “You and your father, I mean.”

“Yes.” Lata surveys the hallway over his shoulder before turning back around. “It runs in the family.”

A beat passes before Suzu dares to venture, “Hey, weren’t the girls supposed to get ready here too?”

“Yes.” The professor isn’t known to smile, and he certainly doesn’t now, giving them all a disapproving glare. “They arrived on time.”

*

“What if” —Shidan’s clever little botanist practically froths over the vanity like a flask left too long on the hob, spilling linen and lace where she leans— “I told him I had something in my eye.”

This is hardly the first volley of hypotheticals Garrack’s fielded from that quarter; oh no, the girls had all been down to chemises when the preliminary speculation began— what if…I said I needed some air?— and now what had already been a serviceable set of natural curves has become a feat of human engineering, bolstered by a bulwark of baleen and batiste. There’d been endless layers added on; bust improvers and corsets and girdles, all requiring additional helpful hands, and it lends a weary edge to Izuru’s, “Oh, it’s a him, now is it?”

Shidan’s long-time assistant hasn’t bothered to batten down her hatches— at least, not as much as the botanist girl’s— with only enough corsetry to turn her posture from academic to appropriate. Another assurance that she’s coming along nicely, just the way Garrack always thought she would so long as Shidan’s quiet perfectionism didn’t infest her work ethic the way his little pet project did the university’s water supply.

“What next?” It has to have been ages since there was a woman in this place— heavens know Lata isn’t bringing any inamorata around here to parade around in front of his mother’s mirror— but the painted wood Izuru slumps over is pristine. Or, well, as much as whale bone lets a body slouch.  “Identifying details? A name?”

“He’s hypothetical,” the botanist snaps, which almost guarantees that he isn’t. Too bad she hasn’t caked on the powder yet; even with the lights dimmed as they are, it’s impossible to miss the flush that creeps up her shoulders, pouring onto that pretty face. “He doesn’t exist. Yet.”

There’s quite a bit Izuru seems to have to say about that; her shoulder straighten, her mouth cants, and—

“Is that supposed to be romantic?” Shirayuki frowns into the mirror, hands swallowed up by the untameable beast that is Izuru’s hair. “Having something in your eye?”

“Well, not usually,” the botanist admits, undaunted by the sharp elbow of reality bursting her dreamy little bubble. “But an eyelash…that’s all right. Delicate even! Demure. And when he bends down, BAM.”

Shirayuki blinks. “You hit him?”

“Kiss him!” The girl slumps into a chair— despite all her scaffolding, she makes a better show of it than Izuru— heaving the most world-weary sigh. “I would kiss him, Shirayuki.”

It’s years since she’s been that diligent apprentice, quietly working under Ryuu’s precise direction, but Shirayuki still flushes as red as her hair at the barest mention of grown adults touching in any way but a professional handshake. Garrack would have thought Zen would handle that— three years is a quite a lot of time, and considering what some of her cohort got up to on these cold Lilias nights, she’d have expected the bar for blushing to be a few sexual acts higher. Under the clothes, at least.

“W-wouldn’t that be an awkward angle?” Shirayuki busies herself with Izuru’s hair, letting it twist around her hands as she pins it in place. “You m-might crash heads! And noses.”

“Fine.” The botanist flops on her chair, thoroughly put upon. “What about dropping my handkerchief? I let it flutter, just like this”— there’s no fabric in her hands, but she sticks out an elegant arm, turning away as her fingers go limp— “and when he bends to retrieve it, I—”

Garrack snorts. Not a soft one either; for as unintended as it is, it draws quite the audience. The pretty botanist included, one of her well-shaped eyebrows raised.

It’s a struggle to keep the laugh in her chest from bubbling out, making this whole situation worse. Or injure this girl’s more tender emotions, at least.“Listen, you really think a lord would stoop? For a botanist?”

“He will if he wants to be kissed!” she huffs, arms crossed. Quite a bit of lace froths out over them, like a puffed-out pigeon’s chest. “Which he will, since I’m going to be the best looking girl at this gala!”

There’s one of these girls in every cohort— a little too pretty for their own good, always thinking about which assistants they might be able to catch alone in the fourth floor stock room. Clever, of course— you don’t end up in Lilias if you’re a slouch in that department— but just a bit silly. Whimsical. Destined to be disappointed when they find out royals don’t marry researchers.

At least most royals with most researchers. It probably doesn’t help that the statistical outlier is in the room right now, sending her a long suffering look. “Yuzuri…”

“That’s no slight on the rest of you, Shirayuki,” the botanist— this Yuzuri— assures her, “I’ve just been planning for this my whole life. Or at least since I found out Wirant throws one of the Solstice things.”

“We’re supposed to be here for professional purposes,” Izuru reminds her, having worked for Shidan too long to believe in mixing work with pleasure.

“Oh, boo, Izuru!” Yuzuri straightens, bustling over to the mirror to fuss with the glossy fall of her hair,  pinning up parts of it with her fingers and frowning at the results. “Don’t be dull.”

“It’s not dull,” Shirayuki protests, placing the last pin in hopes that this time, Izuru’s hair might not simply bend the mess of them to breaking. “It’s what Shidan’s asking us to do. I’m not saying you can’t dance too, but if you’re going to be mingling with the nobles, maybe you should try to talk to some of them about what we’re doing with the Phostyrias. Just a couple of them giving permission for us to plant the bulbs would really be—”

“Oh, fine, fine.” She waves one hand— painstakingly manicured, done up in a pearly sort of polish that wouldn’t last five minutes once she was back in the greenhouse— but undeterred. “I can chat them up a little bit too. For the project.”

Tonight might be the darkest night of the year, celebrated in the coldest, most ass-end part of the whole country, but when Shirayuki smiles, Garrack might well be back in her office at Wistal, enjoying the mild summer breeze winding through her window. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“You better,” Yuzuri huffs, twisting her hair in her hands. “Don’t think I don’t notice that it’s the girl with a guy who’s down to kiss her anytime, any place that’s asking the rest of us to consider this a work party.”

“I…” Shirayuki sputters, and hoh, there’s that blush again, with a vengeance. “Obi wouldn’t…I mean…that’s not…”

Well, well. Looks like she’s been a little behind on current events of the frigid north. And maybe not so wrong about royals and researchers after all.

“What if I asked him off into a side corridor? Or an alcove? Maybe a balcony,” Shidan’s botanist continues, saving Shirayuki a few more stumbles. “Those always have the right ambiance. And then I ask him to check the clasp on my necklace, and—”

“At that point you might as well ask him to kiss you,” Izuru is quick to point out, stepping up to help her hold a swag of hair in place. “You’re not really being subtle.”

Yuzuri groans, pins clattering against painted wood. “But where’s the romance in that? There’s got to be some uncertainty, some risk—”

“You do know,” Garrack hums, crossing her ankles on the convenient hassock in front of her. “Shidan and I are here specifically to help keep down the kissing, don’t you?”

The girl sighs, eyes rolling in her reflection. “But you’re not really going to do anything, are you, Master Gazelt? You know how silly this whole rule is. Aren’t you just going to look the other way?”

Her mouth twitches. It would be funny to see that old goat get twisted up over some twenty-year-olds playing mother-may-I with their tonsils. “Maybe,” she allows, “if I thought it was funny enough.”

*

It hardly seems fair to say Suzu is disheveled when he hardly ever seems, well, sheveled, for lack of a better word. But with his shirt still merely half-buttoned and flyaway wisps of blond escaping their tie with every scrape of his hands over his scalp, Shidan has little else to call him.

“Is the mazurka step-step-clap-turn, or is that the redowa?” His half-coat flaps out around him as he marks out the movements— poorly, but at least recognizable, even if Shidan would be at pains to reproduce them. “Or maybe it’s the waltz? Help me, Obi,” — he seizes the knight as he slips through the door, rumpling the black wool of his coat— “I can’t remember!”

“I’ll run you through the steps before we get out there,” he promises, detaching Suzu from his lapel with more gentleness than Shidan would, under the circumstances. Suzu is a valuable member of his team, a long-time collaborator who will perform any number of demeaning tasks to see a project through, so long as he can avoid a single shred of responsibility and complain about his sorry lot the whole time, but well— even Shidan has his limits. “It’ll all come back to you once you got the band to back you up. These things always make more sense with the music.”

Suzu stares at him, utterly blank, and Obi huffs out a laugh. “Theoretical versus practical knowledge, right?”

“Oh.” Suzu endeavors to smooth back his strays, but they only pop back up in his palm’s wake. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Easy, then.”

“Right.” Obi pats his shoulder with a purposeful sort of confidence, as if he could pass it through flesh and fabric with the ease that footrot does through hoofs. “Easy.”

That is until Ryuu glances up from his book, brow furrowed in the faintest vee, and says, “If that’s the case, then how are you and Shirayuki so bad at it?”

Obi whips around, wide-eyed with betrayal. “H-hey!” he squawks. “We’ve gotten better!”

Ryuu doesn’t reply— not verbally, at least— but the look he turns to Obi is eloquent enough to speak for itself. And what it says is: not appreciably.

“Why are you even concerned about all that?” Kazaha’s costume is so crisp carpenters could use it to cut corners, cape and coat and pants and stymieing haircut all in perfect place. “It’s not as if anyone is going to ask you to dance.”

“Why not? I’m dressed all nice.” Suzu blinks down at himself, taking in the uncuffed sleeves and half-buttoned shirt and the coat canted askew on his shoulders, and adds, “Well, I will be.”

Kazaha may cluck his tongue, may shake his head hopelessly, but even still, he reaches out, straightening Suzu’s cuffs before buttoning them tight. “Because you’re a man, idiot. Girls might inquire if you’d like to take a stroll down Pavilion Street when we’re at the university, but in a ballroom, men do the asking.”

Shidan can’t say Suzu’s ever been popular with the female population, especially among the more established academics who are already well aware of his reputation as a rather acerbic eccentric, more apt to be cozened under tables or smudged with sweat and grit from Lata’s forge than doing the more respectable pastime of benchwork. But there’s always a flush of fluttering young freshmen flouncing outside the lab each year, eager to catch a glimpse of— or even speak a word or two with— the herbology department’s most striking scholar. That is, of course, until they actually talk to him.

“Really?” Spoken like a man who has had invitations hurled at his retreating back for five years running. By Kazaha’s strangled sigh, it’s clear he’s thinking the same. “I’m very pretty, though.”

“That may help with young ladies wanting to dance with you,” Kazaha informs him, pulling his lapel into a shape somewhat approaching acceptable. “But it will be expected that you approach them.”

“Oh.” It’s startling to see that sharp face turn thoughtful. “So I don’t have to do this dancing thing at all.”

“You do.” Shidan’s order scrapes out at the same time Kazaha’s does, creating an odd sort of echo before he presses on, “We’re the guests of honor at this gala. The department is expecting us to socialize with potential donors.”

“Well sure, but that doesn’t mean I gotta—”

“You will,” Shidan promises him wearily. “And you’ll have to at least pretend to like it, if you want to continue our work in the lab.”

“And not in some tiny closet,” Obi adds, brightly. “Where you’ll have to knock elbows with Kazaha just to get a beaker on the burner.”

“Well, yeah.” Suzu slumps, waving off Kazaha’s continued ministrations. It’s too late, however— he already looks respectable. Not enough to pass for a peer, but someone well on his way to professor. “But what if I just hung out along the wall instead. Then I could talk to people, and—”

“It’s rude for young men to be idling when there are eligible young ladies waiting for a partner.” Obi’s words nearly sparkle for all their polish, but he ruins the effect with one of his slant-wise grins. “Don’t worry, I told you I’d show you how to cut a rug. It’s better than getting stuck in a conversation with one of those stuffy old—”

There is a gravitas to the way the doors open in this place, a stately creak that does not imply age so much at maturity; this manor was built long before the sovereigns of Wisteria sunk their roots into Clarines’ throne, and it would last long after they were nothing more than musty portraits in halls long forgot. For as much as Lata might chafe under the weight of that history, might complain about the burden of expectation placed upon a son— the son— of Forzeno, he looks every inch the part as he steps over the threshold, trousers tailored and coast pressed within an inch of their lives, more institution than man.

“The guests are arriving,” he intones with all the cheer of a funeral bell. “Are you through with your preparations?”

“Almost!” Obi sing-songs, helping Kazaha tug the sleeves of Suzu’s jacket straight. “There, done.”

Lata surveys them with the same sharpness as he does his specimens, assessing them as if their flaws were as easily apparent as a gem’s through a loupe. With a long-suffering sigh, one pristine glove pinches at his nose, as if it might be any help at all stemming the incoming headache.

“Passable,” he grates out, stepping aside. “Now if you would follow me, I will ensure that you all make it to the hall.”

Obi’s mouth twitches, threatening a smirk. “Can’t trust us to get there on our own, eh, sir?”

“I have been an academic for nearly as long as you have been alive.” The fit of his coat already has Lata at his full height, but he lifts his chin for good measure, just to give his glare a few more momentum before it meets Obi’s grin. “And there is not a single scholar alive that can travel from one point to another in a straight line.”

Both brows raise now, scrunching the scar right to his hairline. “Not even you?”

Lata clears his throat. “If you would all come this way please. In an orderly fashion,” he adds, when Suzu traipses after him, elbows nearly colliding with Ryuu’s nose as he comes up behind. “I would prefer to avoid any accidents before we even arrive.”

Obi slinks closer, like a cat approaching a precariously placed cup. “But not after?”

A heavy sigh flares out of Lata’s nostrils. “I would prefer you not. But ‘after’ is not part of my purview.”

For all that Obi enjoys dogging the professor’s irritable heels, he makes no move to follow him. Instead, he lingers just inside the door, watching as first Suzu, then Ryuu, then Kazaha pass. Being polite, Shidan assumes at first, but then the moment for him to fall in line comes…and passes, utterly unmarked, save for the amused glance Obi turns his way, gold flaring in the lamplight.

He’s a different man than the one that appeared with the snow, all those years ago. Even more so from the boy that simply manifested in the university’s library, slotting himself between the two royal pharmacists with an ease that had Shidan squinting even then, trying to figure out how such incongruous pieces could fit. Lilias drew all types, it’s true, but even so— he’d never seen one quite like this: a knight with a thug’s scar cut into his brow, swaggering through the stacks like they were old enemies.

Don’t be fooled, Garrack had written him once, loops spiking tight with barely restrained humor. He might look a little rough-and-tumble, but that kid cleans up well.

He sees it now— the strong line of his shoulder accentuated by the cut of his coat, the belt at his waist complementing the taper of his torsi, the loose trousers that only barely obscure the acrobat’s body beneath. There’s no way to cover the scar, not even with a judicious application of pomade, but there’s no need— not when it only makes him look roguish, like a man who might sweep a girl into an alcove and teach her the sort of things proper young ladies only learned from novels. Still dangerous, but not deadly.

Worrying, really, considering. Shidan doesn’t make a habit of listening to scuttlebutt, but, well, he does have eyes of his own. And red is hard to miss. More so than the black he always finds bent beside it. “Obi, if I might have a word?”

That brow of his pitches up, amusement apparent in every angle. “You academics really will do anything to keep from having to go where you’re told.”

Shidan blinks, confused, before shaking his head. “I only thought I might remind you, that er…” There’s no delicate way to put it, not when he’s already wearing a smirk that would set every fine young lady’s fan fluttering. “That this year there is to be no Solstice kissing. By Lata’s request.”

“So I’ve heard.” Obi’s head cocks, curious, though when he takes in the emptiness of the room, the pointedness of the request…the slant his brow takes is clearly…confused. “Is there any reason you’re telling me, specifically?”

It’s a romantic sort of night, he might say, and it’s easy to forget yourself in the moment. Or maybe, you already stand so close I couldn’t fit a paper between the two of you, all it would take to close it is a well-timed trip. Or perhaps more accurately, you’ve been together so long all you need is an excuse. Trust me when I say you should take it.

But Shidan knows better than to speak, not when silence is all the more eloquent. The mind, he finds, often finds the most pressing reasons all on its own. Especially when one's thoughts never strayed too far from them anyway...

“Hey!” Obi presses a hand to the placard of his coat. “I haven’t caused trouble for years.”

It’s a feat worthy of song that Shidan keeps from reminding him of the last time him and Shirayuki rode through these gates. And yet, there’s no graceful way to admit that he hadn’t been talking about that sort of trouble anyway.

“Months, at least,” he relents, grudgingly. With a few moments of thought, he adds, “I’ve been really good this week.”

Shidan, with the patience of a saint, restricts his reply to simply, “If you’re sure.”

Obi does him the courtesy of hesitating. “Well, none of that’s been of the kissing variety, anyway. Not like any of the ladies here are going to be looking to make time with a guy like me tonight.”

He gives him another one of those charming grins, and Shidan sighs, resigning himself to an evening of being pointedly unobservant. “So you say.”

[kwaggysshardmindemporium]

Okay so all my fellow Arcane fans Riot uploaded a cinematic that seems to simultaneously be a preview for the next show and for League's next ranked season. (To be clear, this is not any kind of announcement for the next show's release date.) Even without any concrete news it's still pretty hype.

For some reason I've decided to do a breakdown of the characters in here for people with less familiarity with this nonsense than me below the break:

First and foremost I really like most of the redesigns. Most. Not gonna lie I hate what they did to Vlad but also Vlad sucks so who cares. Everything else, aces I love it.

Bit of a primer on Noxus as a setting: think ancient Rome if they had the aesthetics of the barbarians who *sacked* ancient Rome. They bill themselves as a true meritocracy where you get by on your own strength and wit or you fucking die. This has exactly all the problems you immediately just thought of with that philosophy. Riot keeps trying to make them a nuanced counterbalance to their in-setting rival nation Demacia, but can't seem to escape the pull of how bad guy coded everything about them was when the game first came out.

First character to appear is Mel. I'm not recapping Mel. If you're reading this, it's probably because you like Arcane and know who the fuck Mel is. She rules, moving on.

Couple of characters who appear in more detail further in. We'll get to them.

That dude with the huge fuckoff axe is Darius. Higher-up in the Noxian military. Boring as shit. This trailer is literally the coolest he's ever been in anything they've done with him and he's only kinda interesting here. He has a brother who is roughly eight gazillion times more fun to talk about but does not appear in this trailer. He's (Darius) basically the stereotypical square-jawed slab of meat hero, if such a guy was from a place run by shitbags incentivizing shitbaggery.

The dude he's fighting? That's Trundle. Not from Noxus, but the neighboring country of Freljord. He's king of the trolls, and also a servant/thrall/pawn of one of the ladies vying for power over that region. He's a brute and a villain and words cannot describe my seething contempt for the retcons that occurred to *make* him a brute and a villain but that's its own post.

That lady dancing in a mask then busting out some knives? That's Katarina. She's the daughter of a major Noxian noble who was assassinated, and she's on a vengeance quest to find his killer and return the favor. She has an on-again off-again thing with a character not in this trailer who acts as Darius's foil, a bodyguard/minion also not appearing named Talon, and a sister who's half snake. I literally do not know what the present lore reason for the sister being a snake is these days because I know it's been retconned and I haven't checked.

The spider lady she's fighting? That's Elise. I *think* she's a member of the Black Rose (mentioned in Arcane S2 but not fleshed out much) but don't quote me. Her whole thing is luring nobles who want a piece of that action off to their deaths when she does all sorts of evil sacrifices with them.

And lastly, we have Vladimir and LeBlanc. Vlad looks like a vampire but very explicitly isn't. He's a blood mage. Which is a totally different thing. Totally different. 100% not the same thing. He just looks talks dresses and acts like Count Dracula for fun and because it's kind of on vibe with the whole blood magic thing. (I'm making fun of them not making him a vampire in setting, but not exaggerating.) He works for LeBlanc.

And LeBlanc. She's a master manipulator and illusionist, head of the Black Rose. Honestly, she doesn't have a ton a of development beyond "she effectively rules Noxus from the shadows with an army of altar egos she can illusion herself into." So I cannot fucking wait to see what they do with her. Like, right before Arcane S2 dropped a buddy of mine asked me what I'd want them to do next and my number one answer WAS "a Game of Thrones-y drama in Noxus with LeBlanc as either a main protagonist or a main antagonist." This is exactly what I wanted. My personal hype is through the fucking roof.

[justmybookthots]

The Prisoner's Throne

This is THE book. The book that's been consuming my every waking thought since I read its prequel in May last year. The book which, if I didn't manage to read any in 2024, would be the only one I read this year at all. The Stolen Heir was among my favourite reads last year, possibly even more than The Cruel Prince because of Oak's characterisation. 

The last few days before the book release was agonising. Sheer, skin-flaying agony. When Ann Liang's 2024 release let me down after I'd spent months hyping it up—as did I with Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands—I have to confess I was terrified the same thing would happen with The Prisoner's Throne. Ann Liang is one thing, but this is Holly Black. The Prisoner's Throne is on a much, much higher pedestal for me than any other book in existence thus far. If this hurt me like the others did, I might really go into the worst kind of depression. (Yes, I'm one for histrionics… only I'm being perfectly serious.)

After a night of poor sleep—I am still very grateful that I managed to sleep, albeit fitfully, most of the hours away—I started reading this book at 7AM. (I'd downloaded the book at 2 in the night.) And then I didn't stop until I was done at 10AM. 

First thoughts: THANK THE FUCK IT WASN'T A MASSIVE LETDOWN OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. Was it as good as its prequel? No. But it didn't end up anywhere as bad as my jaded, paranoid self had secretly feared, and for that I am grateful. Overall, I enjoyed it!! I saw quite a handful of negative reviews on Goodreads but I don't feel the same way. Granted, the book definitely has a few issues, but being too slow or character-driven was not mine.

Let me talk about some things I liked and did not. Beware: Spoilers abound. 

Things I did not love:

I'm going to start with my most major disappointment. Oak, who is the highlight of this duology to me, wasn't as alluring as I found him in the first book. I think that Oak's character is written best when his POV isn't the entire book. I definitely LOVED reading his POV and welcomed it, but I also felt that having the entire thing in his perspective dulled some of his mystique. This is my personal preference, because I don't generally love stories that have too much of the hero's POV. I think Six of Crows is a good example of finding balance with Kaz's perspective and the other characters'. Also, because the story is in Oak's head, we don't see much physical descriptions of him. I miss all those parts about his adorable marigold hair and his golden eyes 🥺

I also miss his cleverness. He was very manipulative in the first book, and it was easier to feel impressed back then because you weren't in his head and you didn't know what was coming. In this instalment, he thinks a lot about playing the fool, over and over. It gets wearisome because I'm constantly being told but not often shown. In the first book, I was actually shown without being told at all—which is why it hit so much harder. Moreover, I don't think he did anything specifically very clever in this book? I guess he did use the wedding ruse to prevent a war, and he did find out what Wren was hiding, but he found that out too late and that was less cleverness than the plot being in motion.  

There's a running theme in this book about being accepted and loved for your truest, darkest self, but… I don't think it was conveyed very well. In the end, he says that Wren is the only one who can love him for who he is, but it isn't convincing to me because it's so clear to me how much—and how unconditionally—his family loves him. A lot of his inner turmoil felt very contrived and self-inflicted, whereas I thought Wren's own self-loathing was a thousand times more convincing and understandable. 

I was also quite confused by how much he loved Wren when their feelings seemed to be only gradually building in the first book. But he's completely head over heels for her at the start of this book and I wonder about the transition. I'd been hoping for some clarity because he mentioned in Book 1 that he'd loved a lot of different girls, so what made Wren The One here? I suppose it's because he didn't play the fool with her and she "saw him as himself"? I wish the writing was more convincing in this regard.

Genuinely a little baffled by the plotline about the Ghost. I'd thought we'd already covered his part in Liriope's murder in the Cruel Prince series. (I may need to reread the OG series to be sure.) But it's being rehashed again like ripping open an old wound. And I never knew Oak cared that deeply about his biological parents. My point is: Leave the Ghost alone! 

I wasn't invested in Tiernan and Hyacinth's story. I skimmed a lot of their screen time together, but their fans will probably receive quite the treat. 

Lady Elaine, fuck off!!! (That said, I do understand her role in the story, especially the climax.)

OAK TRYING TO KILL WREN AT THE END, SIR, SIR, PLEASE. DO NOT. 

We didn't need the sex scene being SO IMPLICIT –- GIVE ME DETAILS, DAMN IT!! Now I feel empty.

Things I liked: 

One thing I predicted when I'd read the exclusive first few chapters of Prisoner's Throne months ago: Wren's power came as a cost to her health. I was right. And I loved it. I'm not the biggest fan of overpowered heroines and her limitations were a great story point to me. Holly always does such an exemplary job in making her heroines, including Jude, badass and yet so human (more a figurative phrase for Wren since Wren is fae) and grounded. Also, in general, I liked Wren a lot in this book. My heart broke for her over and over. I JUST WANT WREN TO BE HAPPY AND I AM GLAD SHE GOT A HAPPY ENDING.

I had COMPLETELY forgotten about her connection to her mortal family and I am so, so happy we managed to resolve that in this book. The fact that Wren would do anything to protect her sister Brex moved me immensely. Holly did well in tying that loose end up, and hurray that Wren finally got to spend time with her family at the end of the book. 🙂

JUDE AND CARDAN!!!! Especially Cardan. He was such a gem and so intriguing in this book. Once I'm done writing this review, I'm going to reread all his scenes. No one can complain that Jurdan wasn't in this book—they were very, very involved in the plot here.

Holly Black's prose is still one of the most beautiful things I've ever read. It's my favourite prose of any author, period. It's succinct and poetic at the same time. It scratches an itch in my brain that I never knew needed scratching. 

The ending where Oak goes to find Wren and he proposes was so lovely. Ahhh. I will always have a special love and fondness for them. Bless their baby hearts.

Oak supporting Wren when she was ill will NEVER not move my stone cold heart. The way he held her weight to keep her from falling while they danced...

Before I sign off, I want to say one more thing: WHAT IS HOLLY PLANNING WITH NICASIA'S STORY? Is she going to write / create a male lead for Nicasia? What's going on?? Holly pretty much confirmed that she's going to write something else in this universe, and I must KNOW what she has in mind. Nicasia was so unlikeable in the original series that I wonder how it would be like to read her as a heroine of her own story. 

Holly, I'm right here, waiting for whatever you might throw at us next. 

[jamieycomplainey]

prithee, o great destiel: bear me only pleasant news

when dawn my heart breaks cross’t

pray, sweet picture: paint on my canvasséd soul;

a message more lithe than it’s messenger-

evils turn doth evil’s turn; but one spits my eye,

the other; my shoe- pray, good messr., where you’ll run frew?

o! thine eyes to glitter falsely with dawn’s blue baubles!

o! thine hands haply to clasp in thanks, nigh yet prayer!

o! that you have len’t your knees a’fore your patron as i might the maddona in prattled comfort o’ worship!

o, dear lordship, i lay my head to thine boots, mine suit laid yet lower than the hems of your own! employ this invention of mine, brave weapon: keep up your blade; for the gnashing of dawn’s teardrops do rust all the bright swords!

bear bright pleasants; fine caites and gemstones: no such jades! thrones may be carved of jade; go to, my lord, but see you any such jade lying suit to bear waiting, to hold weight? carry, sweet lordship, tales of higher rounds in the dark valley, where beneath such roads even the pale halv’d light o’ sickened moonlit’s hope does nigh reach!

carry on those red wings of scorching sun fortune, dear destiel- wave that blue and valiant flag of sky before you, and let it cloak all the world’s stage behind!

[red-riding-wood]

Chapter 1

OC: Aleera

Fandom: Game of Thrones / ASOIAF

Summary: Former protector of the last Targaryens and bastard daughter of the Mad King Aerys, Aleera ventures to Westeros in search of the family she's never known, and finds herself swallowed by a world of cruelty, ambition and lies... She must leave behind her heart to survive, and, like her ancestors, forge her path through fire and blood. Madness and greatness, they say, are two sides of the same coin, and may the world hold its breath to witness how this coin lands.

Warnings: (for entire story) angst, graphic violence, gore, cursing, sexual assault, graphic sexual content, incest, torture... standard GoT stuff. I'm not holding back with this story so if you're not a fan of dark or disturbing content this is not for you. Also future Ramsay x OC and Petyr x OC and those two are their own warnings.

~ Combines content from Game of Thrones TV series and the ASOIAF books. Some canon changes are made to suit the story. ~

“Here, allow me,” my sister spoke, her voice a murmur and her fingers like silk as they wove themselves through my long, tangled hair. She had always been soft-spoken, unless the fire awoke in her. Her voice was soothing, in these rare moments when I did not allow my envy to pervade my mind.

And while I initially relaxed under her touch, watching as she undid the snares in my locks, I could not help but allow my gaze to linger on the pale silver of hers, the arcane violet of her gentle eyes. Mine stared back a dull, cold grey that I could only imagine must have belonged to my mother, much like the red hair that came from being born of a Tully. Though only a half-sibling to Daenerys, I was twice the Targaryen she was. But it was hidden beneath the markings of a mutt.

“Do you know when your wedding is?” Daenerys asked me softly. “I wish to see you before I am pledged to Khal Drogo.”

My mouth pinched into a bitter line.

“Viserys hasn’t said.” As much as I tried, I could not hold the spite from my tongue, though I believed she would perceive its aim to be at our brother, who had made the arrangements.

“You haven’t asked?” Daenerys seemed genuinely surprised; out of the two of us, I had always been the more headstrong, even with the brother who proclaimed himself the last dragon.

“I have,” I said. “I believe he is still negotiating for a higher price.”

The only time my brother had ever called me a Targaryen was when he was selling me to amass wealth and soldiers for the army he planned to march on Westeros, the origin of each of our births. The land of the Seven Kingdoms, and the fabled Iron Throne he claimed awaited him.

Dany’s expression turned rather grave at that. Neither of us wanted to be sold like cattle, nor did we want to part from each other. Despite living in her winged shadow, we shared a bond that would never break, no matter how wretched my disdain grew.

“Viserys thinks Khal Drogo’s army will carry out his wishes when I am wed. At least with the gold, he can hire mercenaries loyal to his purse. Let us hope that he settles for less than you are worth.”

While Dany was being sold to the great horse lord of the Dothraki, I was offered to a wealthy magister in Pentos, a man whose name I had never heard uttered before my brother had told me the news. And while my sister would become a khaleesi, a queen of a warrior tribe, I would be nothing more than a housewife to one of Illyrio’s lazy aristocratic friends. Of what use would my swordsmanship be, my years of protecting my family from the many vile creatures and men in Essos? And of what would become of my sister’s soft skin and feather-like hair? When would the Dothraki break her gentle heart?

“And what am I worth?” I dared to ask, stiffening.

Her fingers didn’t cease their rhythm, not even now that she was making intricate braids from the outer layers of my hair. Her violet eyes didn’t even meet the biting steel of mine in the mirror. And she said,

“Sister, there is no sum of gold that could ever be worth your company.”

The thorns around my heart softened a bit at that, but guilt gnawed at my chest. I wondered, sometimes, if she was completely unaware of my envy of her.

“What of an army?” I asked.

The line of her mouth quirked into a smile, and she said, “There is no sum of men, either.”

---

The Dothraki had come for my sister when the sun was highest in the sky, the hooves of their mounts thundering through the snaking paths of the hills to announce themselves before they spilled into the courtyard, bare-chested warriors butting shoulders as their steeds snorted and bayed. Reins pulled taught and black, wild eyes flashed as their riders brought them to heel.

The entire ceremony had lasted less than a quarter of an hour, and not a word was spoken other than those I’d heard Viserys whisper into Dany’s ear, pointing out the long braids down Khal Drogo’s back. Each braid signified a battle won; the Dothraki cut their hair after every defeat. If it was fear or awe that had stricken my sister’s face, I was certain not, but I would never forget it. Nor would I ever forget the sinking feeling when she had strode towards her new king, could never forget how emptiness weighed so heavy in my gut.

Viserys had sent me away shortly after the meeting, wishing to seek council with Magister Illyrio, the man who had opened his doors to the three of us nearly a year ago. He had aided my brother in finding suitors for us both, was a believer in Viserys’ claim to the Iron Throne and wanted to bleed him dry of a king’s generosity.

All I knew was that Dany had come sobbing to me afterward, that she had tried to speak against her union to Khal Drogo, that our brother had uttered words so vile to her that they still echoed in my own ears. And while I dreaded my own dinner tonight with my suitor, while I found myself grimacing at the thought of having to cook for him and watch him grow fatter over the years, of having to clean his bed sheets each night after he used myself or one of his whores, of never again feeling the weight of a sword in my hand or my sister’s fingers through my hair, my heart could not help but fracture from her own miserable fate as her tears dampened the fabric of my gown. And though I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat, though I had always wished to be her, I had put aside my resentment and told her to be stoic, to let her tears fall quietly when Khal Drogo would take her purity. She was so fragile, yet she needed to be strong. I needed her to be strong. 

Now, sun swept the bathhouse in a blanket of gold; dusk was within the hour, snaking its talons beneath the awning of the balcony overlooking the sandy hills of the Pentos outskirts and glittering off the colourful masonry of the bath’s walls. Tousled curtains of ridiculous proportion billowed from the great gusts of wind that poured into the every crevasse of the building and threatened to chill me past the dampened fabric of my gown. One of Illyrio’s servants scurried from my sight with the last urn of soiled water from my sister’s earlier bath, sandals landing heavily against the stone as I descended the steps. I could still picture Viserys handing her the fine silk she had worn for Khal Drogo, could still taste the bile on my tongue when I watched his hands wander across her naked form. As the servants slipped dragon pins that I would never wear through the shoulders of the light garment.

My wrath burned like fire beneath my skin, drummed against my chest like the hooves of the Dothraki stallions, and split the quiet of the building as I practically roared my brother’s name,

“Viserys!”

One of the curtains whipped and curled around itself as the wind changed direction, before blowing back with another gust of wind that stirred the curls from my shoulders and revealed the bright red robes of Illyrio, surprise flashing across a pudge face as a bearded mouth parted to speak.

But, ushering him aside, was my half-brother, tall yet thin in frame and leaning to bark something in the man’s ear. Whatever he said, it was disagreeable to our host, who seemed all the more shocked by his words, but pinched his mouth shut and disappeared along the balcony.

Pain flared where my nails had dug into the palms of my hands, only noticeable when I peeled my fingers from my fists. Viserys knew better than to hit me; it was not a physical battle I would need to win today but one of words, and I could never twist and morph them into such sweet yet false promises as he did, could only spit them like hellfire as its flames licked at my throat and boiled my blood so hot it threatened to consume me. 

And while I should have been silent, should have kept my protest and my sister’s admittances to myself, I could bear the echoes no longer.

“You are calling it off,” I ordered him, tone dark as the stallions’ eyes that had flashed at me in the courtyard. “You are calling it off – the wedding, Khal Drogo, the khaleesi and khalasar, so help me, by the gods, I will – “

My words were extinguished in a shattered breath as my brother’s finger rose to my lips, and he said to me, “Hush, dear sister. Do you wish to wake the dragon?”

My lip curled around my teeth as I glared up at him, meeting the lilac of his glittering eyes and taking note of the subtle yet gloating line of his smirk. As the sole surviving male Targaryen of the Rebellion, he had proclaimed himself the “last dragon”, though he had all the strength of a child still pink in its skin, and his foolishness was only at times mistaken for courage by imbeciles like Illyrio and the servant girls who frequented his quarters.     

“If I must,” I growled.

“Khal Drogo is already expecting his bride come their wedding. I cannot withdraw my end of the bargain now. He would have all our heads.”

It was to be expected that my brother had chosen to weasel his way into a situation that could only benefit him but had mortal repercussions for his family. And it was only natural that he was attempting to use fear as a means to quell my fury.

“Then call off my marriage, and let me go with her, to protect her. As I have always done,” I suggested, trying not to let the desperation creep into my tone.

Viserys’ finger reached to brush a lock of hair from my face; I had undone Dany’s braids earlier and it must have made me unpresentable. I witnessed his smirk twist into a displeased line when pale eyes examined my face, felt my heart quicken in my chest, my blood boiling yet my stomach fluttering.

Though he looked about to comment on my unkempt appearance, his eyes wandering from my wild hair to my tear-stained gown, he said,

“She does not need the protection of a girl who thinks herself a warrior when she will have an army of the most vicious fighters at her side.”

I could not bring myself to draw from the touch that I craved, but his words stirred the hellfire in my chest and I practically spat in his face, “You said you would let every one of those ‘viciousfighters’ fuck her – and their horses, too, if it meant reclaiming your throne. And tales of the Dothraki and their brutality do not go unsung in any corner of Essos.”

Of all the dangers in this cruel world, it was not the rapers nor the thieves nor even the assassins sent by the usuper, but our brother she needed protection from the most.

Not a trace of doubt shadowed Viserys’ glittering eyes as he told me, as if speaking to a child, “She needed to understand how important my conquest is.” His deft fingers fell from my cheekbone and settled on my shoulder, thumbing at the fabric of my gown.

“Your conquest?” I spat, and his flinch came as a simple yet earned satisfaction. “Your army and your gold is bought by selling your family. Is this really how you want the great song of your reign to begin? How can you even expect to continue your dynasty, that you insist to be so pure? You cannot expect to wed Daenerys, not when she is pledged to Khal Drogo, and – ”

“Daenerys will mother my heir.” These words, spoken so calmly amidst the storm of my fury, brought mine to a slamming halt in my chest, my lungs screaming for air and my lips parted in a silent plea as a knife twisted between my ribs.

My brother’s hand slid to my other shoulder as his body pressed against mine, and his soft lips brushed the tingling flesh of my neck. I was paralysed, captive to his venomous touch and his cold words. “Khal Drogo will not be able to refuse a king,” he whispered in my ear, and I shut my eyes to find a tear suspended on my lash, now streaking down my cheek. Viserys worked the fabric of my gown from my shoulders, the winds outside now sweeping a chill across burning flesh, the garment tumbling slowly down to my breasts.  “And neither will you, dear sister. When my army marches on the Red Keep, we will pay that usurper back with fire and blood, and I will ascend to my throne, and the people will cheer, and you will hear great songs about me from the bards in Essos.” I could almost feel the heat from his body and the fire of his touch melting my fury away into yearning. I leaned into him, if only slightly, a soft moan catching on my tongue as he groped at my breasts through the fabric that would only fall at his whim. “And tonight, you bed not a prince, but a king. The one, true king.”

And just as he released the fabric, I stole myself from my trance and I tore my body from his, tugging the sleeves of my gown back over my shoulders. His visage was blurry past my unshed tears, the silver of his fine hair undulating beneath the dusk’s blanket of rich gold so befitting of a king.

“Take me with you,” I pleaded, nearly breathless.

A grin so wide it came sickening to my stomach stretched across his features, and I blinked, his high cheekbones and his furrowed brow and his scornful eyes sharpening. “How absurd. Of what use would you be to me when I am king? Is it my throne you desire?”

I swallowed lead. And when my lips formed the confession, my voice was quiet, so quiet it mimicked the gentle whisper of a lover,

“It is not a throne I desire.” I looked him deep in his eyes, forcing back the new hail of tears that threatened me, and from his look I could tell that he knew what I meant to say, that mayhaps, in all our years of growing together as siblings, he finally understood me.

“You foolish girl,” he chuckled, the baritones of his voice loveless. “You want to be my queen.”

My fury surged again in my chest, stirred by the pain that had burrowed itself deep in my soul, and I suddenly found my voice as my tears streamed freely down my face,

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be worthy enough for this family, to be by your side.”

For you to look at me the way you do Daenerys. To speak of me not as a bastard but a Targaryen.

But I once more bit my tongue, a slave to my desires.

“Aleera, you are not a queen. You are a bastard – a whore, like your mother. Your blood is tainted, your flesh sullied by scars. You throw yourself at any man willing to offer a copper for your bedside.” If my words were fire, his were poison, sinking deep into the marrow of my bones, chilling my boiling blood.

Past his soured expression, I studied the beauty of his face – the fairness of skin that I had once known to be filthier, stretched gaunter over pointed cheekbones, before Illyrio had come along. The face of the Beggar King. Even then, I had found him handsome.

But each scar that had not tarnished his flawless skin nor my sister’s had scored cruel through mine, and I wore the stench of blood and steel to his bed, blood as red as the hair and steel as sharp as the eyes that marked me as half-bred.

And when I told my sister stories of my skirmishes and thievery and whoring, I looked upon her ethereal face that mimicked my brother’s so, and I would have given anything for her silver hair and her pale lashes, and the light rose of her cheeks, and the soft skin I knew my brother favoured.

And each time I bid her goodnight, I cursed the gods others prayed to for these differences that made me an outsider.

Years of this torment frothed at my tongue as I rose my voice, shaking, in more fury or fear I could tell not,

“You would be dead if not for my scars, brother. Each was earned protecting this family. Each meant another week that you could live. And each man I bed meant another meal to fill your aching belly.”

Each another step from the acceptance I craved.

“And I would do it all again, for you and my sister,” I told him, my tears still falling unbidden to my breathless lips. “I may not be your family, Viserys, but you were mine.”

 And there it was. That awful, simple word. Were.

Now that mud no longer caked his clothing and hunger no longer gnawed at his gut and he slept in a bedchamber rather than a gutter, now that he was to be a true king rather than a beggar, I was no longer necessary. I would be gone, in a day, or two. Mayhaps sooner if he could be rid of me. And I would forget that beautiful face, slowly, as I spent the rest of my life serving someone who never made my stomach flutter as he once had.

And I needed to let go.

My gown swept across the floor as I turned to stalk across the bathhouse, towards the winds of Pentos that howled into the deathly silence of Illyrio’s seaside domain.

“Aleera!” Long fingers curled around my wrist, tightening so firm the flesh would surely bruise, and my head snapped around, my cold eyes surely shooting sparks as I let my gaze fall so tragically on the face that I would remember, for a time, not as my brother, but as the man who’d sold me.

“Do not ever touch me again,” I hissed, and shook him off as virulently as his own touch had landed upon me. And though uttering such words split my heart in two, twisted the knife deeper past my screaming ribs, I knew that it was always meant to be this way, that I was never anything to him but a means to an end and another body to warm his bed.

---     

Each tide that drew back into the sea seemed to steal a piece of my heart with it, and each wave that crashed against the rocks below echoed my fury. I clenched and unclenched my fists where they rested on the sandstone railing, nails stinging my palms. Dark clouds crowned the bright of the sunset, and the winds swept sand into the frantic air and commanded the sea with an iron trident.

My sight rested where the sea gave the illusion of stretching forever into the light fog that crept along the water, and each time the chill of the western winds buffeted my face I could almost feel the beyond calling to me.

But it was not the Narrow Sea that called, but rather, the continent known as Westeros, the land of my birth and the home of my alleged mother, who in her late years came to be known as Catelyn Stark, wed to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North. A powerful title, and a powerful name; the Starks were one of the longest standing houses in Westeros, and commanded a vast, near barren stretch of land until the Wall of the Night’s Watch barricaded them from northern savages known as wildlings. Snow was said to fall from the sky, shadowcats and mountain lions and wolves said to prowl the lands, and great, white trees with leaves red as blood stretched into the heavens of the oldest gods.

My adopted mother had died giving birth to Dany when I was barely out of the womb, but a knight named Ser Willem Darry had smuggled us three children across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities of Essos, in which he purchased a beautiful manor to raise us until I was the age of nine and Viserys the age of thirteen, when King Robert Baratheon’s assassins burnt it to its foundations. In his rebellion, he had usurped my father, The Mad King Aerys, the second of his name, and had commanded that every Targaryen be executed to ensure his claim to the throne and his dynasty.

As one of the last Targaryens, my mother Catelyn had given me to Dany and Viserys’ mother, Rhaella Targaryen, for my own safety. It was because of Ser Willem and Viserys that I knew these things about the mothers I’d never had, about the father who’d burned cities, about the houses that waged wars across the sea.

And while I had always yearned to seek the mother who had been forced to give me up as an infant, who probably still cried for me as I did for her still, I had always been needed here in Essos, to take care of this family that was never truly my own.

I would bring Dany there, to the North, where my birth mother would welcome me back as her eldest child, where my sweet, innocent sister could be free of Khal Drogo and our cruel brother.

Where he can never touch her again, a venomous part of my mind added as lead formed once more on my tongue. Where she cannot bear his children.

“Sister?”

I flinched at the soft lull of her voice, and when I turned to behold her, I found myself snapping with a still-virulent tone, “What do you want from me?”

Though evidently taken aback, fear dashing through bright, arcane eyes, she was calm when she spoke, “I overheard some of your words with Viserys.”

My stomach churned, and my heart seemed to clench in my chest. “How much?”

“Enough,” she said, and took a step forward, but no more. “I don’t mean to cause you pain, sister… I only wish to help ease it as you did mine.”

When I looked at her face, I saw the silver-haired beauty who had always overshadowed me, had always been more wanted. And when I looked at the silks that were draped across a now womanly figure, I thought of Viserys shedding them, thought of his hands entwining themselves into those silver locks as they once had mine. I foresaw her belly, swelling with his child, and it was all I could do to muzzle my rage.

“I’d rather be alone,” I said bitterly, turning my gaze back to the writhing sea and hunching over the railing with an almost petulance.

“I don’t want Viserys. Not in the way he…” Dany trailed off, her words nearly swept away by the winds.

I whirled on her, my heart clenching tight in my still-aching chest as I hissed, “Not in the way he wants you. Did you come here to remind me of that? Are you here to tell me that you don’t want Khal Drogo as well, that you don’t want to be a queen?”

While I would never wish to be pawned off by my own brother, in any circumstance, I wasn’t certain my sister realised how greater an honour it was to be sold to such a dangerous, prominent man than a nobody who happened to carry a large purse. And unlike my sister, I knew the Dothraki would not break me. If anything, I could learn to turn them against Viserys. Break free.

Dany’s eyes were more sad than fearful now, and something about them made my heart splinter. I closed my eyes, exhaling, realising that I was mayhaps unjust with my words.

Turning once more to the railing, I said, voice lowering, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” My fingers curled into another fist to quell my rage as I forced the image of her from my mind. “None of this is your fault.”

After a pregnant pause, and a few mournful cries of the gulls, Daenerys stepped beside me, her footfalls silent but her presence indicated by the sweet perfume Illyrio had gifted her. And she told me, plainly,

“I had a dream.”

I sighed. My sister had always thought her dreams had meant something; when she dreamt of the three of us prospering with mountains of gold and an army at our heels as we marched back to Dragonstone, the isle of Dany’s birth, she’d told me it would someday come true. When she dreamt of horrible monsters emerging from the darkness – likely a result of overhearing the priestesses who pledged themselves to the Lord of Light – she asked me to watch over her the next night closely with my sword.

“Please, spare me,” I said, imagining that she was about to try cheering me up with some pointless illusion. “Nothing but cruel tricks from the gods, no doubt.”

But she spoke anyway, her fingers landing across the railing adjacent to mine and her silver curls whipping back from her face as she stared into the blackening sunset,

“I dreamt of two dragons, one of ice and the other fire; one of silver scales and the other a crimson as blood red as your hair. The red dragon seemed to claw itself from the other, rising above it in a black sky.” Her head tipped back to regard the first stars emerging in the hollowness above. “And then both were swallowed by each other’s flame. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I wonder if it has come true. If the dragons are meant to be you and Viserys.”

I scoffed. Dragons had not existed for nearly a century, though tales of the great beasts tamed by my Targaryen ancestors were always favoured by mummers and bards. But it was her interpretation of the dream that baffled me most.

“Viserys is no dragon,” I said, my lip curling with more than a slight disdain.

“No,” she said, her voice soft but assured. “But you are.”

Something winked in the last, fading rays of the sun, and I looked to what she held out to me in shock.

The pendant was of the three-headed dragon, the sigil of the Targaryen house. The intricacy of the craftsmanship detailed even the ridges along the slender necks that reared above the body of the beast, its maws gaping and tongues as sharp as its teeth. I could not help but run my fingers across the silver-hued jewelry in awe, thumbing at the tightly woven chain that bound the circular pendant.

“Valyrian steel.” Though I had suspected it mainly from the ripples that ran through the metal like markings along the dragon, I could confirm it now that I held its unusually light weight in the palm of my hand. Few remnants of Old Valyria remained, but there were some blacksmiths and jewelers who still knew how to reforge the rare metal of our ancestors.

My heart swelled, warm and whelming, in my chest, mending the fracture the sight of her had carved moments ago. When I looked up at her again, everything about my demeanor must have softened, for my eyes were swathed again in unshed tears, and she bore a small yet loving smile, violet eyes glittering in the quickening dark. I glimpsed the silver dragons that Viserys had pinned to her silks, and I no longer looked upon them with envy, but rather, a strength that emerged deep from my soul and bound me to the one person who had always been there for me, who may, in fact, still have been my family.

Rendered speechless, another silence passed between us before she spoke, “No matter where our paths take us, promise me, Aleera…” Her fingers gently folded mine over the pendant. “… that we will always be sisters.”

The tear was warm against my cheek as it shed, and the smile that quirked my lip was genuine. I held the necklace to my chest, tightly as if in fear of it being swept away by the winds. And I realised that not all of my heart was torn empty.

“I promise.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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[cooliofango]

Strength of the Ancients

[BOTW! Link x F! Reader]

Prologue Part 1

[Next Part]

A little author’s note before I start! This is a bit self indulgent and part of an idea I’ve been holding onto for a while now that I wanted to try writing out and I’ve decided to start on this platform! If it goes well then I may reach out to other platforms, but, for now, it shall remain here! This story is supposed to branch out throughout the three games and then some both before and after them based from my own imagination, so hopefully we’ll be in this for the long run. Also, the name for Link’s sister will be Alona in this story since she was never given a name in this game. All we know is that if she would’ve been an actual character in the game, she would’ve been a remake of Aryll or that she would’ve had a different name-- which I tried to make a little similar. For the names of Link’s parents, I will be getting them from the Sound and Drama CD which names Link’s father Banzetta and his mother Loretta, as well as Zelda’s mother who appears to be named Seline. Im choosing for the reader to be female for this story, though, again, if the story is liked enough, I will be happy to rewrite it with a male reader if requested. The picture was cropped and found on Picsart!

Masterlist to access the rest of the story!

The steps of the two Hylians, a father and a son, echoed loudly in the castle, the lights pouring in from the crystal-like glass that lined the walls of the hallway. The ceilings rose high above them, the light glittering against the stone on the lower parts of the arches with the aid of the torches that remained lit beneath them. Every now and then, they would pass a guard who stood attentive yet unmoving in place. They simply watched as the king’s guests moved on. 

The son appeared to be a little anxious, though he kept quiet as he looked around this rather foreign place. His father was a blacksmith who provided weapons and armor for the royal calvary while him and his younger sister tended to the farm at home in his absences-- although they would often get help from their father if he wasn’t working. The closest the young boy has ever been to the castle was the town below its walls where his father worked and where he and his sister would travel to to sell the goods they grew. The castle was always something he and his sister would admire from afar, yet he never guessed that he would be going inside it.

“Chin up, boy,” The gruff voice of his father reached his ears, causing him to look up at the elder man.

“Yes, sir.” The boy muttered, straightening his posture and looking ahead. They approached large double doors, to which more guards stood at. However, upon noticing their presence, they moved to grab the handles of the door and pulled them open. The doors creaked on their hinges at the movement, though only because of how large they were rather than if they were old or not. Beyond the door way was a large throne room. The ceilings rose even higher than the ones in the halls do-- something the young one didn't not think was possible. In the middle of the back wall, overlooking the whole room, were the thrones that sat underneath a large stained glass mural of the symbol of Hyrule shaped into it. There were three of them, the largest being in the middle, one just a little shorter than it on the left, and a smaller one on the right. The king sat within the middle one. The boy felt himself tense under the king’s intimidating presence alone, feeling his gaze burn into him and his father.

The father stopped a few feet away from the king and knelt down to bow with respect. His son did the same not long after upon noticing his father’s movements. “You’re majesty, it’s an honor to make your presence,” the father spoke up once more in kind greeting before careful getting back to his feet.

“The honor is all mine, Banzetta. You’re presence here was greatly anticipated,” The king looked at the boy now, sitting up in place, “And this must be the boy, correct.” Upon being addressed, the young one quickly got to his feet and straightened his posture-- he hadn’t realized his father had stood up already and was still kneeling on the ground till now. Rhoam stood from his throne and made his way down the steps towards the child. “Let me see your hand, boy.”

And he did just that, not wanting to appear to be disrespectful before someone so powerful. The nervousness still remained as he held out his right hand to him. Though the boy didn’t know the full extent to the markings on his hand just yet, he already knew that it was what the king wanted to see. It was the sole reason why his father brought him here. On the back of his palm rested an ancient symbol known as the ti-force with the bottom right triangle highlighted against his skin. He didn't know what it meant-- but being here was a hope to get answers.

The king knelt down before the boy and took his hand to inspect it. The king’s hold was gentle and he slid his thumb over the triangle shape imbedded in the boy’s skin. “So it’s true then. The Hero of Courage has been reborn.” King Rhoam spoke knowingly. It was hard to tell whether he was in shock or if he was relieved by his tone and this expression didn’t change except for the slight narrowing of the eyes.

The Hero of Courage was someone mentioned in a story the boy had heard from his mother before she had passed away years ago. A hero from the sky, clad in green, who took on an evil being of Power named Demise to save his dear friend and Hyrule from destruction. From then on out, the three wielders of the tri-force continued to be reborn-- Power causing destruction, Wisdom allocating knowledge to the land, and Courage protecting the land. The boy didn’t think the story to be real at the time, mostly because of where the hero seemed to come from. If Hyrule used to have islands in the sky, then where were they now?

“Hylia...” Banzetta muttered with his own surprise. Unlike his son, he did know the story behind the never ending battle between Courage, Wisdom, and Power right away. Although the appearance of the Hero of Courage was one to be celebrating, it also foretold the near future of Hyrule. Hyrule would fall into war once more at the hands of the Calamity and the monsters it brings.

The king stood up from the ground, looking down at the young boy. “Link,” he spoke the name of the boy as he remembered it from the letter, “Do you understand the responsibilities of the Hero of Courage?” 

Link held a soft frown and directed his gaze away in thought. If he were to believe his mother’s stories to be true, then-- in a way-- he did have an idea of what the Hero of Courage’s duty was. “Yes, sir,” Link nodded hesitantly along with his words, looking back up at the king as he did so. 

“Do you accept this responsibility to protect Hyrule and fulfill the destiny given to you by the Golden Goddesses of old?” The king urged with hope, holding his hands behind his back as he waited for an answer.

Being the reborn hero was hard to believe and yet there was something in the back of his mind telling him to take this chance. It was a call to adventure screaming at him to accept this role. If he was really the Hero of Courage, then he needed to be the one to defeat the wielder of Power that intended to destroy his home. It’s only ever been the Hero of Courage who defeats this evil in every story he’s heard about from his dear mother.

“Y-Yes,” although he stutters, his face shows determination.

The king visibly relaxes, turning back to sit on the throne. “Very well,” he sits down on the throne with each arm resting on the arm rests beside him. King Rhoam turns his attention to Banzetta.

Father and son shared a gaze. The nervousness still hung in the air, yet something new had sparked within the boy. A will, you could say. Banzetta expressed worry, but, upon noting how his son accepted this weight, said nothing. Instead, he looked to the king.

“Banzetta, it would be ideal to keep Link here with our ranks. He will need to start training as soon as possible,” King Rhoam looked to where a couple guards were on the left of the throne room and nodded, to which they both made their way to the pair standing before him.

Banzetta tightened his lips into a straight line. “A-... A week. I’d like to request that he return here for training in a week,” he requested in hopes to give Link a bit of time at home before leaving so suddenly. The boy, in turn, seemed to already agree with this. He loved his sister dearly, after all, and he didn’t want to just leave her on her own without an explanation.

The king huffed to himself as he considered the request. There was time. According to the sages, the Calamity shouldn’t arrive for another half of a decade. They had five years to prepare-- five years to build an army.

“Very well. Return in exactly a week, no time later, no time less.”

Banzetta sighed with relief, “Of course. Thank you, your majesty.”

The king nodded and returned his focus back to Link. “And thank you, young one. Hyrule will forever be in your debt. Guards, please escort these two to the palace gates.”

[dollopheadedmerlin]

Yall are gonna learn about my OCs now

I'm planning out a book that takes place in a universe where Mimes, Jesters, and Clowns are all types of peoples, their markings a part of their skin instead of makeup and their cultures twisting aspects of entertainment into ritual.

This is Humor, the Jester

He's an idiot.

Jesters live most often in small settlements and communities. They have the most potent and versatile magic, though it varies from person to person. All jesters, however, have the innate ability to conjure bells made of gold, which is unique to them. They use this in their culture, gifting them to each other as signs of respect or gratitude. You will often see a newborn baby with only two bells, from either of it's parents. Or perhaps a few more if they have a larger family. But as they grow, they earn more bells and adorn them to their clothing.

Any village of substantial size will have gathering tent where ceremonies are hosted (name giving, unions, funerals, etc.). Often these are run by the Ringmaster, which is an assumed position by the member with the most bells. This is because the more bells someone has earned, then more their people respect them. So overtime the most helpful or kind or wise member of the group will become akin to a village elder and wordlessly assume the roll of Ringmaster. They often have the most powerful magic of their group, since possessing strong gifts lends to aiding others. It is not a guarantee, however, as there are other ways to earn bells than magical feats. Some Ringmasters are simply very knowledgeable, or strategic.

Humor is very much not the Ringmaster of his group. He is an entertainer, often wearing face paint that resembles the Queen's markings and mocking the higher class in performances riddled with warnings.

This is because the Queen has exhausted all of the natural resources of gold. So the only way to obtain gold now is to steal from Jesters, as their bells are the only renewable source. But, as bells are very important to their culture, the jesters do not give her gold willingly, so she has been known to pillage jester villages and settlements to steal their riches.

Clowns make up the majority of the upperclass, most of them living in the City or the Circus. They value beauty above all else, the queen being obsessed with her own appearance, spending her days standing in her throne room, surrounded by mirrors as others do her bidding.

Clown society has curated a taste for certain traits; bright, saturated colors, symmetry, detailed markings, large, dark eyes, as well as a few specific features such as "masks", "gloves", "socks", blush, and red noses.

Those who do not fit these standards are mocked at best, and actively targeted at worst. There are those who do not agree with these standards and will purposefully "ruin" their markings with modifications, but they are often arrested for their protest.

This also leads to the want of pretty things. Which is why the queen hoards gold, melting it down into fanciful adornments and decor for herself and her castle.

Mimes, on the other hand, are typically nomadic. They arguable have the strongest magic, but it is more restricted. They are able to make indestructible invisible structures by mining where they wish to place them. These structures remain indefinitely until the mime who placed it mimes it away, or the mime is no longer able to actively manifest it. These structures rely on the concentration or meditation of the mimes to exist. So if a mime if knocked unconscious or leaves the area, the structure may vanish.

Their markings only appear in grey, black, and white. And they have no vocal cords, instead speaking a form of sign language. They do not have spoken names. Their names in sign are often comprised of movements tracing a prominent marking of theirs. For example, the mime above would have a name that looks like tracing two fingers along the lines that start above their eyes and then tapping the cheeks where the lines turn into dots. A mime with two recognizable dots on either side of their nose, may have a name that appears as rubbing two circles into that spot with two fingers. If perhaps a mime is known to have a large, flower like marking on their chest, miming a bloom coming from your chest could be the sign for their name.

Because of their magic, the Queen has employed many of them in her castle, most commonly to run the dungeons. The mimes are often coerced into working for her, with hostages or threats to their communities, so they work dutifully, even if they secretly support her demise.

They maintain the cells in the dungeon, putting up their impenetrable walls in shifts to keep in prisoners. Few dare to let convicts escape, as the punishment for doing so is incredibly dire.

When they are left to live freely, mimes typically travel in groups, needing no shelter or belongings, aside from scavenging for food. They mime roofs above their heads when it rains, and lay upon invisible platforms to sleep, taking turns keeping watch to warn for danger, as well as keep the structures in place.

They also have tails, because why not