#rising tempests (dragon age)

[intothewildsea]

@dilffactory (solas)

Mithril had invited Niamh out with her little group on a scouting mission, claiming that having Niamh around to tend to their wounds would be helpful. She didn’t mind, especially since it gave her a chance to get out of Skyhold for a little while.

She had to admit to herself, though, that she was a little uneasy about going with them, if only because Solas was in the little group. Something about the elf unsettled her. She couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t that he was rude or unkind - if anything, he was polite most of the time. Yet there was something lurking beneath the surface that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Sometimes, she noticed him looking at her in a way that made her wonder if he knew what she was.

They had stopped for a rest. Mithril was talking to Iron Bull, Varric was scribbling something down in his book (Niamh wondered if he’d ever speak to her again after the kissing incident at the ball), leaving her to sit off to the side near Solas.

She didn’t want to be rude and just ignore him. “Do you need anything? Any potions?” she asked after a few moments. “I have some in my bag.”

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 22: Threshold [FREE DAY]

a moment for aureia and aymeric on the threshold of change. aymeric x wol. stormblood spoilers. written for ffxivwrite2024. rated: mature 1273 words ao3 link

Aymeric sighs and sinks into the bath, idly watching the steam as it rises and curls towards the rafters.

It may not be the same as the pleasantness of a hot springs bath, but it is most welcome all the same. His body aches, his muscles stretched and worn. It is a concerning fact of his life how easy it is to strain himself not just from combat, but from a hard day’s ride. Some aides younger than he would find it easy to pin it on his age, but mid-thirties is not old, especially for an Elezen. This is the consequence of countless hours spent at a desk, in meetings, and otherwise remaining stationary.

Guilt twists in the pit of his stomach. He has not been lax, with his life or his duties. Aureia would say he has never once been lax in all the years she has known him, and could benefit from “going rogue”. He has kept regular training, though not as intensive a regimen as many knights can afford. He simply does not have the time. And yet he can and will grace the battlefield, when it is required of him.

He has not once put down his sword. He is both soldier and politician. The latter he is secure in, but the former…? Fighting Garleans is a different beast than fighting dragons. His skill feels eroded. Weathered. Not what it once was.

And it is certainly nothing compared to the tempest that storms the battlefield at his side.

He groans and shifts his position, water sloshing about him as he digs his fingers into the tense muscles of his calf. The bath is a wide rectangle pool sunk into the floor, surrounded by rich red and gold tile. A little ledge runs around the edge for bathers to sit on, carved from the same stone that was used to build Porta Praetoria. A brass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its glow hazy in the steam. A few climbing plants stand scattered about the room, vines and leaves spilling over the lip of their pots and dragging on the floor. It must have been some time since anyone thought to care for them.

The Ala Mhigan resistance spared no expense finding the Alliance leaders the best rooms to be found in Porta Praetoria. He almost resisted, insisting that he can sleep in the tents the same as his troops, but—as always—his thoughts went to Aureia. She would not join him, if that was the case, for the sake of her own privacy. And so, a week out from their planned attack on Ala Mhigo, they have found themselves lodged in a room nicer than most Ala Mhigans could ever afford, enjoying amenities most of their soldiers will never have access to.

Who was this chamber’s last occupant, he wonders? A wealthy merchant? A Garlean spy? A distant scion of the Mad King? Perhaps Prince Zenos himself stayed in these rooms, though he cannot imagine it. Garleans think little of the people they conquer, their so-called “savages”. Why would he take refuge in Porta Praetoria when he has a whole palace available to him in Ala Mhigo?

Aymeric sinks deeper into the bath, allowing his legs to float up in the water. Ala Mhigo. It is impossible to block out now, even here in the safety of this room. The far wall faces east and the windows are shutterless, the remains of their wood still clinging to the window frame. Ala Mhigo looms on the horizon, beyond the sea of tents, beyond the dark waters of Loch Seld, its palatial silhouette glowing orange and red with the light of Garlean magitek.

A knock on the door. “Aymeric?”

Aureia. Her voice cuts through the din of his thoughts, and relief washes over him.

“I’m in here,” he calls.

The door creaks open and she slips inside. He raises his head and his shoulders sag with disappointment—she is still dressed in armour, her hair tied back in a tight bun, her weapon strapped to her back. The staff glitters, sharp and lethal, a blue-green focusing crystal interwoven with its deadly blade. A custom design, forged by Cid Garlond from salvaged Allagan tech and crafted to be used interchangeably as a black mage’s armament and a dragoon’s lance. It is impossible to know if she is coming or going.

“Heading out?” he asks gently, careful not to let his disappointment show.  

She shakes her head and moves further into the room, favouring one leg. Is she injured? “Returning,” she replies. “One hells of a scouting mission. Thancred…” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Never mind.”

He pushes himself up. “Are you hurt, Aureia?”

“No.” She crosses her arms, one hand gingerly brushing her side. “I’m going to bed. I wanted to see you before I did. Say goodnight.” Her eyes flick across the room, distracted by the sight through the window. “If I can even sleep with that fucking thing out there.”

“The city may be a reminder of what’s to come, yes,” he replies. “But perhaps we should think of what our deeds will achieve once it is liberated, rather than what it is now.”

“I’m not talking about the city.”

The water’s gentle lap at odds with the fierceness of her voice. She speaks of Zenos—there is no one else she could mean. No one else who raises her ire. No one else who threatens to overtake her mind. He does not know why the crown prince figures so largely in her life. He is a Garlean legatus—a powerful one, of course, but she has laid low powerful legatuses before. The streak of vengeance in her voice gives him pause. It is too powerful, too twisted to simply be anger directed at the general who defeated her at Rhalgr’s Reach.

And a shade too close to the venom with which Estinien once spoke of Nidhogg.

Aymeric meets her eyes. She stares at him, her gaze sweeping over his body but seeing none of his nakedness. Any desire she may have for him has been pushed aside, locked away. With anyone else he could imagine this moment turning into a charming evening, a last romantic encounter between two lovers on the threshold of change. And perhaps it still could be.

“It’s a quiet night,” he says softly. “Why don’t you undress first? Come speak with me for a while. We may not have many chances left.”

Her jaw clenches. “I don’t feel like talking.”

“Then sit with me, then.”

She stares at him, eyes narrowed. With her hair drawn back so severely and her pointed ears on display, she is all angles—sharp and keen and stinging. If he could go to her, he would—to hold her, kiss her, tell her that it will be all right. But he dare not now. Not if she does not want him to.

“I don’t feel like that either,” she says at last, her voice low and ragged, as if she is on the verge of tears. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Aureia—”

“Good night.”

His heart pangs. He rises from the bath, water rushing off him, but it is too late. She slips back through the door, taking care to close it without a sound. A gesture, one of her many perplexing voiceless ways of communicating.

A way to say “I’m sorry, I’m not angry with you.”

A way to say, “I’m sorry, this is not your fault.”

A way to say, “I’m sorry I’m not enough.”

He would have preferred if she had slammed it.

[lovra974]

Another Barbarian Bakugo [part 2]

Prince Barbarian Bakugo x Dragon Royal Reader ; Dragonshifter Kirishima ; fluff ; implicit smut ; angst ; death of character ; sad ending. It's the last part. Hope you like it !

A lot of mysteries surrounded the L/N Realm.

The tropical forest beated by tempests, the tall mountains screaming in the wind... And the dragon-borns flying in the sky.

Your Realm was a peculiar one. Not so long ago, dragon-borns lived hidden and enslaved. Their scales and horns were tore out to be sold. A tribe was using magic to lock them up, forbiding them to fly.

You were the one who freed them. You were at war with the tribe, they blocked the few commercials road your people used. When you discovered dragon-borns were locked in their caves, you used it.

They are peculiar creatures. The years confined weaken them. You used old magic to help them. Kirishima was the first to follow you. He proposed you something, his dragon being the bigger was the harder to control. By using a link called sibling, you could help him to tame his dragon. You fought together, strengthen by magic and the new link between you two.

You won against the tribe and freed all the dragon-borns, they weren't a lot.

You proposed them citizenship, promising protection and equality with other people. They all agree, but were quite suspicious. They have been locked for years after all.

But through time you won their trust.

Kirishima was your closest friend and one of the representative of his kind in your council. Your people prospered. Your culture and the dragon-born's culture mixed up.

However a problem appeared. The number of dragon-born rised up, while your food reserve didn't evolve. Feeding everybody was becoming quite difficult.

So, when Queen Mitsuki send a letter where she proposed an alliance and the hand of her only son in marriage for your help, you jumped on it. It was the solution.

You heard about the Bakugo’s tribe. Traders talked about the Prince's prodigious swordplay, his boldness in war, his lack of fear. His land was prosperous and fertile contrary to yours. You could feed your people with this mariage.

You asked more information and the traders talked about his spiked blond hair, how he kept his posture against King Enji who has three time his age and experience. Then, a trader talked about his red eyes.

Red eyes were the mark of dragon-borns in your country. You questioned the trader to know if he saw him shift.

"I don't know if he is a dragon, Heir L/N, but he sure fight like one."

You fantasized the man, without knowing it. Some of the oldest called him an ancient dragon soul. And Kirishima called you a lovesick fan, always with a stupid grin. "Come on Eijiro, I'm doing it for the food, you know me." You would say.

You would whispered it when you barged in Todoroki's castle, or when you found the Phoenix' crown. You burned down the castle after making sure everybody was dead. Apparently, King Enji ran away when he learned about the destruction of his fleet but left his children and wife. "Coward" growled Kirishima.

You sent your best trackers at his pursuit and flew to the Bakugo's, the crown safe in an orned box.

Bakugo, from his side, fought his parents. Asking when did they thought they had the right to forced his hand like that, without telling him before.

"Listen at you brat, throwing a tantrum like a spoiled child ! And you thought I would tell you? Knowing how you would react? I am your Queen, Katsuki. And you better remember it. We need this alliance with the dragon riders, you will give it to your people and that's the last time I'll explain it to you!"

The only person to ease his feelings was his father, who like the king he is, guides his steps. He talked to him about you, how you beat him and how trapped he felt.

"They doesn't sound so bad," he murmured. "But you should learn more about them and their culture. Don't let the darkness of ignorance guide you, flames are always better. Even if it burns. It's good their court is arriving tomorrow."

He followed his advice and learning he did. The first thing he did was training with your men. You won't beat him again, he would learn your tricks, your style, how your body glide. Then he learned more about dragon-borns, how you freed them, how you trusted them, how you rode them. He learned about your people who carved mountains and forests, children who trained for the Storm's Rite, dragon-borns who opened to the world and trusted humans with the sibling link.

And maybe, you weren't so bad.

When you came back, a week before the marriage, you bowed down to his parents and yours. He felt strange. A weird sense of giddiness. When you came to training, his own men would blank, they heard so much about you and the "stupid arranged marriage" their leader was forced into. "You know boss, if it's for the country's good, I volunteer to take your place for marriage." said Kaminari. Sero seconded, in case something happened to Kaminari.

Bakugo beated their ass that day, rage in his blood. He didn't know if it was because he felt mocked or because you were watching. But you didn't talk to him.

He didn't go to you either but he expected you to. Even more after he showed off your people's tricks he learned while you were away. But you didn't say anything.

Not until the ceremony, you got the Phoenix crown out of a box and put it on his head.

"How does it feel, to be the first emperor of the continent ?" You pecked his lips. The touch soft, your warmth dicipated as quickly as it came.

The first night, you stayed in your quarter after telling something about the lack of storms.

He learned the next day he was living with you for the Mishae plains. He saw your homeland, you took his hand and ran with him. He hunted with you, cooked with you, flew with you on Kirishima and cuddled with you in front of dragon's flames. You taught him everything, how to care, how to sooth and how to love. He never felt behind with you, always an equal.

He taught you songs his soldiers sang before battle, he taught you how to dress for winter in the Eastern lands, he taught you how to imitate animals to lure them and he taught you how warm he was.

Kirishima was always with him if not with you. The dragon-born trained and laughed with him. Your brother became his brother too.

It isn't until his first storm in your home, that you led him to your bedroom. You kissed him ferocely, touching and molding your bodies. The rain covered your breaths, thunder roaring like you both. It felt intense, like the weather. Rain pouring, wind screaming, clouds lightening. Bakugo finally understood what Kirishima told him : "You have bells during marriage, we don't have those. We only have thunder, it's him who tell us to... Dance." The smirk from the red-head should have led him to this ancient tradition.

You both flew back when your parents told you Enji was coming from the West. He paid mercenaries to take his castle back.

You both flew to the North with soldiers. The mercenaries were from a witch's clan. Their magic was dangerous to dragon-borns, making the fight more difficult. You ran to King Enji, if there was no king, there was no war. While you fought with the Phoenix you didn't see the archer pointing at you.

Bakugo saw it before you. He screamed you name with all his might, alerting Kirishima. You turned uround.

They saw the scene perfectly. The arrow flying, your eyes widening and the silver head piercing your chest. And just to be sure you wouldn't survive, Enji hit you with his sword, your blood poured everywhere.

Red. Red. Red. Everything was red. The earth where you lied. Katsuki vision while he saw life leave your face. He couldn't believe he didn't tell you he love you. And Kirishima flames when he felt the sibling link broke, crushing his dragon soul.

Enji perished in the flames, swallowed by them. How ironic for a Phoenix. But Kirishima was mad, he couldn't control himself.

Bakugo screamed. He poured his broken heart to stop the dragon. He climbed on it, hugging his scales while the dragon tore itself. He murmured, "I know, I know, I know... I need you to come back Eijiro!"

Crying, he used the spell like you taught him. Kirishima clinged on it. They were both hurting, desesperate. When the spell ended, the link was form.

They were sibling.

They left the North to take you back to Mishae. Bakugo and Kirishima swore no witch would ever hurt a dragon, no dragon-born would die of hunger. The empire formed by the South, the East and North would forever remember you like their creator and fierce protector.

He was now Emperor Bakugo, King of the Barbarians and the Dragons. He couldn't have imagine this destiny, and it was all thanked to you.

Tag list : @nnubee ; @phoenix666stuff

Please tell me if the link worked!

[minubell]

So I now there is very little chance of it arriving because how would it work ?? But I am so curious about a Angmar meeting Melkor fic haha (or just the Nazgûl in general meeting him)

Well so because Tides of War is actually all technically backstory for my dnd campaign which takes place in the 4th age, THEORETICALLY my players could reach a a point where the Nazgul and Morgoth meet each other. I suppose you could call it one of several bad endings.

Bad Ending: At the Door of Night

Angmar is exhausted. Weary in a way that he has not known for several thousand years. Tired not in body but in spirit. This war has weighed heavily upon him and now, faced with their victory, all he can feel is fatigue settling over him like a blanket.

The others lay scattered around him, thrown backwards by the thunderous shockwave. It had only been by plunging the tip of his blade into the earth and clinging to it like an anchor that he had not also been cast down, though he has been driven to one knee and forced to bow his head to brace against the backlash. He cannot muster the strength to stand.

The tempest has eased now, and Angmar lifts his head slowly, squinting past the messy strands of his own hair. His hands still cling to the hilt of his sword, the tips of his fingers blanched white from the force of his grip. His arms are shaking slightly, but if he untangles his grip from his weapon he will probably collapse.

The Door of Night rises before him. Impossibly tall, with pillars of rich black stone. The ruby red eyes of basalt dragons stare down upon him with a weight he cannot truly describe. Smoke stills pours past their carved snarls, but it is beginning to run thin and die. The two great gates of the Door no longer bar the entrance to the void. They have been cast open by his Master, and Angmar is free to stare past them into the Void.

There is… nothing there.

It is blacker than the Door itself, darker than the darkest of nights. There are no stars, no light, but a strange, low humming noise seems to rumble forth from the darkness. Staring directly at it feels sickening. Forbidden. Forbidden in a way that is somehow worse than how it felt when he first stepped foot upon these lands. It makes his skin crawl like the swarming of thousands of spiders across his entire body, and he can feel his hair stand on end in response to the terrible, indescribable wrongness.

This Door should have been left closed.

Some dark fog spills out from the open Door, rolling across the ground on an invisible wind that sweeps his hair slightly. Where it passes the grass shrivels and begins to turn white as crystals of frost gather on the thin surface of their leaves. As it creeps over his legs Angmar cannot suppress the shiver that passes through his body. It is cold, impossibly cold, far colder than the North.

He bares his teeth against the frigid air and exhales sharply. His breath is visible like a white cloud that hangs in the air before him for an instant before vanishing. It is growing colder still, as if that thick, noxious fog is sapping the very warmth from the air. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The Void is dripping now, and something thick and viscous like tar seeps out from the base like a wound.

A hand suddenly springs forth from the Door, blackened and oozing and slams against the frame. Claws dig into the stone as a second hand erupts from the dark and braces itself against the other side of the Door.

A third-fourth-fifth-DOZENS of hands emerge, grasping at the sides and top of the Door and digging into the earth at its base. Each of them blackened as if burned and dripping with that eerie, disgusting tar. There is a pause, then each hand tenses and begins to pull, dragging something out of the void. Something with a turbulent, unnatural, liquid-like body, something piercing white-blue eyes that seem to glow against the black of its body, something with scales and horns and feathers and skin and too many eyes, too many teeth, too many-

“Oh,” Khamul whispers reverently from somewhere on the ground behind him. Angmar could not disagree more.

The thing hauls itself completely from the Void, spilling pieces of itself upon the ground. It is as tall as the Door itself, and something that could vaguely assumed to be a head tips up towards the sky like a lizard bathing in the sunlight. It pauses there for several long moments, basking in the light. When it sighs more of that thick, choking fog spills past its sharp teeth.

“My Lord,” a voice calls out softly, and Angmar’s gaze snaps down to where his master stands just before the creature, impossibly tiny next to its bulk. The creature’s head drops and two large, strange, white-blue eyes focus on the significantly smaller figure. Several of its smaller eyes slide across its body until they too reach its face and are also able to stare at his master. Its face splits in a cracked, cruel smile, and Angmar grimaces against the wave of possessiveness that rolls across his own skin in response.

“Lieutenant,” the thing rumbles, its voice deep and rumbling like thunder. Hands, smaller than the ones that pulled it from the Void’s grasp, emerge from its body and reach out, running over his master’s shoulders, parsing through his hair, touching his face.

This time, Angmar does not bother resisting the possessiveness that bubbles up within him and escapes from his throat in a low growls.

The thing freezes. Its ever-changing, turbulent body goes impossibly still. Eyes blossom over its blackened, wet body, and in the moment it takes for Angmar to realize each of them are locked upon him, the creature moves.

One moment he is upon one knee, the next his head cracks against the ground and all Angmar can see are stars. He snarls even before his vision recovers, and in that moment he can feel a heavy weight pressing down upon his chest, holding him against the dirt. The stars sharpen back into reality, and Angmar realizes they are not stars at all but hundreds of eyes staring at him.

“Oh,” the thing purrs, a large hand pinning Angmar to the floor. A second and third hand pin his hands to the ground on either side of him, and Angmar instinctively closes his fist around the ring on his right hand so it cannot easily be stolen from him. A fourth hand reaches out, grasping for his face, and Angmar snaps his teeth at it, though it artfully avoids his jaws. A thumb presses against one of his cheeks and a finger presses against his other. Fingers curl under his chin and force his head upwards and slightly to one side, and those disgusting eyes are staring at him from all sides as the thing hunches over him. “Fascinating. Your soul is positively frayed, little one.”

“Little one?” Angmar snarls, cursing, trying to get his feet free enough to kick at the thing. His left foot connects with and then sinks into something wet and foul that must be the creature’s body. Incensed, Angmar lashes out with his other foot, and manages to get his leg up and around the arm pinning him down. It sinks into the tar-like substance slightly as well, but gives Angmar enough leverage to yank his other leg free. He aims his now freed leg higher, towards where the thing’s chin seems to be, but a fifth hand reaches out from the mass and catches his foot by the ankle before it can make contact.

“Hush, be still,” the thing coos at him, which only serves to make Angmar angrier, and he strains against the hand holding his face to try to bite it. It is not as if he wants any of that disgusting blackened tar in his mouth, but he is willing to suffer some if he can also inflict some pain in return. Were he not already so drained of might, perhaps Angmar could actually land a strike.

“Release him.”

Angmar watches those eyes slide sideways and glances to the side as well. Khamul has managed to find his feet, and stands a short distance away, legs shaking slightly from the effort. His sword is drawn once more, and he holds it at his side with one hand while the other wipes dirt and blood away from his cheek. “Please,” Khamul adds belatedly, a moment too late compared to his usual politeness.

He looks terrible. Like at any moment he might collapse again. No doubt the weariness Angmar feels Khamul too must be feeling. Possibly even more so.

“Another one?” the thing murmurs thoughtfully. There is a shuffling from around him, and Angmar strains against the hand holding his face to try to see the source. Whatever it is has the thing’s eyes sprawling all over its body to apparently see everywhere all at once. “Ah, and more still? What are you?”

“Those are mine, my lord,” Angmar hears his master murmur from somewhere he cannot see. “I believe you are scaring them.”

“Yours?” the thing asks softly, body rolling as it seems to physically digest this information. One of the larger eyes focuses back on Angmar, and he snarls furiously at it.

“My Nazgul, yes.”

“Ringwraiths?” the thing hums. Its eyes turn back on Angmar and scour over his body for a moment before settling on his closed, right fist. The hand pinning his wrist adjusts slightly so that the finger can reach up and scrape over the part of the band still exposed to the air, and Angmar shivers in response. “Ah, I see. How clever, lieutenant.”

“Thank you, my lord. Will you release him now? As I said, you are scaring them.”

“…Of course,” the thing reluctantly relents, and the hands grasping Angmar’s body recede. Its body rolls for an instant, collapsing in on itself before a man emerges from the dark. Thick, flowing tar makes way for pale skin, except on the man’s hands which remained stained black like they have been burned. There is a surprisingly normal amount of eyes and arms and teeth.

Annoyingly, when Angmar slowly struggles to his own feet, he realizes the man is taller than he.

“They are just so adorable, lieutenant,” the man says, and Angmar is not the only one of the Nine that bristles. He can feel a prodding, wordless question through his ring from both Khamul and Indur of worryconcerndistress, but he ignores them both in favor of glaring up at the man. The remainder of the Nine slowly regroup behind him, huddling together in a familiar formation with Angmar at the point. One of them-Ren?-presses a sword back into Angmar’s hand, and his fingers curl around the blade as best he can. Angmar himself adjusts his stance to be slightly wider, providing more cover to them in his shadow, but any other movements seem beyond him at the moment. He still feels slightly pinned and breathless beneath the man’s sharp gaze. “May I have one? You have… nine, surely you do not need them all.”

“You may not,” his master responds, and there is a slight snap to his voice that Angmar is used to being on the receiving end. Apparently this man is not, because he finally drags his eyes away to turn around, and Angmar feels like he can breathe again without that gaze upon him.

“No?” The man is frowning slightly when he turns back towards Angmar. The other Nine take a reluctant step backwards when the man steps towards them, but Angmar only bares his teeth in a grimace in response. “Look, this one is not even frightened of me. You should let me keep it. I promise I will not even break it.”

“I only serve my master,” Angmar barks back before his master can respond. “Not you.”

“Angmar,” his master calls, and there is a warning in his voice that Angmar immediately ignores.

“I am your master’s master,” the man responds, head tilted to one side. One of his hands reaches out towards Angmar’s face again, but it pauses when Angmar raises his sword in warning. “If he obeys me, surely you must as well.”

“Never,” Angmar responds immediately, and gives him a rude gesture as well.

The man blinks down at him before his frown splits into an eerie, disgusting grin that makes the others take yet another step back and Angmar snarl.

“There are not many Men that would deny me,” the man purrs. He’s stepping closer, and blackened nails pinch Angmar’s sword, keeping him from swinging it. He leans forward slightly, thrusting his face directly into Angmar’s, those eerie, blue eyes staring deep into his. Angmar thinks he can see the Void in those eyes. Certainly something dangerous, not deep within them but rather close to the surface. Danger that drives the others back, but only makes Angmar steel himself. “I rather like you, I think. Are you certain you would not like to serve me instead?”

Angmar glances past him, and makes eye contact with his master for just a moment. A moment where his master immediately reads his expression and must see something telling, because he quickly opens his mouth to call out a warning.

“Angmar-“

Angmar bites the man on the nose.

[agaycabbage]

hi, tumblr

I never actually did an intro post, and I realize I have none of my links or info here so...probably time to change that. 

I’m Charlie. They/them pronouns, please. Super queer, super nerdy, super awkward and apologizing for that in advance. I’m an editor and an author, a gamer, a brand new narrative designer trying to break into game writing, and a bit of a chaos demon. But in the fun way. I hope. 

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Any support is appreciated, but just getting to know my mutuals is a damn joy. I want to know your characters, your hyperfixations, and your favorite kind of pie.

[kingixsstuff]

Trix..discordix and civilian forms

Discordix (name coming from discord)

Discordix is to witches is what magic winx to fairies the base form being gained through intense negative emotion dire situations

The trix (in season 1) are second year students that shortly after coming to cloud-tower studied the dragon flame for its location

Backstories 👇👇

Isabella glacé (icy)

is a girl from the freezing mountains on the outskirts of magix she lived with her mother and little sister who she loved dearly,at a young age she had discovered her core magic that was ice And snow and being around it every day it helped her control her powers.One day she left from home to go and practice Her magic and doing so accidentally setting off a avalanche that consumed their cabin..from that day forward icy never forgave herself and sought out the power that she knew could bring back her loved ones…

Samria tempest…(stormy)

a girl from the villages of tides, andros she was bullied due to her heritage being a direct descendant from Tharma the ancient witch of natural disasters…she was always teased and mocked until the day her magic manifested almost destroying her small town with a tornado she promised herself that she and she alone will become the strongest witch in the universe…to prove those who doubted her wrong

Diantha shinen (darcy)

A noble from the third moon of solaria she was a girl who always had to put on a smile for others but secretly at home delt with a plethora of problems her mother liena was a high ranking noble in the court being queen Lunas older sister. Liena would pressure Diantha to try and suppress her expectations and rise to the top until one day Darcy’s inner darkness manifested causing her to use the shadows to runaway from her home..

[sabiartrin]

I am done.

For many years, I strictly adhered to the fantasy style in my art, but for the past five years, it has been difficult for me. Perhaps you wouldn't guess it from my drawings, but you would know how challenging it is for me to pick up a pencil and draw anything.

Lately, it seems like there's a slow wave rising within me. A tempest. I live on autopilot, and if I stop and let thoughts like 'Am I doing the right thing? Am I where I want to be? Am I wasting my time? Where am I going and why?' creep in, I just want to scream, scream loudly, frighteningly, and for a long time. But there's an unpleasant lump in my throat, and there's a discomfort in my back, as if I've been pushed into a too-tight cage.

Enough bad things have happened in my life, which I managed to push into the corners of my subconscious. But that doesn't mean they didn't affect my life. Childhood traumas have grown into insecurity, self-hatred, and self-deprecation, essentially becoming the defense mechanisms of my consciousness against all the nightmares I experienced as a child. Fantasy... It's a beautiful genre. Many people are drawn to it, growing up in picturesque countryside, enjoying fairy tales, nature, and the love of family. For me, though, fantasy is a way to escape from reality. In my childhood, I would spend hours playing video games because they gave me some semblance of control over at least something. Dragon Age, Titan Quest, Sacred, Skyrim, Disciples - All those games enchanted me, provided me shelter. Same for books and movies. But I'm tired of hiding these traumas within myself, pretending that I've dealt with them and they haven't left any mark on me. That's not true. I've been carrying the burden since childhood, and it poisons my life.

I... I don't know what to do. But what I do know for sure is that I can no longer pretend like I'm okay.

[summertimemusician]

Linktober 2023

Sage

Disclaimer from the get go: All platonic this time! I don't like writing Wind or Wind Waker Link or many people from his games in a romantic context so don't be weird about it guys, Reader is also the same age (unless stated as older) and if anything is implied, it's only on the stage of boyish crushes and otherwise either strictly friends or sibling-like relationships for obvious reasons, if it's not stated on that context of crushes then please take it as platonic. Seriously, don't make it weird. I mean it.

On a lighter note, the Wind Waker Sages are really underrated and I would die for Medli. Makes the older sibling in me want to give her headpats.

There were some constants to Hyrule that you’ve learned over a period of time, experience and outside observation.

A Sorcerer King will inevitably rise (some times just a sorcerer, some times just a king albeit a powerful one), traveling to other worlds and times can basically be another Tuesday when that inevitably happens. Links will always be kind and at their very best when protecting others (which was equal parts heartwarming as it was exasperating, because you knew the Chain would run themselves to the ground if you didn’t keep make sure to keep an eye on them as they did one another, always giving so much of themselves away to a point you always worried there would be nothing left), and that Zelda’s were forces of nature with divinity trapped beneath their skin that should not be underestimated, for they were willing to go through any length of sacrifice for their people and kingdom even if it includes themselves.

Sages, whoever, were another matter entirely that no one can really prepare for, from Nabooru to Gulley and even the Zelda’s themselves. Wise beyond their age and always willing to lend a helping hand to the kingdom should it be needed, always one step behind the Princess in support and only closely followed by the Hero and the Sheikah, chosen seemingly at random but still more, in a way, as magic brushed against their skin with the affectionate touch of an old friend. It was honestly a little intimidating.

Which was why meeting Medli was so refreshing.

“I’m happy to meet you, I hope you’ll feel welcome here in Dragon Roost Island.” Came the sweet thrill of greeting from the young, chestnut haired Rito as she took your hand in wing, smiling gently, “My name is Medli, Link talks quite a lot about you.”

You blink, tilting your head, “Does he now? Hopefully only the good things.” You laugh, a bit awkwardly, you’d be the first to admit you’re way out of your depth ever since you were dropped into Hyrule, but you were trying your best.

She nodded enthusiastically, you think you can see her feathers ruffling from excitement, cute, “Mhm! He talks about you quite highly, in fact-“, she gets a glint in her eye.

You hop back as Wind comes in like a tempest at sea, cutting her off in offense,“Hey! You promised you wouldn’t tell!”

“Well it’s true, I’ve only ever seen you that excited about Tetra and Mask, they deserve to know.” Countered Medli, Wind crossed his arms with a small ‘hmph!’.

“Would you like it if I did the same about Komali?”

Medli gasped, feathers puffing up in surprise and almost dropping her harp with a stern squawk which you quickly dove to catch, exhaling with relief, it looked important to her, “You wouldn’t!”

“I would!”

“But it would just distract him!”

“Don’t care, you spill my secrets I spill yours!”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, patting their heads on instinct. Can anyone blame you? They’re precious. “Alright, alright, settle down. Why don’t you guys show me around? You did mention a nice dragon lived here, Link.”

Medli immediately brightened up, excitedly diving into all the information she could about Lord Valoo, as he was called, while Wind took your hand and dragged you along.

Mhm, you quite like Medli.

[mothduchess]

The Crown of the Sea

Off the shores of a grey-haired kingdom, far from the ragged bluffs of yore... This is a kingdom of the waves, where the seafoam carries royal decrees and the thunder is law. Long have the fishers and the swarthy dock folk managed their ruler's temper - a man can starve a town, but the sea can drown a soul. Hardened by ages of salty water they have become known as fearless, unbowed! ... But some fishing stories are told in the hushest of tones. No orc sized catch, no daring escape. Only the tales of two glowing orbs wraped in fog accompanied by a stench so fowl fish rise to the surface dead in the eye. But a king will never accept a power that is not his own. Never will a king even consider, that nature is not at his whims. Curling wisps of cloud grace the waters on a pale-lit night. On this mistborn evening, the regents meet; the royal vessel from the old crown, emblazoned with its sacred insignia, sails upon the crashing sea. The king and his son, the sovereign and his begrudging heir, dare sail across the sea for clandestine operations for the good of crown and coffers. His majesty's advisors told him not, it'd be risky. His seer said he'd find doom, but he didn't listen. His very son, normally tied of tongue out of spite and fear, spoke. The king answered in defiance. "To the sea! No man of this line will fear that sea, for we are kings of this realm!" He proudly proclaimed. And thus there they are - two souls and a captain, sailing in a royal skiff. The king's arrogance was unmatched, for no mortal could lay a hand upon him, and the sea had no mortal to challenge. This was true. But dear reader, please do take this warning close. There are things more harrowing than a mere man. The sea churns about the boat as curtains of cloud billow about. The captain scrambles to the forefront of the boat. Her visage pales in shock, stepping aback. "What devilry is this?!" Cries the King. The son looks upon confused at the sudden shift in the storming sea. The crashing tempest drums against the boat, announcing the call of its dark master. A shape, dozens of feet tall and wide, rises from the crashing foam. An unearthly noise screams through the sky as water peels from the shapes body. Bone decorated in the royal robes of the sea made of seaweed and studded with age old barnacles. Fiendish claws and putrescent wings glimmer with unhallowed magics, the mist squirming betwixt them. A tail decked in rotting fins lashes the waves into shape behind it. And perched atop a winding neck, a singular unsettling skull, a draconic visage bereft of skin with only two pale glowing wisps set into its sockets and a gnarled crown of dark coral. The Sovereign of the Sea has come to bear, their stature dwarfing the puny vessel. Their subject the storm follows their silent whims and raises the vessel to meet the gaze of this abyssal regent. In a tongue older than grey, they speak.

"You dare claim this sea? Your arrogance claims to stretch from sky to sky, and yet here you are. Your progeny, a pale shadow that abhors your image. And a captain who holds more wisdom than you ever commanded. I see you, for what. You. Are."

A claw picks up the monarch, and flings him high into the clouds!

"A blight! A sickness so new and ravenous! It is time that the sea claims a true crown! I will take your farms, I will take their souls, and they shall bow to me, bow to your child, and spit curses unto your name for all time. And I will damn you to WATCH."

Jaws of oblivion snap shut around the King as he falls into the unliving gullet of the sea sovereign. His soul becomes trapped in the coral, his wails echoing in the seaweed. As the dragon revels in the fearful hatred of the deposed, they turn their sights onto the son. And, wisely. Rightly. The son and the captain bow to their superior, gilded crown in hand.

[lunarscaled]

⋇ TEMPEST IN A TEACUP SHINE LIKE SHARK TEETH: ONE PIECE

The young guardian of the isolated Clanging Isles Archipelago in the Calm Belt of the West Blue, they bare a levelheaded and quiet personality before the public that relies on them. The current user of the Uo Uo no Mi, Model: White Dragon, they are charged with both keeping the dangerous Sea Kings at bay and communicating with the massive true white dragon who homes itself inside the dormant dome volcano there. They sometimes must also intercept interlopers who survive the Calm Belt, but it is uncommon.

Name: Lyric Gravellese

Devil Fruit: Uo Uo no Mi Model "Shiroi Ryuu", Mythical Zoan-type

Titles: The White Dragon Vessel, Hatchling, Dragon Child

Abilities: Ice Manipulation, Dragon shape (full and hybrid forms), Superhuman ability ( strength, speed, durability, etc. ), Dragon speak

Location: Clanging Isles, Calm Belt, West Sea

expanded bio + history

The Clanging Isles Archipelago and its people have existed as far back as the beginning of the Age of the Sea Circle, but the islands themselves likely were developing volcanic hotbeds long before that. It's unknown who were the first foolish settlers in somewhere as desolate as the Calm Belt, but some 600 centuries later, when the volcanic activity had begun to settle and life began to rise from one final ashen-covered landscape, everyone can remember the arrival of The Great White Dragon. The dragon bled vast quantities of rich, red blood from open wounds on its body; it is said where its blood spilled on the rock and soot is where the first icicle trees began to grow, and the volcano is where the dragon began to make its home. But the islands had long been ravaged by merciless Sea Kings and their offspring, unable to do anything but shelter themselves and pray, and when the beasts came once again to slam their tails against the sandbars and shake the seabed the people simply hid and prayed. Disturbed from its injured rest, the giant dragon rose and climbed from the volcano. Standing on the edge, it leapt from the top of the volcano and took flight before diving claws-first into the sea kings; the water, filled with blood, turned purple and red amidst the thrashing and screeching. After some time, the dragon rose from the water, the throat of the sea king in its jaws, its beating wings stirring ocean currents. It's sharp teeth tore through the tender flesh and left a gaping hole where the gills should be, and the sea serpent's body collapsed into the water to decay. Since then, few sea kings have dared to enter the archipelago. Those who have tried have quickly been dispatched by the White Dragon, refusing to tolerate intrusion on its newly established territory. And the people, worried they had traded one terror for another, brought it tribute and worship. Dressed themselves in patterns of its likeness and asked it for strength. Told stories of its arrival for generations and hoped it would continue to protect and spare them.

Lyric is the 27th "White Dragon Vessel" of the Clanging Isles, a title and strength granted to them by the Devil Fruit which grows only in the grove of the Great White Dragon's volcano at the end of the archipelago, which can only be acquired by a single individual in a festival rite after the last vessel has passed.

The people of the isles believe the fruit to be a test of will and worth from the dragon itself; only those brave enough to stand on the same ground as the dragon itself and enter its lair can search for it. Many may go---few will return, swallowed by the very dragon they worship and seek from, but among those who do return will be the one fated to be the island's protector. Or so the legend is told.

In truth, Lyric is no destined protector. So cut-off from the outside world, the isles must live simple lives. They are easy victims of weather, famine, medical ailments that need more complex medicine to cure. While they make the most of their surroundings, illness can spread quickly and take many victims. Lyric's mother and brother were two such ones, suddenly so gravely ill in what seemed like a week's time.

Thinking the fruit may grant them some unknown knowledge or strength that could save their family, Lyric fearlessly ( no, not fearlessly. terrified, trembling---desperately ) boarded the boat which sailed to the largest island, alongside a dozen of Clanging Isle's greatest warriors.

Perhaps it was their small size in the dark. Perhaps it was because they hid every chance they could with hands over their mouth. Perhaps it was strictly luck, toying with them. But Lyric, young as they were, was the first to find the fruit: a single one in a grove all the same glistening blue-green, sea glass shade. Their hands trembled when they ate it, when the dragon noticed them thieving from its orchard, when it opened its wide maw and snarled and roared at them.

They made it home, but the celebration fell on poor days. Lyric's mother and brother did not recover; their father, convinced their status was worthless because it could not save his wife and child, disowned them. Even other people of the isles held mixed feelings towards their new status for many reasons: age, luck, personal greed, superstition. When Lyric was sent back to the island of the dragon garbed in the robes of the vessel, with boats of offerings: pillaged gold, the purest undyed fabrics woven by hand which gleamed like crystal, some hoped they would be rejected.

They, too, hoped they would be rejected.

They were not.

Lyric has spent the last decade honing their skills under the cruel, merciless tutelage of the dragon said to be the source of their power. They have faced near-death countless times from training alone, told to become stronger or die, and each day they live with the pressures of their position and people's expectations. Recently, Lyric has begun taking to their dragon shape to fly beyond the borders of the archipelago in search of other islands and people to trade with for the benefit of their people. However, because they cannot swim and not every island is inhabited, they have had little luck without a proper vessel to act as an intermediary.

NOTES:

Lyric's dragon shape is actually a blue and white wyvern, possessing only 2 legs and wings with opposable claws attached. The Great Dragon is a long-bodied, western-style dragon with 4 limbs, but all of the Devil Fruit users have been slight variations of the image and never an exact copy.

The island the Great White Dragon resides on is completely covered in snow and ice as a result of his presence, and the surrounding waters have grown cold. As a result, new breeds of fish and crops have begun to develop in the last few centuries, but it was a barren area for a time.

The orchard inside the volcano is for a unique fruit called Icicle Fruits, which can be used to create a rare, rich dye for fabrics and special jams. In the past, it seems other Dragon Vessels used to sell these goods to other nations, but that changed when the World Government took over.

Apparently Clanging Isles has traded with Zou once or twice in the past few centuries, but due to the roaming nature of Zunesha it's impossible to establish regular contact or trade relations.

Lyric has only recently achieved a dragon form large enough to leave the island and carry goods, as they're smaller than average---slightly less than the size of a frigate's hull.

Despite their size, their power should not be underestimated, as they regularly hunt Sea Kings for food and resources for the island.

Lyric can understand the intentions and will of the Great Dragon as part of their devil fruit powers, but it does not extend to any other creatures. This is related to their purpose as an intermediary between the dragon and the people.

for reference (mostly mine), the Japanese spelling for Lyric's Devil Fruit is: Uo Uo no Mi Moderu "Shiroi Ryuu" / ウオウオの実 モデル "白い龍"

Lyric wears jade earrings but I forgot to add them. They match the jade gems on their anklet.

[intothewildsea]

@dilffactory continued from X.

She almost complains about him smudging ink on her cheek. Almost. His kiss distracts her from it and she hums happily.

“At least take a break.�� She combs her fingers through his hair. “You won’t squeeze out any inspiration just by staring at the page for hours on end. We can go outside and get some fresh air, so you can clear your head a little.”

She straightens up and puts her hands on her hips. “I won’t take no for an answer. You know how stubborn I can be.” 

[mystic-for-dummies]

Meet the Witch

(Saw someone else make a post like this and I thought it looked fun.)

September 2023 Name: Caelan Age: 23 Birthday: October 31st (yes, for real) Pronouns: My pronouns change from day to day. Check my pinned post. Astrological Signs: Scorpio Sun, Leo Moon, Virgo Rising, Sagittarius is the most common sign in my chart. Deities: Apollo, Loki, Lucifer, and Nyarlathotep

Witchy Facts About Me:

The element I feel the strongest connection to is fire.

I usually don't give exact, specific ingredients, words, etc when sharing spells. I feel like it's just going to discourage people who don't have access to certain items, can't perform specific acts, or can't memorize words very well.

I'm very interested in divination, especially astrology, tarot, oracle decks, and scrying.

I actually rarely work with my deities in witchcraft. That's more of a religious thing, and I don't always mix my religion and my craft. I'm more interested in working with my pre-Christian Irish ancestors. Nyarlathotep does give me very useful advice for my craft, though.

I'm not going to hesitate to hex a corrupt politician, an abuser, or anyone who unapologetically makes the world a worse place. No, you're not going to convince me that it's going to come back to me. It never has before, and I don't believe it will in the future.

As a heads-up, if you are a "love and light, never do harm ever" type of witch, this is probably not the blog for you. I don't think that you're any less valid or respectable for being that kind of witch; I just want you to know upfront that I am not that kind of witch and that I will most likely never be that kind of witch.

I try to take potential disabilities into consideration when writing spells, rituals, and other magical activities. It often feels like, when I read witchcraft books, the author will say that you have to do something a specific way. Like, "you have to do a bath ritual for this to work," or "you have to meditate first." And that completely fails to consider that some people aren't objecting to these things because they don't want to do them; they're protesting because they literally cannot do the tasks that the author says that they must do.

My Favorite WC Books

The Crooked Path by Kelden

Besom, Stang, and Sword by Christopher Orapello and Tara-Love Maguire

Of Blood and Bones by Kate Freuler

Weave The Liminal by Laura Tempest Zakroff

Fun Facts About Me

I'm autistic and ADHD, and I have dyscalculia.

My hobbies include reading, writing, video games, drawing, painting, makeup, cooking, worldbuilding, and TTRPGs (D&D, Pathfinder, Call of Cthulhu, Tales of Xadia, City of Mist, World of Darkness, Shadowrun).

My interests and things I study besides WC: medical science, biology, zoology, botany, world history, world mythology, literature, cultures both ancient and modern, folklore, psychology, neurodiversity, and LGBTQ+ history, culture, and current issues.

I have Christian religious trauma and now I'm allergic to most things Christian. Also I'm allergic to pollen.

I'm studying Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and Irish.

My favorite genre of anything (movies, books, shows, games, etc) is Fantasy.

I'm currently writing a novel.

I hope to someday make an Indie animated series.

I have a dog.

My Favorite Books (in no particular order)

The Realm of the Elderlings series by Robin Hobb

The Legend of Drizzt series by R.A. Salvatore

Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles

Stephen King's novels

PJO

Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard

Neil Gaiman's novels

Discworld series by Terry Pratchett

The Hobbit

The Lord of the Rings

The Hot Zone

The Outsiders

My Favorite Video Games

The Legend of Zelda

Pokemon

Kingdom Hearts

Final Fantasy

God of War

Skyrim / The Elder Scrolls

Don't Starve

Darksiders

Fran Bow

My Favorite Shows and Movies

The Owl House

Hazbin Hotel

Helluva Boss

Fullmetal Alchemist

The Dragon Prince

Errementari: The Blacksmith and the Devil

Annihilation (2018)

The Nightmare Before Christmas

Most Ghibli movies

The Silence of the Lambs

The Last Voyage of the Demeter

The entire Jurassic Park movie franchise

John Carpenter's The Thing

Soul Eater

Black Clover

[archangelgca]

Marks: Story: The Rise and Fall of Raphael ("The Glitch").

Meaning: Marks are special symbols that appear on the bodies of certain creatures. They indicate a connection to a prophecy, a noble lineage, or a powerful family. Not all creatures have marks, and not all marks are natural. Some marks are artificially created or bestowed by others. Marks can also grant special abilities or influence the behavior of marked creatures.

A short description of each mark: Arcane: This is one of the oldest and rarest marks in existence. It was more common in ancient times, when dragons with holy powers or world-changing destinies were born. The mark does not reveal whether the creature is good or evil, only that it has a significant role to play in the fate of the world. Because of this, creatures with this mark are often feared or shunned by others who know its meaning.

Fire: Fire dragons used to be the most numerous and dominant among all dragons, but they suffered greatly from wars and exploitation. Now, they are scarce and endangered. The fire mark is a sign of their proud heritage and fierce spirit. Fire dragons can breathe fire and resist extreme wounds. Kraken: The Kraken is a legendary sea monster that has not been seen for ages, but some believe it still exists and watches over the oceans. The Kraken mark is a rare and mysterious gift that allows the creature to communicate with the Kraken and sense its presence. Some consider this mark a blessing, while others see it as a curse.

Arka: This mark belongs to the light dragons, who live in the Bright City, a hidden realm separate from the real world. The light dragons rarely venture into the real world, and only one of them, Akira, currently resides there. The Arka mark gives the creature the ability to decipher prophecies and understand ancient languages. Zephyr: This mark was once common among the wind wyverns and wind dragons of the noble family of the kingdom of the Whispering Wind. However, after a revolution that overthrew the previous monarchy order, only Freya, the former princess, retained the mark. The Zephyr mark grants the creature the power to control the weather and manipulate air currents. Marine: This is a common mark among water dragons, especially females. It signifies their affinity with water and their ability to breathe underwater and swim fast. Some water dragons lack this mark and instead have the Kraken mark, which makes them outcasts among their own kind. Male water dragons with this mark are rare and often arrogant, challenging other warriors to prove their superiority. Tempest: This is an artificial mark created by electric dragons, also known as thunder dragons. Electric dragons naturally have no marks, so they invented their own to show their status and authority. The Tempest mark is usually reserved for the king or queen of electric dragons and is given to their heirs before or after their coronation. The mark has no special power other than its appearance. Earth: This mark is unique to earth dragons, who are not natural creatures but artificial creations of ancestors. They were made to be weapons or guards, but they rebelled and freed themselves, hastening the downfall and isolation of humans among the shadow dragons. The earth mark signifies that the creature possesses some kind of poison in its body, such as stingers, fangs, or skin.

Notes: Ice dragons, like electric dragons, have no natural markings to identify them. However, unlike electric dragons, who use their marks to display their status or power, ice dragons use their marks to express their individuality and beauty. They use their ice element to create their own marks, carving intricate patterns on their scales or skin. ___________

Important:

- These marks are free to use in any of your arts, works, or stories, but please don't make anything NSFW about them unless I explicitly allow you to (which I probably won't), and you should give credit for using them (a mention is more than enough).

- These symbols are not for sale.

- The Rise and Fall of Raphael is a work-in-progress story, and these marks may be subject to change at any time.

___________

I'm open to comments about new things to do and/or improve. You can contact me here or on Discord. Have a nice week!

______________________________ Feel free to visit the Work-In-Progress Discord: (Where I release some work-in-progress art.)

Join

[absiinthee]

╰     ┈     [  david corenswet , 32 , cis-male , he/him ]  in the time of dragons , LEO FLINT is entering the game of thrones . said to be pragmatic + intelligent , we can only hope that is the case as regrettably they are also well known to be unfriendly + stiff . when asked about them , people are always reminded of weathered books, horses raising in a thunderstorm, freshly planted medicinal herbs . though they are the lord of widow's watch , their true loyalties lie with house flint and rumour has it that if given the choice they would support the prince of dragonstone above all else . those of us in the shadows wish them luck and can only hope they will survive what is to come .   ──  ange , 27 , est , she/her .

bio + stats below

TW: parental death, parental neglect, depression 

STATS

Name: Leopold “Leo” Flint Age: 32 Gender: Cis-male Sexual orientation: Pansexual House: House Flint of Widow’s Watch

BIO

He was born in a thunderstorm, wide eyed and silent as the midwives screamed for more towels. The maester’s hand shook, bloody and uncertain, as the storm continued to rage outside of their stone walls. Absolute chaos... Except for him. That’s what his mother had told him. Despite being in such excruciating pain, she told him she had been so entranced by his silence that everything became fuzzy, like gossamer had shrouded them in a quiet bubble of peace. He didn’t cry... didn’t wail... He just stared at her. 

“Eyes so blue... The maesters were worried you had ice in your veins.” 

He learned from a very young age the true relevance of a spare... which was that there wasn’t much relevance to begin with. His older brother was everything he wasn’t: Charismatic, rambunctious, beloved by anyone who had the pleasure of meeting him. Meanwhile he was described as the opposite: Taciturn, cold, a boy who preferred his books over company... They had no use for him, and he was fine with that.

“Ever vigilant... Such are the words of our house.” 

 At ten and nine, his mother passed, and his younger brother was born. And in that moment, it felt like the sun had set on Widow’s Watch, like his father had thrown a permanent veil of mourning over all of them. Their house grew frail from the lack of upkeep, the storms hit them harder, his eldest brother doused himself in his desires, and his youngest brother... he wailed into night, seeking a comfort that was now lost forever. 

“There is a house at the edge of Widow’s Watch, home to men with eyes so blue it is said to be a reflection of their icy hearts...”

He left home at the age of nine and twenty to escape the cold that was slowly creeping into his veins. For so long, he felt like he was just grappling in the dark for a light that he could not find. So with a dismissive hand from his father, he grasped the thin form of blessing with white knuckles and set sail for the east where he traversed the seven kingdoms with a gluttonous hunger to learn and learn and learn some more, if only to keep his mind busy and distracted from the ache that continued to wrench at his heart. 

“They say that is where the sun shall rise... perhaps I can chase it and find reason for why people love it so.”

It has been three years since he’s last been home, but a chord has been struck, a sense of clarity that rang through him like a gong so loud he could not avoid it. And so, as the news of chaos continued to spread, he got on the earliest departing ship and set sail for the north. He was born into chaos and chaos he shall return. 

“You were my saving grace, Leo.” His mother had once told him. “Find power in your silence. When everyone is a tempest, be a brave man in the storm.” 

[storm-called]

about me

they/them | 24

feel free to call me Rook or Jackdaw

- @rookfern​ is my main blog (and my handle for most things)

I’ve been playing Guild Wars 2 since February of 2019, and I’ve been a part of the GW2 community here for just about as long as well. I write silly little stories about my characters sometimes and even draw them on occasion. I also take commissions (commissions are currently closed).

my characters

main crew:

Glaw Stormcaller (they/she/he; commander; catalyst) [tag]

Rookfern (she/her; pact marshal; Aurene’s champion; soulbeast) [tag] [tag]

Wren Polack (he/him; pact captain; holosmith) [tag]

Brynhildr Hroarkin (she/her; bladesworn) [tag] [tag]

Stagthorne (he/him; general nuisance; deadeye) [tag]

Sari Ruinweld (she/they; medic; guardian) [tag]

Helter Skelter (she/her; astral ward associate; demon hunter) [tag]

queensdale academy crew:

(same universe as main crew, just unaffiliated)

Agent Nexus (she/her; thief) [tag]

Beren Sahl (he/they; engineer) [tag]

Ilkiodora Baelforge (she/her; elementalist) [tag]

Mjoll Stormdottir (she/they; ranger) [tag]

alt crew:

Fíondorach (he/him; commander; Aurene’s champion; harbinger) [tag]

Basar Stormdancer (he/him; mirage) [tag]

Tomel Moonshadow (she/her; thief) [tag]

Miwa Tsang (she/they; jade-tech engineer) [tag]

Ophelia Targen (she/her; noble; necromancer) [tag]

Pyrisous (he/him; fernhound lycanthrope; warrior) [tag]

Sablewick (she/her; former mordrem; revenant) [tag]

miscellaneous:

(all in main crew universe unless stated otherwise)

Lady Lofn (she/her; forgemaster) [tag]

Floki Hroarsson (he/him; hunter; deceased) [tag]

Bitter Hewnfell (she/her; ash legion centurion) [tag]

Brulas Drakenettle (he/him; blood legion soldier) [tag]

Fika Breakwater (he/him; gladium) [tag]

Marad Larskald (she/her; firebrand) [tag]

Picah (xe/xem; journalist) [tag]

Coyote (he/him; dolyak rancher) [tag]

Frogbit (she/they/it; thief; mischief maker) [tag]

Caspian Primrose (he/him; holo-drama actor) [tag]

Operative Shrike (they them; bounty hunter) [tag]

Marcius Day (he/him; scrapper; honorary charr) [tag]

Camphyr (it/its; strange beast) [tag]

jokesy characters:

(characters who are there just for the fun; no real place in my canon)

Starry Bright (she/her; tempest; blinding object) [tag]

Bless Your Heart (any pronouns; firebrand healer) [tag]

other links

Broken Oaths (the massive fanfic centered around Glaw before they became the commander, set during the Icebrood Saga (heavy spoilers); completed)

my other fandom tumblrs:

@krembles​ (Dragon Age)

@rook-rising​ (Flight Rising)

@thisisthegay​ (Star Wars)

If you ever see me running around in game, feel free to say hi!

[shushmal]

Ao3 Link in Replies

The winds are howling through the temple, a tempest within stone walls, and Katsuki can hear the angry roar of the sea against the cliffside. The rains haven’t reached him yet, and the waves haven’t surged past the shore. But Katsuki, kneeling in his finest robes, finds himself glad that he’s sent the rest of the temple’s inhabitants inland, away from the typhoon.

Vigilant, he watches the darkness, the lanterns flickering in the gale.

Katsuki had once not been so devout as to wait for the storm in his god’s shrine. Many years ago, he’d hunted the god he now worships. That seed of bloodthirst, the need for revenge on a god that had taken something precious from him as a child, had bloomed red as soon as he had been old enough to hold a sword.

The memory of a round, smiling face, his closest companion with his wide eyes and sweet touch, had watered the hatred beneath Katsuki’s skin.

They’d been only children when Izuku had been chosen as a sacrifice to the ocean god. Katsuki hadn’t understood, disgusted by his own mother’s tears when Izuku had been led away by the temple’s priests. Katsuki had followed, had waited and watched, as Izuku had been snapped up by the god, his little body swallowed behind the long white teeth of the sea dragon. And when Katsuki had screamed, the dragon had looked right at him, great head cocked to the side in open curiosity, before it took to the sky, Izuku still in its belly, no matter how hard Katsuki wailed.

“I’ll gut it,” Katsuki had hissed to his mother, weeks later and struggling from his fever bed. “I’ll gut it and get him out.”

Mitsuki had wept even as she told him, “He’s gone, Katsuki. Izuku is dead.”

“Then I’ll get his body out,” Katsuki had sworn. “And give him a proper death.”

Now, sitting in that same temple where his most precious person had once been offered up to an ocean god nearly three decades before, Katsuki is an aging man with a wandering mind.

The rain just begins to patter across the flagstone steps, when Katsuki asks the storm, “Are you going to return to me, or not?”

As if in answer, the downpour begins anew, vicious and heavy, and Katsuki can feel the mist of it where he sits before the shrine, the wisps of incense smoke blown cold.

And from the storm, the god emerges, even greater and stronger than it’d once been. It alights on the stone floor, curling it’s body beneath the temple’s shelter. In the dying light of the paper lamps, it looks at Katsuki, drinking him in, it’s eyes sharp and golden.

“Izuku,” Katsuki calls, standing.

With one step forward, with one blink, the dragon shifts, and the god stands waiting as Katsuki takes quick strides to him, his arms outstretched to meet him.

“Kacchan,” the god breathes, pressing his face into Katsuki’s shoulder, his hands into Katsuki’s back. The strength in him would be enough to bend Katsuki’s bones, but instead he is gentle, holding him tight and humming as Katsuki’s hands run through his wet curls.

“A third visit this month,” Katsuki says against the top of the god’s head, teasing, smiling with his teeth. He breathes in the smell of sea, of salt and lightning and blood. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes, I do.”

This god, Izuku, is ethereal, more beautiful than Katsuki can bare, ageless and cold. He’s not the child Katsuki remembers, with sun-darkened skin and a star map of freckles. Instead, he is a lithe body and powerful hands, a voice like a storm and ocean waves. Katsuki had once wanted to cut the heart from this Izuku, to flay him open and pull the child out.

Izuku tilts his head back, and says, “Kacchan.”

Katsuki is a devout worshipper of his god. And what his god commands, Katsuki will pray for the strength to follow.

Their kiss is familiar even as it is searing, devouring. Katsuki lets Izuku plunder him, tongue wet and thick in his mouth, instead letting his touch roam the naked expanse of Izuku’s chest, his back, his sides, his hips, fingers gripping him tightly to Katsuki front until Izuku is moaning into Katsuki’s mouth.

Gasping, Katsuki pulls back, just to drag his teeth down Izuku’s neck, his chest and belly as he goes to knees, his robes spread around them, soaked by the incoming rain. He looks up, meeting that golden gaze, as he takes Izuku between his lips.

He’d once wondered, the first time he saw his god, how much of his Izuku really remained behind that familiar face. The years have taught Katsuki not to dig at open wounds.

Instead he sucks and licks until Izuku’s hands grip Katsuki’s hair, now going white at the edges, until Izuku’s thighs are trembling against his chest, and he comes deeply down Katsuki’s throat with an inhuman howl, the sound of the wind and storm.

Boneless and sated, Izuku falls into Katsuki’s embrace when he opens his arms up, folding his body into Katsuki’s lap and letting himself be wrapped up in all of Katsuki’s finery.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, and Katsuki barely hears it over the growing typhoon. The temple should long since have been swallowed by the ocean. He can see the dark waves of the sea rising up over the cliffside, as if it’s come to meet them where they’re perched.

“And I, you,” Katsuki says against Izuku’s ear. His knees are hurting, aching with age and weather. He feels old and grizzled compared to his god’s eternal beauty, pale and perfect like an ink painting.

Izuku sits up a little straighter in Katsuki’s lap, until he’s looming over Katsuki from the circle of his arms, the silks of Katsuki’s sleeves slipping from his shoulders. His gaze is piercing, looking through and seeing the meat of Katsuki. When he speaks, it isn’t a question.

“Then, this time, you will return with me.” He says it with finality. A commandment carved into stone.

Katsuki doesn’t think long, doesn’t consider the temple and its worshippers, or the gravesites of their long dead family. Doesn’t wish to beg mercy for his life. There is nothing left in earth for Katsuki, except for a body racing to old age and death.

“If that is what you wish,” Katsuki says.

The smile Izuku gives him nearly takes his breath away, the sweet curve of it a distant memory of a man Katsuki would once have known. His eyes are alight, and for a moment, Katsuki can almost imagine the perfect shade of green they had once been.

Izuku pushes him to the stone floor, opening Katsuki’s robes, ripping away the fine silks and fabrics until the length of Katsuki’s cock is free, hot and hard despite the chill. Without hesitation, without a flinch of pain, Izuku lines himself up and presses down, until he takes all of Katsuki within him. Katsuki hisses, fingers digging into Izuku’s hips as he rides Katsuki, the burn nearly too painful, a fire of friction, and then it isn’t, the drag of Izuku around him so tight and perfect that Katsuki moans.

Bouncing in Katsuki’s lap, Izuku sets a brutal pace, his eyes bright in the near darkness of the shrine, Katsuki laid out in the remains of his holy robes, a sacrifice spread across Izuku’s altar. Katsuki is powerless to stop him, crying out as Izuku takes and takes from him, until he is spent and sweaty.

He pants for breath, his eyes squeezed shut, and trembling. It’s a moment before he realizes he can’t feel Izuku against him. It’s another when he opens his eyes to the sea dragon crouching over him, eyes locked and intent on Katsuki. He can feel the damp heat of his breath against his nude body.

“Izuku,” Katsuki whispers.

Izuku opens his great, wide mouth—