#pitchfork-wielding villager

[thatsbelievable]

[tarbuchyloewenthal]

Avowed Backgrounds

spoilers below if you wish to go in completely blind

Arcane Scholar:

After graduating with honors from Bragganhyl Academy, you published a treatise on soul lineages that threatened the legitimacy and drew the ire of a local lord. When he had you arrested, the Emperor intervened and recruited you into the archives of the imperial court. Your mind is a bottomless well of occult knowledge, legal precedent, historical observation, and poetry. You have forgotten more than most people ever learn.

Court Augur:

When your village's crops failed, your strange insights and unsettling manner earned your neighbors' suspicions. You foresaw the torches and pitchforks and fled to Highcrown, where the Emperor recognized your talents and elevated you from back alley fortune teller to his personal mystic. You have learned to wield power from the shadows; all it takes is a dash of influence and a pinch of deception.

Noble Scion:

You were born to a noble house of great influence, middling wealth, and questionable morals. When scandals and succession disputes saw your family cast down, you threw yourself on the Emperor's mercy, and he shielded you. Canny yet refined, you have become a formidable force at court and an invaluable ally to the Emperor.

Vanguard Scout:

Born to humble beginnings and driven to desperation by famine, your life was destined to end on the executioner's block until the Emperor spared you. More at ease in wilderness than at court, your cleverness and observant nature has made you one of the Emperor's most trusted operatives. Whether tracking prey or spying on enemies, your skills are put to work both inside and outside of the throne room.

War Hero:

You distinguished yourself on the field of battle fighting a violent Skaenite uprising. The Emperor honored you with a place among the elite Tall Grass Spearmen. Some of your scars are more obvious than others, but you wear them with pride. The Emperor values your loyalty, your grit, and your martial prowess.

info courtesy of this preview from WesNemo.

[achromant]

AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 2: [DRAGON AU] mammon / first encounter

ao3 link

note: requested by @whensam! i have to admit, i was hoping this'd pop up. i know i can write what i want, but i always feel i need an excuse anyway. you didn't indicate a preference for pov and i also just ended up wanting to do both, so this is a little longer than expected as a result!

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

Baker's children don't make good hunters. We’re used to carrying sacks of flour, not sprinting across fields with pitchfork-wielding mobs in hot pursuit. We don't make good kindling, either, but that hasn't stopped about half the adults in the village - for shame, I'd say, if I had the breath to speak.

Here's the thing. Our village isn't exactly a popular spot by any definition of the term. We're too far from any big cities to make good business, we don't make much worth selling, and the people certainly aren't charming enough to warrant a detour.

More important, though, are the creatures we share land with. Through the grassland that border the crop fields, there are invisible lines drawn in the soil - ones that no one crosses.

These lines mark dragon territory, and everyone knows that a dragon would sooner eat you for breakfast than stop for a reasonable conversation. Reasonable conversation is not something I have the luxury of at the moment, which is why I’m already several hundred paces over the line.

Just fifty already takes you into the forest. I don’t hear footsteps in pursuit anymore - they’d have to be mad to follow me so far in, which is exactly what I'd been banking on. The issue now is that, rather than being pitchforked, or burnt at the stake, I’ll probably just get eaten instead.

I pick my way through rotting leaf litter and ridged roots before collapsing against an old oak, wondering if the moisture dripping from overhead is safe to drink - or at least to wash my mouth out with. Gnawing through rope seems like a clever idea until your teeth start bleeding.

I can’t stay here, I think. Dying now would be like letting them win. Then Dad will have smacked the alderman for no reason.

Just as I get back to my feet, something whooshes overhead. I freeze. Those wings were larger than any bird I’ve ever seen.

Surely it couldn’t see me through the leaves. I crouch low to the ground and try to hide in the undergrowth - the wingbeats disappear until all I can hear is distant birdsong.

At least they’re having a nice day. I duck my head and trudge through a hedge - and come face to face with a dragon.

“Argh!”

I leap backwards. Bad move. The sunlight falls across its pointed face just in time for me to watch its pupils expand into full moons, like a cat on the hunt.

It doesn’t pounce. It doesn’t charge, snap or growl. It creeps slowly, eyes fixed on me the whole way forward, as if making sure I know that I can’t escape.

Nowhere to run. I press my back against a wizened old pine and shut my eyes tight - throwing out an arm, as if that might shield me.

Nothing happens. Then something cold presses into my palm.

My eyes snap open. The dragon blinks down at me. Its eyes are such a deep shade of blue that it’s almost dizzying. Oh. Oh, okay.

Its - his? I wonder, noting the ridges on his nose - snout rests carefully in my palm. He seems to register me staring at him, and snorts. The hot air is just on the brink of scalding, but not quite enough to hurt.

Then, almost experimentally, he opens his mouth - a yawning chasm of teeth, poised as if to ever-so-gently bite off my head. Except he doesn’t do that. There’s no pain - no crunch of broken bone or split sinew - far from it. The dragon leans down, carefully hooks his teeth into the collar of my shirt, and takes off.

I’d have screamed if it wasn’t for all the air leaving my chest at once. The forest shrinks to a dark blanket beneath us faster than I can even register it happening, and I realise very quickly that I’d be dashed to bits if I so much as slipped.

Wyvern, says an unhelpful voice in the back of my head as we soar. The dragon’s white-and-gold wings blot out the sun, but they’re so brilliant that it’s hard to tell the difference. They’re good fliers.

Before long, the dragon lands - legs first, digging his talons deep into the soil as he skids to a stop. After a moment, he huffs, then (strangely gently) drops me in a heap on the stony ground.

There’s a rumble, a swoosh - then several thuds, a swoosh of wings. I watch a shadow fall over my field of vision, then slowly raise my head.

Oh, I think a little faintly. 

All sorts of colours, all sorts of demeanours. One in particular steps forward - dark, with crimson eyes, and the sort of air about him that tells me he's the leader. Boss, I'll call him, if only to settle my own nerves. The dragon that brought me here (Goldie, I decide, still trying to settle my breathing) steps forward with a sort of chirrup in greeting.

It's a spectacle, if nothing else. Here are seven dragons, horns and wings and all. I've heard cautionary tales and horror stories, but they never really tell you how majestic they look in real life - scales shinier than any jewel I could imagine. Marvels of creatures, really. If only I had the wits to appreciate it.

Boss is growling now - there's a sort of heat rolling off him in waves. Some of the feeling coming back to my numb legs.

If only I knew what they were saying...

-

It isn’t often that the forest bears treasure - usually it’s all very boring things, like meat and berries and leaves. To be fair, Mammon's used to treasure of the shiny, golden kind - not this weird little critter crouched against a tree.

It smells faintly of smoke and burnt wheat. He stalks closer, but he's testing it more than anything - it doesn’t look like any prey he’s familiar with.

When he gets close, it sticks out a little starfish-shaped appendage and closes its eyes. He smells bitter fear now.

Is it greeting him? Telling him it isn’t a threat? That’s smart. He thought only dragons could be smart, but it’s not behaving - nor does it look - like any dragon he's ever met.

So he returns the greeting with his snout. He half expects to be stung, like the time Asmo brought that little spidery thing home, but all the critter does is look up at him fearfully.

Interesting. On a whim, he scoops the little round thing off, and decides to take it back home.

The weird not-prey goes still as soon as he takes off. Once home, he lets it disembark (drops it on the floor, though he tries to be gentle), then looks up to face his brothers as they land around him.

The others decide to keep their distance. Lucifer is the first to plod forward and investigate.

He sniffs carefully at the air, then makes a crackling noise somewhere at the base of his throat - which isn't usually a good sign.

“That’s a human, Mammon," He says, glaring at the little critter. It’s still sitting, frozen.

“It’s a what?”

“What’d you bring that for? Stupid.” Belphie settles back on his haunches, blowing out a puff of frost. “Can’t go around snatching humans. We’ll get hunted. Stupid.”

“Shut up,” He grunts. “And I didn’t snatch it. Found it walkin’ around in the forest.”

“That’s impossible,” Satan says nearly immediately. His tail swishes back and forth - slow and deliberate, an analytical glint in his clever eyes. “They don’t let their young anywhere near us.”

“Well, whaddya call this, then?”

The human - apparently - suddenly seems to regain use of its limbs. Springing to its feet (Levi shrinks back, crest flattering over his head), it stumbles for a moment, then abruptly ducks under one of Mammon's wings.

The rest of his brothers - who'd similarly drawn back - relax again with a simultaneous murmur of vague confusion. Mammon blinks. Then his tail starts flicking at the end - like it always does when he's pleased.

“...you are not keeping it,” Lucifer says, looking as if he'd very much like to fly off into the sunset.

“It might have a disease!” adds Asmo.

“I don’t care what any of ya say,” Mammon says stubbornly, snapping at Beel when it looks like he might creep in for a bite. “I’m not sendin’ it back to the forest. It’ll be dead in a day.”

"It might be dangerous," Levi hisses. "It's totally giving me the evil eyes."

"Stop scaring it, then,” Mammon says loftily. “Relax, ya big baby - You’ve got teeth bigger than its whole head.”

“You are not keeping it,” Lucifer says again, as if repeating himself will make him sound more in charge.

“Pfft. Can’t tell me what to do.” He snaps at Beel again. “Oi! No bitin’! Go raid your stash or something.”

Beel’s horns seem to droop a little. “...fine. C’mon, Belphie.”

“I was busy,” complains Satan with a huff as the twins flap off. "This is boring. I've seen deer carcasses more interesting than that weird little thing."

"Go look at your stinkin' carcasses, then," Mammon shoots back, fighting the impulse to spit something at him.

Satan does exactly that. Levi soon slinks off as well, apparently still intimidated - and Asmo seems to have disappeared as soon as he decided the human wasn't going to make a good accessory.

Lucifer, meanwhile, stands his ground. His tail is beginning to lash in agitation. If Mammon’s lucky, maybe he’ll even start spitting fire.

“I'm not gonna eat it,” He says stubbornly.

“I wasn't going to tell you to,” Lucifer replies, but he sounds very much like he’s considering it. “Belphie was right. If a hunter sees us with one of their young, they’ll take it as a threat.”

“Like we wouldn’t win,” He scoffs, sitting down with a thump. "Anyway,don't ya smell the fire on it?"

A single scarlet eye narrows a little. Evidently he hadn't - though Lucifer's always smelling smoke, by virtue of the literal furnace in his chest, so he can't really be blamed for not noticing.

The human is peeking out from beneath his wing with a little more bravado now. Lucifer eyes its round little face as if it might start spitting poison at him.

"...humans don't usually try to set fire to their young," Lucifer says after a moment. "You're sure she doesn't have anywhere to go?"

"Wouldn't've been in the forest if it— uh, she did." He glances down. "C'mon! Not like we don't have the space."

Lucifer is silent. Then he gives a long-suffering sigh - sending a plume of dark blue smoke into the sky - and bends down to the human’s eye level again.

“Will you behave?” Lucifer asks her severely, as if she can understand dragon-speak.

The human child blinks up at him. Then she reaches up and plants a hand on his snout.

Mammon holds his breath. After a moment, Lucifer’s wings flutter, then settle.

“I’m not having any part in this,” He announces, stepping back. “This is to be your responsibility only. Don't make any trouble for your brothers. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He says dismissively, occupied with keeping his triumph from showing in his tail. Got it.”

Lucifer glances down at the human one final time. “...take care of her.”

And off he flaps - to attend to his usual nighttime duties. He says he's keeping watch for danger, but mostly they seem to involve gazing darkly into the sunset.

With his brothers dispersed, Mammon takes a moment to actually consider his situation. He doesn’t actually know what taking care of a human child involves. He doesn’t know much about humans in general - it’s not like he usually pays them any attention. Maybe some of his brothers could give him some advice… if any of them were interested in the kid’s well-being, at least.

They’ll come around, He decides after a moment, unfurling his wings and attempting to nudge the human in the general direction of their living caves. First, I gotta figure out what these things eat…

[vuldak-juneau]

@heroic-ignus Location: The journey to Hrimthur's Outpost

(tw: violence) Each step further into the wasteland was agony. The miles and days had piled up, but so too had the promises. Little aside from callouses and frost-bitten extremities had materialized as rewards. That was until the long-whispered about village materialized before their eyes.

Rest was welcomed, and the collective held breath was finally released. Hands were made busy with preparing beds for resting, hunters were dispatched to find meat, and gatherers for what other provisions there were to be found. Even Juneau, perpetually pessimistic, found her mood slightly lifted and her surly attitude a bit more welcome to chip in for the benefit of others. 

Juneau had been tasked with preparing a space for the horses, and that solitary work suited her fine. She spread the hay as evenly as she could, and perhaps fed them a bit more grain than was prudent, but they had earned it after all. Her back had begun to ache from the manual labor of refreshing the stalls and wielding the heavy pitchfork. A breathless sigh escaped her as she pulled the thick sleeve of her coat across her forehead.

And then—somehow immediately amongst the throng of refugees—she saw his face. Ivar. Whatever happened between the moment she first laid eyes on him and meeting him toe to toe was beyond her. Rage and shock had blacked out her senses, and then next thing she knew she was throttling him. 

Pitchfork in hand, she grappled him to the ground and relished in the fact that her newfound strength allowed her to best him. Juneau was determined now to demonstrate her superiority in every way, to return his favor of demonstrating how little he had needed her but sending a clear message that she needed him even less. Ivar struggled, and his panicked eyes found no reprieve or tool to aid him in his plight. Instead, he only saw the jackal’s smile materialize on Juneau’s face hovering above his own.

He was fighting as hard as he could, and the unyielding, violent urges that drove Juneau’s decision making process spurred her on. She pinned him, one foot pinning down each of his arms with her full weight. Juneau needed him to understand how futile escaping his fate would be, he would receive the same lack of mercy he showed her a month prior—none. Her breath was ragged with elated anticipation as she gripped the pitchfork in both of her hands and strained her back to lift it above her head. 

The movements were swift and secure as she brought the rusted points of the pitchfork down with the whole of her might. He screamed and the sound of it could have made her laugh. Perhaps there was a time and a place for small mercies, for rather than piercing him through the neck, she pinned him to the frozen floor of the village path between the lethal prongs of the tool and slowly lowered her face toward his. She felt her mouth opening, the flesh of her cheeks lengthening until the sinew tugged at itself to the snapping point, her gaping maw opening wider than the hinge of a human jaw would permit. The razor-sharp jowls of a wolf threatened to raze through his neck and swallow him whole, but when the beast of Juneau took in that anticipatory breath before the kill all it loosed in her was a scream.

The woman jolted upright into the frigid, dark air in a chaotic, sudden lurch. Juneau panted and clutched at herself, finding that she was still very much human in form. The flickering light of a near-dead fire reminded her that they had not arrived anywhere except another bend in the winding mountain pass, another false summit, another unkept promise of respite. She swallowed hard and pawed at her cheek finding it dry—it was too cold to allow for the materialization of tears, not that she was weak enough to cry. Not for that fucker. The beating of her heart began to right itself again, slowing back to its normal rate in increments and she glanced around hoping that her decision to sleep as far away from the others had granted her the privacy it was intended for. 

[hypotheticalhyacinths]

Scared of the Dark? Ch 1

Plagas!Leon Kennedy/ AFAB Reader 18+ minors DNI

Warnings: Knife play, Rape/Non-con, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Breeding, Blood and Injury, Biting, Blood, Multiple Orgasms, Dominant Leon S. Kennedy, Choking, Forced Orgasm, Violence, Pet Names, Degradation, Creampie, Concussions, Monster Traits,Knives, Guns, Reader gets their ass beat, Possessive Leon Kennedy, Cock Warming, Unconsciousness, Leashes, Collars and Praise Kink

Out of all the places across the globe you had been sent, Spain had to be the worst. You hadn't even been there for more than a couple hours and things had gone downhill faster than you could have imagined.

You had been sent to retrieve Agent Leon Kennedy after he had all but disappeared off the face of the earth. All communication with him had been lost and you started to fear the worst. 

When you arrived you had received a less than warm welcome, proven by the gash in your bicep and a stab wound on your thigh from the locals. 

Now you were holed up in what could best be described as a shack in the middle of the woods, tending to your injuries. Luckily you didn't come ill-equipped as you had anticipated Leon to be in critical condition.

The injury on your arm hadn't torn any major muscle but it would certainly slow you down. As for your thigh, the injury itself was small but it was deep. While you were trying to make your way through a gate a villager had stabbed you with a pitchfork, the rusty metal making it's home in the meat of your leg. At least you had gotten a tetanus shot. 

You had managed to stitch up your wounds and wrap up your arm to the best of your ability, though the pain medication you had brought was leaving a lot to be desired. It would have to do. 

Going forward you had two options, wait until morning and try to call for backup, or use the cover of night to stealthily search around. Daylight proving to reveal you too easily.

You had to fight the urge to retreat, call for backup and get yourself the hell out of there.

This mission was time sensitive however and Leon could be in a life threatening situation, the hostile villagers crawling around more than enough to confirm your concerns.

You let out a sigh and checked your ammo, your brows furrowing. Not good. You had unloaded a couple more rounds than necessary into a particular villager wielding a chainsaw before making your escape. Whatever they were infected with was not going to go out without a fight.

You had to keep searching.

Leaving the questionable safely of the run down building, you began to make your way towards the outskirts of the village. As you had thought the darkness made a good cover, but unfortunately it was much more difficult to find your way around.

It seemed like an eternity before you found your way to what looked like a massive castle, far enough away from the village to make you relax slightly. Hopefully there would at least some helpful items in the castle that you could use to better your odds.

Taking a deep breath you pushed open one of the heavy doors and raised your pistol ready to shoot at any possible enemy. To your surprise, the expanse of the hallway in front of you was entirely devoid of life and almost barren making you wonder if it had been abandoned.

You took a few more cautious steps before closing the doors behind you, trying your best to avoid making too much noise. When you confirmed your presence hadn't been noticed you began to make your way through the stone corridors one by one.

As you got further into the castle, your hopes of the building being abandoned were snuffed out by a sudden warmth you felt provided by torches lining the walls. You could use one as a weapon if things really took a turn for the worse. 

You were in edge as you walked, your skin prickling and your heart jumping into your throat at the slightest sound. 

Unbeknownst to you, your sudden appearance had been noticed, and you were about to realize you weren't alone as you thought you were.

As you rounded a corner after a particularly long set of stairs you came upon a door. 'Please let there be something useful in here.' You silently prayed, mustering your courage as you gently pushed it open, once again raising your pistol. The room was dark making it so you could barley see your hand in front of your face. Great.

You reached out and grabbed a torch close to the opening of the door and brought it into the room with you, it's warm glow illuminating just enough to make out a desk and a couple random items.

You approached the desk slowly and began to search through the dusty drawers, a couple extra bullets and a well used hunting knife the only things you were able to salvage from it's contents. Better than nothing.

When you straighted up to make your way out of the room you heard footsteps coming in your direction. Shit. Shit shit shit.

You did the only thing you could think to do and you placed the torch in an open sconce and hid behind the door, waiting for the person to either enter or walk past. You prayed for the latter. 

Your stomach dropped when you saw the door begin to open, the old hinges creaking in protest. Gripping the hunting knife, you steadied yourself, preparing to run. As the person entered the room and began to shut the door behind them, you swung the knife in front of you only for your wrist to get caught in a strong grip.

Panic began to rise in your throat when suddenly your eyes met the gaze of the person in front of you.

"Leon?!"

Next chapter

[giantologist]

Professor Finch,

I consider myself a bit of a wandering witch, but as of late I’ve felt a need to settle down a bit. There’s a village I pass through seasonally that seems unlikely to chase me out by pitchfork-wielding mob, and my tinctures, salves, and various charms sell quite well there. However, this particular village has a giant. I’m not opposed to giants by any means, but I haven’t ever seen this giant during previous visits, and I worry if giants are opposed in any way (large or small) to witches. If I build my home there it will be on the outskirts of the forest; likely closer to the giant than the village proper. I’d hate to make anyone uncomfortable or fearful, regardless of size. Do you know the best way to introduce myself and ask permission to build my abode? Or should I find another village entirely?

(PS; I know less unsavory practitioners of my craft have been known to deal in poisons specific to giantfolk. Please know I’ve never done so, and in fact pox anyone who comes round knockin’ to ask.)

Greetings!

It will reassure you that giants have never been opposed to magic users as a whole (although I cannot speak for personal grudges) and I have known those skilled enough to practise scale change magic to provide larger than usual crops for giants.

I would be surprised if the village giant would take offence to your settling on the outskirts of the forest. After all, you are about to be a part of the village, a valued member of the community, and such an addition would delight anybody who cares about their home. As for introducing yourself, I would suggest approaching it how you would with any other neighbour. A token of goodwill, be that edible or a sample of your trade, and a friendly visit with clear and good intentions. I have said many times that gift giving is extremely important to giants, and anything regardless of size or use will help you ingratiate yourself into their life.

I wish you luck, and hope you find a new friend and a welcoming community!

Professor J Finch

[swordsonnet]

témoin, or: guidance for a martyr

and in the morning, when the men come with their pitchforks and flaming torches, to drag you across the village square and to your violent end, let it be known that you did not resist. you have always known this was going to happen. you have always prayed for this to happen.

to be a woman in this world is to be an open wound. to have a body like yours is to have a target painted on your back. you tried to purify your body, turn it into a temple, but it was never clean enough for that, so you had to make it a sacrifice instead. the lamb, after all, is always innocent.

when they strip the skin off your naked body, when they burn the flesh clean off your bones, when they cut off your breasts and leave you androgynous as an angel, you must not scream. your lips must not make a single sound that is not prayer.

remember that your torment is the divine weapon you wield, not just another act of senseless violence. remember that you are a torchbearer, a blaze of righteous truth, not just another beautiful corpse. remember that your flesh was rotten from the start. remember that your body is only holy when it bleeds.

when they rip your still-beating heart from the desecrated ruin of your body, will they hold one last fragile piece of god in their hands? will your suffering have been worth it?

you have to believe that. whatever happens, you must have faith. faith that the sun will rise for you once more. faith that you will leave your fleshly prison far behind and ascend to a kingdom of pure light, where the rivers run golden and the trees bear the sweetest fruit, where your wounds will be healed and your blood turned to honey, where pain is but a distant memory.

you must believe. if you don't, all of this will have been for nothing. if you don't, your blood will just be blood, soaking into vulgar soil. even when there is nothing left to hold onto, no more holiness to claw from your broken bones, you must believe.

fix your eyes upon the light. trust that there is a god above who has seen something to love in your shattered soul and will not let you fall.

don't lose sight of that light. maybe every scar you bear has been a sign from god. maybe you were never a victim, always a saint. the most tragic thing in the world is pain without a purpose.

[certified-character-concepts]

Thinking again about an idea I had for an adventurer who retired after being blinded by grevious wound, but found a calling in helping others and became a local, pacifist paladin. He'd travel between towns healing the sick and injured or helping out farmers without the coin for hired hands.

In his travels he bonded with many an uprooted soul. One of these was a woman ostracized for some crime or social context about which he wished not to prod, who he got the sense she had few visitors. He stopped by whenever he was in the area, asking after her and about the many half-finished statues near her abode. She seemed hesitant and mumbled about sculpting to pass the time. He marveled at her skill and how lifelike they felt, but she seemed anxious over the discussion so he let it drop. The next few times went better, and she warmed up to him soon after. Over the years, he came to love hearing her soft words, and even more how confident and majestic her voice grew when he could cajole her into singing for him.

Eventually, he gets dragged into the sojourn of the party against his better judgement and begins to relearn the trade. In downtime when learning of each other, he speaks of his beautiful wife, who sings like a sparrow and practices her artwork in the woods.

One day he receives a letter or sending from her asking for help, as someone attacked her and citizens of the nearby village have since been searching the woods to find her. He of course urges the party in that direction as fast as possible.

When they arrive an hour ahead of a mob wielding torches and pitchforks, he finally rushes to embrace his wife while the party halts in shock at the sight of a medusa.

Cue party confusion and mistrust while the character recovers from his surprise enough to have a serious conversation about respecting her desire to keep this secret but needing know if she did something to deserve this, cut short by the angry mob arriving. Chaos ensues.

[pansychubb]

I need to vent. Ignore/block me as needed.

It feels like the CR cast are gaslighting us. The "anti-deity" sentiment doesn't feel like it's coming from the characters. It feels like it's coming from the players. And neither makes sense.*

"The Dawnfather temple basically told the villagers to convert or die!" No, Ashton, that was YOU and the cult-ish pitchfork-wielding villagers who did that. The only thing the temple did was shady real estate practices and "bad vibes." YOUR SIDE are the ones who attacked them without provocation, MURDERED at least one of them, destroyed the building, and then forcibly exiled anyone who wanted to practice a different faith.

"The gods never did anything for me." No, Laudna, they LITERALLY did EVERYTHING for you. You were only resurrected because your party went to massive trouble to find a high-level divine cleric. And even if that was true (which, again, it's not), why does that mean it's okay for an entire religious system to be wiped out? Because you personally don't care? Your apathy gets to dismiss the faith of millions of people who believe differently than you?

Matt has spent years playing the prime deity religions as inoffensively as possible - no proselytizing, no oppression, no real pressure to join worship. Now it's like we're suddenly supposed to accept that, "whoops, they were corrupt and mean all along!" without any transition or evidence? (No, the village elder's speech where she explicitly agrees with the mass-murdering villain doesn't count). It's the worldbuilding equivalent of character assassination.

Does the cast think we don't know these things? Do they think we'll just forget all these contradictions if they say them often and loud enough? It's getting to the point that it's insulting.

Yes it's their game. Yes it's their world. Yes they can do what they want. But they're doing it so astoundingly badly.

---

*Except in a "this decision was dictated in a boardroom meeting for legal and financial purposes" way. Which is extra frustrating.

[fierceawakening]

Years later, some jerk of an Official Inquisitor makes his way to the village. “Don’t be alarmed. We’ve received reports that a Phyrexian has been sighted hiding out in the area. Keep to your homes for the time being, but we assure you we will locate and remove the threat.”

Stiv the cheese vendor is already walking into the town square, his eyestalks drooping sadly. “I understand. I knew this day would come eventually. I will come peacefully. Do not alarm these others on my behalf.”

He gets about three steps into the square before he’s surrounded by a defensive perimeter of pitchfork wielding humans and kor who did NOT sign up for this bullshit today.

“Steve is the nicest guy in the village,” says a muscular farmer woman who could take down a dragon engine by staring at it. “Unfortunately for you, the rest of us are less nice.”

The next Magic stories should address the trauma and confusion of being a Phyrexian waking up after the invasion, free of Norn's puppeting for maybe the first time ever. Did they even know what they were made to do?

They are people, and many people will inevitably reflect on and feel remorse for their hideous actions. Where do they go now? Do they struggle to atone? Drown in their guilt? Lean into the cruelty forced upon them and inflict more harm?

There's a Phyrexian diaspora all over the Multiverse now with a shared traumatic history and I'd love to see characters grapple with that.

[catandcrown]

Sabrae Hythenos.

One of my DnD characters from our Call of the Netherdeep campaigns. Sabrae Is a human Echo Knight fighter and is a powerhouse. ---- In her former life, Sabrae fought as a captain in the Kryn Dynasty, a seven ft tall Drow donned in chitinous armour wielding a massive glaive. During a particularly fierce battle, Sabrae was cut down, and died on the field, and her family believed her soul lost to them, being so far from the Luxon Beacon at the Drow capital of Rosohna . However, Sabrae was reborn into a human family on the menagerie coast, with no memory of her former life until her family was attacked, and some killed in a raid on their village. Picking up a pitchfork that she found in the barn, she slew 7 foes, wielding it with the precision she had no idea she had. From there, her journey begins to reclaim her former life, protect both of her families as she recovers her memories of her past life.----Sabraes human form is amab, but she is a genderqueer character, going by she her pronouns and being female presenting. However, given the nature of rebirth in the Drow community, its not seen as an issue of gender and more of a reclamation of identity.This piece took an age to do mainly because of the insectoid armour, damn it was a bastard, but worth the effort in the end. There are close up pictures as you swipe to see the details of both Sabraes human body and her Drow echo. And yes, I based her original body on Tessa Thompson. Hope you like her!

[legendofzoodles]

LU Deepest Fear Headcanons 2

Here are lu fear headcanons that I couldn’t fit in the last post. These are more like worries or less intense fears that the chain have (apart from the Wind fanfic idea at the bottom. If this has been done pls let me know in the comments). 

The link to part one is at the bottom with a few others. 

Warrior doesn’t inherently have a problem with women. He’ll show off a bit when he feels like it, chat them up and even playfully flirt. It’s the persistent ones who take the flirting too seriously and won’t take no for an answer that make him uneasy. There’s also a certain...’type’ that he’ll avoid even if they don’t even so much as look his way.

Warrior and Twilight have had bad experiences with fire. Our Captain had that fight with Volga in the first stage of HW which gave him those burn scars and Wolfie was chased out of his own village by people he knows and loves who were wielding flaming torches and pitchforks (not an in game thing, but it’s how I’ve always imagined it).

In BoTW you can’t go underwater. This may change come BoTW 2, but can I interpret this as Wild not liking to keep his head underwater for extended periods of time? Either due to something traumatic before the Calamity or as just a lighthearted quirk of his (like if for whatever reason he doesn’t open his eyes when swimming underwater).

Legend shuts out Koholint Island in his memories. It’s existence really confusing, because I myself don’t know it was real or not (tbf I haven’t finished Link’s Awakening). Therefore, I’ll headcanon that Legend doesn’t really know what the deal is with Koholint either. As a reasonable, logical and (thanks to his experiences) slightly cynical person, he’ll lean towards it all being a dream and the island not actually being real. But there’s unsureness in that conclusion, and that constant back and forth is what tears him up inside.

Time is still a little freaked out by Redeads and the undead in general. His experience exploring the Shadow Temple messed him up a little. Seeing the horrific acts the Sheikah committed under the orders of the Royal Family, would have made him realise that they are not the perfect rulers he thought they were. He’d have a distrust of the Sheikah and probably saw Sheik in a new light until they were revealed to be Zelda which just messes up thing further to him.

Wind has had to deal with Redeads too. And those terrifying zombie-like things have a less than savory habit of wrapping themselves around you and biting into your skull. That would traumatise the dickens out of anyone! I headcanon that he has scars from those encounters, maybe even bald patches from scar tissue, and since those aren’t fond memories he hides them as to not have to tell/remember that story. Not to mention that nightmare inducing awful scream! Time has had...well time, to move past this and so probably isn’t affected, but LU takes place a year or so after WW and PHG for Wind, so it’s still going to be fresh in his mind.

I need a short story where the chain encounters Redeads again. Wild acts all confident, telling them what to do- with Time and Warrior watching him proudly- and gets all hyped to fight them. However, upon hearing their scream he freezes up in terror and completely breaks down mentally while the others go ahead with the plan and protect him. Only for for him to spring into action when it looks like one of the chain are gonna get their heads chomped on. Then they talk it over and he shows them his scars (maybe Time has scars like that too and shows those), allowing him to start moving past it. -someone please write it or I will myself

~~~

As always, thank you for reading! Might add more to this in the future.

Age headcanons Height headcanons (and more) Deepest fear 1

[torpublishinggroup]

ICYMI—Max Gladstone revealed the cover of Dead Country, book one of his new Craft Wars trilogy, a series which will determine the fate of the fast-dealing world of ambitious lawyer-necromancers and deposed deities that so many fans have fallen in love with! 

😎 Check it out 😎

Discover the destiny of the Craft in Dead Country, the beginning of the end of Max Gladstone's beloved fantasy epic.

BOOK ONE OF THE CRAFT WARS TRILOGY

Since her village chased her out with pitchforks, Tara Abernathy has resurrected gods, pulled down monsters, averted wars, and saved a city, twice. She thought she'd left her dusty little hometown forever. But that was before her father died.

As she makes her way home to bury him, she finds a girl, as powerful and vulnerable and lost as she once was. Saving her from raiders, twisted by a remnant of the God Wars, who haunt the area, Tara changes the course of the world.

Max Gladstone's world of the Craft is a fantasy setting like no other. When Craftspeople rose up to kill the gods, they built corporate Concerns from their corpses and ushered in a world of rapacious capital. Those who work the Craft wield laws like knives and weave chains from starlight and soulstuff. Dead Country is the first book in the Craft Wars Trilogy, a tight sequence of novels that will bring the sprawling saga of the Craft to its end, and the perfect entry point for this incomparable world.

╔═══════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ═══════╝

Also Available by Max Gladstone

The Craft Sequence

Three Parts Dead

Two Serpents Rise

Full Fathom Five

Last First Snow

Four Roads Cross

The Ruin of Angels

Interactive Novels

Deathless: The City’s Thirst

Choice of the Deathless

Standalone Novels

Last Exit

Empress of Forever

This is How You Lose the Time War (with Amal El-Mohtar)

[foreveratlas]

Not Like That

How many words are wasted

on days of strife and stride

lacking the offramp on this

seemingly endless highway.

.

We scream to let us be,

let us take the exit and know

the safer roads beyond barricades

and mediums locking us in--

Let us be, let us breathe

we say, and you say,

.

No, not like that, you must

stand to the side and suffer in quiet

and wait for your turn to speak--

the turn that will never come

the time that will never be given.

.

And so we march and stand

hold our signs and let the world know

via peace and calm of injustice,

and you say, No,

Not like that, you must center yourselves

in your own communities,

and so we do.

.

We learn to laugh and love and

live in our lane because this road

is ever ceaseless, and the world

assumes that small boons granted

prove we have the same rights,

the same voice, the same presence.

.

These were our rights gifted to us

as if we accept a privilege to marry,

a privilege to speak, a privilege to live.

When the violence comes,

and our sisters and brothers fall,

we scream out again and again and again

.

and you tell us, No, not like that.

Hold the space for your dead, the dead

the rest of us care little for-- mourn

and don't turn this political.

Our very existence is political. Our very rights

to life and happiness is political.

.

We go for office to change the status quo,

attempt to raise our communities from dust

and disgust in the eyes of your America,

your World, and we win little by little

and we fight in the same arena as you,

and you say, No, not like that.

.

Not like that while laws and hate

are aimed against us, and families

persecuted for ensuring their children

could flourish, and one by one

our siblings picked off by your

street preachers wielding

trigger happy god complexes

and you wonder why

we look at you the way you look at us.

.

And you say, No, not like that,

and we say, yes just like that.

And you use that to vilify us, demonize us,

scream to the world to see us as monsters,

but truly

.

We are the villagers, staring down the beast

raising our pitchforks and torches.

You can cry, No, not like that,

but soon

.

We'll stop listening.

[inkandpaintnb]

I post one selfie and I’m sent to the Shadow Realm (doctors office) by the angry mob of pitchfork wielding villagers (my arm getting a muscle spasm or something)