#scorpion shards

[star-shard]

So Scorpion Shards is in production for something, I think? Either a movie or a series.

But fr, this is my Harry Potter. This is my book series I loved so fully, I love this writer, he's put out so much solid work, and I just need it out there for a larger audience like yesterday, ya know?

[codenamehazard]

.:In The Dark of the Night: Part 2:.

[TRIGGER WARNING FOR ARACHNOPHOBIA, OMMETAPHOBIA, TRYPOPHOBIA AND OTHER CREEPY CRAWLIES!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!]

Chapter 25: In The Dark of the Night: Part 2

Hey guys, I hope you all had a Happy New Year and I hope I didn't make you all wait too long on a cliffhanger. Things got a little insane between the holidays and life things turning everything upside down for a little bit, but the wait is over and the helicopter has come to free you from the cliffhanger.

Without delay, let's jump in.

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Panic… Pure panic and pandemonium breaks out as Pangolin falls: screaming, writhing and powerless. A cold sweat mixes with the sparking rain-water on my skin as I see what a single sting did to the Brick Spartan. He’s defenseless to the oncoming swarm.

In his fear, Dove calls forth a massive wind gust to blow the menaces back, protecting his eldest brother from being eaten. Mako rushes over to help the fallen leader as Kestrel fights off more bugs. I can see Dove trying to take the lead, but with how freaked out he is and the fear making his voice crack and squeak, his commands fall upon deaf ears.

Time seems to slow as I watch the once well-oil machine fall to shambles. With Pangolin on the ground howling in pure agony and mutant hellish bedbugs scattering around, the team had no rudder. They were all clueless and damn near helpless.

As I thin the swarm, thoughts rush through my head. A headless team is a dead team. I remember the promise I made to myself as I ran from the army I had once led. Never again would I let shackles hold me back, including the shackles of leadership. If they can’t hack it without my help, then so be it. I could bail and leave them to their fate. Steal a jeep and let them be the distraction. Easy as that.

Then the logical part of my brain kicks that impulse sharply in the head. The Amp is still in shambles and needs to be fixed and the one who’s willing to do that is part of this team. There’s also the fact that… As much as I hate to admit this… I’m starting to grow quite fond of this motley crew of outcasts and it wouldn’t kill me to help them just this–

“ALRIGHT FUCKERS, LISTEN UP!!!” I turn my head sharply as a cross between a metallic boom and a barking command cuts through my thoughts, drawing my eyes to the source of the sound: Kestrel. “The situation’s gone FUBAR, fall back! Mako, get Pangolin into the Medi-Trailer! Dove, get a grip and head to the lead HEMTT, we need to book it and fast!!” I can’t help but to gawk for a split second, both in shock and relief. Well I’ll be damned; for once in my life I don’t have to play babysitter when things went to shit.

I shake my head to get back in the game before I get stung. Kestrel takes charge, getting Mako to focus on Pangolin as she clears a path. I make my way towards the panicking chicken of a Dove who’s still acting like he’s trying to take command, even though Kes gave him his marching orders. With how out of it he is, I’m not surprised he didn’t hear a word she said.

“Dove!” I boom as I grab his shoulders and shake him. Not the best way to handle a kid freaking out, but there’s no time for sensitivities. “Pull yourself together!” The bird stammers nonsense and I bonk him on the forehead with the meat of my palm. He yelps before staring at me with a look that said “what was that for?!” I look him in the eyes. “Good, now that I got your attention. Kestrel gave an order, get to the HEMTT and get ready to floor it. We’re falling back!”

“What about Thom-” He starts to question before I give him a red-eyed glare.

“Don’t worry about him!” I growl, my impatience starting to bleed through. “Mako’s got him covered, now do as you’re told and MOVE YOUR ASS!!!” I watch him stammer out an affirmative before scrambling off to the Convoy. I’m half tempted to give him a zap for good measure, but with the rain and the fact he’s the get-away, I decide against it.

The sound of grunting catches my ears as I turn to see Mako and Kestrel trying to move Pangolin while fending off the scittering hellish things. I quickly run over so I can help Mako.

“You taking over?” Kes questions, I nod in confirmation before we trade places. Oh Jesus Christ, he’s heavy and it doesn’t help he’s still flailing about. Thinking fast, I arc-restrain the writhing spartan. Mako gives me a questioning look, but when I explain it’s to make it easier to carry the giant of a man, she doesn’t argue. Kes provides cover fire before throwing what looks like a blast-shard wired to an explosive away from the convoy.

The shard seems to draw the attention of the giant Hell-Spider, getting her off the trailers and allowing us to get in safely. The sound of an explosion and screaming ring out as we shut the door.

As Mako gets Pangolin stabilized in a transport cot and I release the restraints, Kes gets on the comms and barks a single phrase.

“FLOOR IT!!!”

I can feel the trailer suddenly jerk as the HEMTT takes off, nearly taking all of us to the floor. The screech of the spider returns as she takes notice and gives chase.

The trailer rings out with the sounds of Warped and hellbabies being chucked onto the runaway caravan. A stark reminder that we’re not out of the woods yet. A Blink Scorpion almost slips in, but Kes is quick on the draw.

It's clear that without someone on the outside, the Convoy’s defenseless. With nothing but a quick glance and a nod exchanged between Kestrel and I, we know what needs to be done.

Though the emergency hatch on the top of the trailer, we climb out into the darkness to face the monsters.

The rain hisses and spits into steam on Kestrel’s skin as it makes black and red sparks arc off of mine. Bathing the hellish sight in a blood red hue. The scorpions scitter and screech as they charge towards us. Quick to react, we pop the bugs with slag and bolts, slashing them with blades and claws when they get too close.

As the air fills with soot, sparks and gore, I can see out of the corner of my eye something I hadn’t noticed before when the most that Big Momma would move was when she swung her stony arms around to swat at people who came near. Something that’s now plain as day with her running at ridiculous speeds for a creature her size.

Gaps in the armor where the joints connect.

“Hey Kes!” I call out as I punt one of the stinging cockroaches into another. “Check it! The big bitch actually does have weak spots!” I fire a missile at one of the knee-joints to point it out. The impact on the sinewy flesh causes the monster to scream in pain and slow down some, but with seven more legs moving, the hit only staggered.

“Good eye!” The Gunsmith calls back as she starts to focus fire on the exposed targets. We work together, but with the sheer number of babies the spider-bitch is spitting out, it’s near impossible to do both. These babies have got to go.

“Damnit!” I hiss out as I narrowly avoid getting tagged in the ankle. “There’s too many of these things!”

“No shit, Sherlock!” Kes snips back as she nails one that was leaping towards my head. “This is getting us nowhere and we don’t have the right equipment to kill the mother monster.”

“Got any bright ideas, birdie?” I growl. I see Kestrel look at the Rock-Spider-Thing and I can see the gears turning in her head.

“I might.” She replies. “One of us pops a charge while the other coverfires. It won’t kill her, but it should slow her down and thin out the herd enough to break free.”

“It’s a start, but who’s doing what?” I question. “Because if you haven’t noticed, my powers are as useful as a damn ashtray on a motorcycle against that thing.” I hear Kestrel groan before I pop a bug near her foot.

“I don’t know if mine will be of any use either, but I’ll do it. Cover my ass!” She shouts as she starts to shake her head, eyes glowing iron-hot. Probably trying to fire herself up. I position myself behind her, but give her space so I’m not touching her back.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I grunt as I launch a few shockwaves to send the horde flying.

The sound of rain sizzling off of her body cuts through the chaos as her body throws off heat, causing the air around her to ripple and warp into the familiar heat mirage. Thank God I gave her the space, I would have gotten burnt from the rapidly rising temperature of her body. Steam hisses and spits off of her skin as smoke bellows from her mouth and jets from her nose.

I watch as I keep the bugs off of her. The shimmering particulates in the smoke start to move and gather, merging to become an entire swarm of shards the size of razor sharp, white-hot hornets. Kestrel’s arms move back into an open position before swinging them forward, commanding the shards to fly off towards the enemy.

The shards almost seem to buzz as they cut through the air, burying into anything that’s in their way. The metal is hot enough to make the blink scorpions pop like ichor-filled balloons and cook the shamblers and runners that tried to climb up.

The metal-bees couldn’t penetrate the rock armor of the Momma Bitch, but to our relief, some of them hit their marks and bore into the exposed joints. The living boulder screams in agony as its joints seizes from the onslaught, causing it to stagger and tumble from the momentum. Anything unlucky enough to be under-foot gets turned into a glowing purple paste on the red dirt as HEMTT leaves the bastards in the dust.

“Take that, bitch.” The Gunsmith pants out with a snarl and a smirk before her eyes cool and her body starts to wobble. I move to catch her so she doesn’t fall off the HEMTT. Damn, the combination of expending a large burst of RFE and the rain rapidly cooling her must be sapping her strength like mad.

“Hey…” She pants out. “Thanks for the catch.” I grunt in acknowledgement as I let her use my body as a support. We watch the monster-mash of a road wreck grow smaller and smaller as we escape. Out of the corner of my eyes I can spot light starting to grow.

Turning my head to see the source of the light, I gawk at the sight that is rapidly approaching.

Bright spotlights, all forming a barrier that burned and scorched any Warped that dare stray too close. Within the safety of the perimeter lies a city that looked like the fucking carnival took it over. Rides made of metal and scrap tower like skyscrapers and roller coasters snake through any buildings in maddening twists and turns. The crowning jewel of the sight? A large red and yellow striped tent with three prominent points, the center its tallest.

I turn to Kestrel and I see her face relax into a smile, the smile of someone coming home.

“Cole, welcome to Tri-Point.”

[annierosaart]

I just realized, I think Mon3tr is trying to hide/mask her non human parts

shards disguised as ears

sleeves hiding her extremely non human hands

scorpion tail arranged in a feline manner

ok yeah no I fuck with this design heavy now

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (to build an empire)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you for sticking with me and this totally self-indulgent story. 😉

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: where we stand

- Tag(s): @scarletdfox @princesstiti14 @idenyimimdenial

The sky over Oldtown burned.

Fire rolled through the heavens, casting a hellish glow upon the ancient spires and the maze of winding streets below. What had once been a city of faith, of prayer, of devotion to the Seven, now lay beneath the shadow of dragons, beneath the wrath of fire and blood.

From the clouds, the view was magnificent—if one had the heart to revel in destruction. The rooftops of Oldtown, white stone and weathered slate, stretched beneath you in perfect vulnerability, waiting to be claimed, to be swallowed whole by the inferno that had come for them.

And you had come.

At your back, Haelle beat her massive wings, each downward thrust sending ripples of turbulence through the sky, the wound from the scorpion bolt now a scar, a memory, a lesson she had learned in blood and fury.

Ahead, Caraxes soared, his sinuous, serpentine form weaving through the thick plumes of smoke, his red scales flashing in the chaotic glow of the city burning beneath them.

Daemon was beside you, his laughter rolling through the night, loud and triumphant, a sound that matched the destruction unfolding below.

"Look at them scatter!" he called, his voice carrying through the crackling heat, through the howling winds. "Like ants fleeing before the boot."

You smirked, gripping the saddle straps tighter, the wind whipping at your hair, at your cloak, at the armor beneath it. "Ants have more sense than these fools," you replied, your voice a breathless thing, laced with exhilaration, with purpose. "They chose this fate when they marched against us."

Daemon turned his head just slightly, his grin wild, his dark violet eyes gleaming with the firelight reflecting off the carnage below. "Then let us give them what they are owed."

He turned, leaning forward against Caraxes’ saddle, his hand tightening against the reins. "Dracarys!"

The command was barely given before Caraxes twisted midair, his maw opening wide—

And the Starry Sept erupted in flame.

The fire rained down in yellow and orange, consuming the great structure in moments, searing its white walls to blackened ruin. The great stained-glass windows shattered, raining down molten shards upon the priests and warriors who had tried to take shelter within.

Screams echoed.

You could hear them from above, rising through the heat, through the smoke, through the despair that had settled over the city like a death shroud.

And yet—

You felt nothing.

No remorse. No hesitation.

Only the certainty that this had to be done.

Haelle shrieked beneath you, her massive, golden eyes locked onto the panicked soldiers attempting to flee from the burning sept, from the dying city, from their crumbling faith.

You exhaled, raising a hand. "Dracarys."

The Nightmare Queen obeyed.

Her fire was different from Caraxes’. It was darker, heavier, black tinged with streaks of gold, thick as oil and just as consuming. Where Caraxes burned in quick, consuming waves, Haelle’s flames lingered, clinging to stone and flesh alike, refusing to be snuffed out.

The fire spread rapidly, licking up the walls of the grand sept, engulfing the once-pristine halls where the High Septon had sat in judgment over kings and lords.

There was no judgment here now.

Only fire.

The streets below had become a scene of chaos.

Men, women, and children ran in every direction, their cries drowned out by the roar of the inferno, by the deep, guttural growls of dragons circling the city, claiming it for their own.

"They will curse our names for centuries," Daemon said, his voice half-lost to the wind, but filled with something dark, something victorious. "The day fire came to Oldtown."

You did not look at him, your gaze still locked on the burning ruins below, on the death throes of a city that had called upon war and found war waiting for them.

"Let them curse us," you murmured. "It will not unburn their gods."

Daemon laughed, throwing his head back, his delight in destruction unmatched. "No, it will not."

Another pass.

Another wave of fire.

Another piece of Oldtown lost to the flames.

And above it all, you and Daemon soared, dragons of ruin, gods of the sky, delivering justice in fire and blood.

The ruins of Oldtown smoldered beneath the ashen sky, the once-grand city now reduced to blackened husks of stone, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh, burnt wood, and the acrid remnants of dragonfire. Smoke still coiled from the ruins, winding its way into the heavens as if carrying the whispers of the dead, a final offering to whatever gods remained in this forsaken place.

Jason rode at the head of the Lannister host, his warhorse stepping cautiously over the debris, hooves sending up small plumes of ash with every slow, deliberate movement. The weight of silence pressed down upon them all—no cries of the dying, no wails of survivors, only the distant, guttural snarls of dragons stalking through the remains.

Beside him, Tyland was eerily quiet, his gaze shifting methodically over what was left of the city, taking in the destruction, the utter annihilation left in the wake of fire and blood. There was no rebuilding this. Oldtown had been cleansed, burned to its bones, its legacy reduced to embers floating on the wind.

And standing in the center of the devastation, amidst the wreckage of what had once been the beating heart of the Faith, were Daemon and you.

Jason saw you first.

You stood tall, your blackened armor still smeared with soot, your silver hair streaked with ash, your face unreadable as you gazed over the ruins. Haelle prowled nearby, her golden-marked tail sweeping lazily through the rubble, her nostrils flaring with the lingering scent of scorched flesh.

Daemon stood beside you, his black cloak shifting in the wind, his eyes shining with cruel satisfaction as he turned at the sound of approaching horses. Caraxes lay coiled further down the avenue, his long, sinuous body draped over the ruins of the Starry Sept, his red scales gleaming dully beneath the haze of smoke.

Jason reined his horse to a stop, his green eyes sweeping over the destruction, the madness, the sheer scope of what had been done.

"By the gods," he muttered, his tone more awe than horror. "You really did it."

You did not move at first.

Your fingers flexed slightly at your sides, your gaze locked on the ashen bones of a once-mighty city, your expression unreadable.

Daemon, however, smirked, stepping forward with all the ease of a man who had just overseen the fall of one of the greatest cities in Westeros and had not a single regret.

"They never saw it coming," he said simply, his tone light, amused even, as if discussing nothing more than a well-played game of cyvasse. "The sept was the first to fall. The rest… well, you can see the rest."

Jason exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the still-burning wreckage, before settling on you once more.

"And the Hightowers?" His voice was measured, careful, despite the glint of curiosity beneath it. "Where are they?"

You finally turned to him then, your eyes meeting his, something unreadable flickering behind them.

"Gone," you said simply.

Jason’s brow lifted. "Gone?"

Daemon huffed a low, knowing laugh, turning his attention back toward the ruins, the skeletal remains of the Hightower that had once loomed over Oldtown’s skyline, now nothing more than a collapsed wreck.

"Some burned," Daemon said, his voice casual, detached. "Some fled before the flames reached them."

Tyland, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "And Prince Daeron?" His voice was even, measured, but laced with something darker beneath the calm. "Was he here?"

You hesitated. Only for a moment.

Daemon, however, did not.

"If he was, he’s nothing more than cinders now," Daemon said smoothly, his lips curving into something that was not quite a smile, but not far from it either. "His dragon, however, was not seen. Which means one of two things—either the boy never returned, or he fled like a rat when he saw the flames coming."

Jason tilted his head, studying Daemon’s face, his expression unreadable. "So, we don’t know if he’s dead or alive."

Daemon’s smirk widened slightly. "Does it matter?"

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dismounted from his horse, his boots kicking up small clouds of ash as he stepped forward. "It does if he comes back with a dragon to make us answer for this."

Daemon only chuckled. "Then we burn him too."

Tyland remained on his horse, his fingers tight around the reins, his eyes flickering toward you once more. "And you?" His voice was quieter, more searching. "Do you think this war is over?"

You looked at him, then at Jason, then back at the ruins of Oldtown, at the smoke curling against the sky, at the devastation wrought by fire and vengeance.

Finally, you spoke.

"No," you murmured, voice quiet but certain. "Not yet."

The Red Keep was silent as Daemon Targaryen stalked through its halls, his black cloak billowing behind him, his boots striking the polished stone floors with deliberate purpose. The weight of his presence was palpable, the air charged with tension, as if the very walls of the castle could sense the tempest he carried with him.

The news of Oldtown’s fall had reached King’s Landing swiftly—the whispers had spread like wildfire, slipping through the streets, through the halls of the court, until the very air of the Keep was thick with fear, with speculation, with the uneasy knowledge that war had crossed into something far more dangerous.

Daemon knew exactly what he was walking into.

And he welcomed it.

The doors to the throne room were thrown open before him, the great chamber bathed in the muted glow of torches and stained-glass light. At the far end, seated upon the Iron Throne, was Viserys.

His brother looked weary, the sickness that had begun to eat away at him more visible now than ever. His cheeks were gaunt, his hair thinner, his robes slightly too heavy for his frame. But his eyes—

His eyes were clear as they locked onto Daemon.

Beside him, standing in rigid, barely restrained fury, was Otto Hightower.

The Hand’s green-and-gold robes rustled as he stepped forward, his face twisted with barely concealed rage, his voice ringing out the moment Daemon’s boots crossed the threshold.

"Seize him!" Otto bellowed, his voice thunderous, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "Seize him for the slaughter he has wrought!"*

The Kingsguard hesitated, their hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes flickering toward the throne, waiting for the command to be given.

But it did not come.

Because Viserys did not speak it.

Instead, the King lifted a tired hand, his expression cold, unreadable.

"No," he said simply.

Otto’s breath hitched, his face flushing with disbelief, with fury, with something perilously close to desperation. "Your Grace—"

"You do not command in this hall, Otto," Viserys interrupted, his voice low but edged with steel. "I am the King. And I have summoned my brother here to answer for his actions—not to be seized like some common criminal."

Daemon smirked, his eyes brilliant with dark amusement as he strode further into the chamber, the weight of the stares upon him only feeding his arrogance.

"Well, well," he drawled, his tone infuriatingly casual. "I had feared my welcome would be... less warm."

Otto turned on him, his face twisted with fury. "You burned Oldtown to the ground!"

Daemon tilted his head. "I did."

"You slaughtered the Faith! You set fire to the Citadel! You have wiped out centuries of knowledge, of history, of—" Otto’s voice choked off, his rage rendering him momentarily breathless.

Daemon only smiled. "And?"

"And?" Otto spat, his fury boiling over. "You have committed an atrocity! You have reduced one of the great seats of Westeros to ash! My family is dead because of you!"

Daemon’s smirk widened, his teeth glinting like a wolf baring its fangs. "Good."

Otto lunged forward, his rage unchecked, but the Kingsguard stepped between them, halting him before he could do something foolish.

Viserys finally rose from his throne, his fingers gripping the armrest, his voice carrying over the chamber. "Enough."

The unease stilled, the air heavy, the rage simmering beneath the surface of the throne room like a coiled serpent.

Daemon merely arched a brow, waiting.

Viserys exhaled slowly, his eyes hardening as he looked at his younger brother. "Tell me why."

Daemon tilted his head slightly, his smirk never quite fading, but his voice carrying an edge that had not been there before.

"They marched against us first," he said, his tone smooth, unwavering. "They came for my daughter. They came for my grandchildren. The Faith raised arms against the Crown, against House Lannister, against Targaryens with dragons. What did you think would happen, brother? That we would kneel? That we would beg for mercy?"

Viserys’ jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Daemon stepped closer, his boots echoing in the silence. "I have burned our enemies before, Viserys. I have made them kneel in blood and fire. You have never had the stomach for it—but do not ask me to pretend that this is anything different. This war started the moment they thought themselves above us. I simply finished what they began."

Otto’s breath came shallow, fast, his entire body vibrating with fury. "You finished nothing," he hissed. "You have ensured that war will consume us whole."

Daemon rolled his eyes. "Oh, spare me your dramatics, Otto. If anything, I have done you a favor—no more scheming, no more whispers from the maesters, no more messages being carried from the Starry Sept to undermine the Crown." He grinned. "No more Hightowers to plot from their tall, ugly tower."

Otto took a step forward, voice low, shaking with fury. "You will answer for this."

Daemon held his gaze.

And then—

He laughed.

A sharp, rich sound, one that echoed through the chamber, dripping with mockery, with amusement, with utter contempt.

"I just did," he said simply.

Viserys exhaled sharply, his hand coming to rub at his temple, his exhaustion plain, his frustration evident. "What of Daeron?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "Was he there?"

Daemon shrugged. "Perhaps. If he was, he’s gone now."

Viserys’ expression darkened. "Did you kill him?"

Daemon’s grin was slow, deliberate. "You tell me, brother. Have you received a raven with his head in a box yet?"

Viserys closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a breath that spoke of deep exhaustion, of the burdens pressing against him like an iron yoke.

"You have started a fire that cannot be put out," he murmured. "You understand this, do you not?"

Daemon stepped forward, his smirk fading, his expression turning sharp, dangerous. "I understand that if you do not choose a side, you will be buried between them, brother."

Viserys met his gaze, his expression unreadable.

And in that moment, the fate of the realm teetered on a knife’s edge.

The private chambers of King Viserys I Targaryen were thick with the scent of burning candles and aged parchment, the heavy drapes drawn tight to keep the whispers of the court from slithering through the cracks in the walls.

Alicent Hightower stood in the center of the chamber, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, her face flushed with the force of her barely restrained fury. Her green silks clung to her form, the fabric wrinkled from the way her fists had clenched at her sides as she had stormed into the room, her anger barely contained within the fragile bones of her body.

Viserys sat in his chair, his weary gaze fixed on the fire, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest. He looked tired, worn thin by the weight of a kingdom tearing itself apart beneath him. But he did not look surprised.

Alicent’s voice shook the room when she finally spoke. "You let him leave."*

Viserys sighed, tilting his head slightly but not yet meeting her gaze. "What would you have had me do, Alicent?" His voice was low, tired, but edged with something firmer beneath the exhaustion. "Chain him in the dungeons? Have him executed?"

Alicent’s hands trembled, her nails biting into her palms, her fury bubbling over like a cauldron left too long over flame. "Yes!" she snapped, her voice rising, raw with grief and rage. "I would have you do something! You sit there, pretending to be a king, while my House—my family—" her voice caught, her throat tightening before she forced the words out, "—burns to ash."

Viserys finally turned to look at her then, his violet eyes shadowed with something unreadable. "Your family raised an army against the Crown." His voice was quieter now, but no less weighted, no less biting. "Did you truly think there would be no consequences?"

Alicent let out a disbelieving laugh, one laced with venom. "Consequences?" She took a step closer, her emerald eyes blazing with fury. "He did not just defeat them, Viserys. He did not just put down their rebellion. He destroyed them. He reduced Oldtown to rubble, he slaughtered my kin like cattle, he sent dragons to devour every man, woman, and child who bore the name Hightower!"

Viserys held her gaze, his expression unreadable, but his silence was an answer in itself.

Alicent’s breath came short, ragged, her fingers curling into the fabric of her skirts as she shook her head, as if the very weight of this betrayal was suffocating her. "And my son?" Her voice was quieter now, more dangerous. "Did Daemon kill him, too? Did he send his daughter and her bastard Lannister husbands to do it for him?"

Viserys exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. "We do not know Daeron’s fate."

"Because no one has seen him since Oldtown burned!" Alicent shouted, her fury laced with something rawer now, something on the verge of breaking. "Do you not care, Viserys? Do you not care that our son may be dead?"

Viserys' expression twisted, his lips pressing into a thin line, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Of course I care," he said, his voice low, edged with the rare sharpness of a man who had spent his life avoiding war, only to find it spilling over his feet regardless. "But what would you have me do, Alicent? Would you have me call for war against my own blood? Would you have me send men to die for a battle that has already been lost?"

Alicent let out a breath, stepping closer, her green eyes dark with something dangerous. "They must answer for this," she hissed. "Daemon, his daughter, and her Lannister husbands. They cannot be allowed to walk free after what they have done!"

Viserys shook his head, leaning back in his chair, his fingers curling around the edge of the armrest as if bracing for what was to come. "Daemon does not answer to chains, Alicent." His gaze flickered, his expression hardening. "And neither does my niece."

Alicent stilled, her chest rising and falling sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Viserys continued, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "Would you have me call the banners against the Westlands? Would you have me send an army to Casterly Rock to seize Y/N and her Lannister husbands like criminals?"

Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she did not speak.

Viserys' gaze bore into hers, searching, waiting. "Tell me, Alicent. Do you think House Lannister will let her be taken? Do you think Jason Lannister, who now has dragons of his own at his side, will let you have her?"

Alicent’s fingers curled tighter, her nails biting into her skin as rage warred with something colder—reality.

Viserys leaned forward slightly, his expression grim. "You would be calling for a war you cannot win."*

Alicent’s breath hitched, her anger trembling beneath the weight of her grief, her loss, her helplessness.

For the first time in her life, she felt truly powerless.

Her uncle was dead.

Her House was scattered, ruined, burned from history with dragonfire.

Her son was missing, perhaps dead.

And the man she had sworn to stand beside—her husband, her King—

Would do nothing.

The silence dragged between them, thick, suffocating, until at last—

Alicent let out a shuddering breath, her hands trembling at her sides, her fury momentarily stilled but never gone.

She turned toward the door, her movements stiff, her head held high.

But before she left, she spoke.

Her voice was quiet.

But it was cold.

"You are not the King I thought you were, Viserys."

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the dim firelight, the weight of his choices pressing heavier than ever before.

The moon hung heavy over Dragonstone, its silver light casting shadows through the high-arched windows of the great keep. The sea beyond was restless, waves crashing against the black stone cliffs, their rhythm a steady, unrelenting song that had sung for thousands of years.

Inside the chamber, the air was thick with candle smoke and the scent of parchment, of ink and salt, of something heavier that had settled between them like an unspoken weight.

Rhaenyra sat near the open hearth, her gaze fixed on the parchment in her hands, though she had read the words a dozen times already. The message from King’s Landing was brief, cold, and heavy with the weight of war.

Oldtown was gone.

The Faith had fallen.

Daemon and her cousin had burned it to the ground.

Across from her, Laenor sat, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He had been quiet since she had shown him the letter, his usual ease absent, replaced by something more thoughtful, something heavier.

"Say something," Rhaenyra finally murmured, her voice softer than she intended, laced with something almost hesitant. "You have been silent since you read it."

Laenor let out a slow breath, tilting his head back slightly, his gaze flickering toward the dimly lit ceiling before settling back on her. "What would you have me say, Rhaenyra? That I am surprised?"

She exhaled, setting the parchment aside, her fingers drumming against the armrest of her chair. "No. I suppose not."

Laenor shook his head, shifting slightly, his expression unreadable. "Your cousin has always been…bold." There was no mockery in his voice, only a quiet understanding. "And Daemon? Well, we both know he has never needed an excuse to burn his enemies to ash."

Rhaenyra let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "No, he has not."

A silence stretched between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound that remained.

Laenor watched her for a moment before leaning forward, resting his elbows against his knees. "What troubles you more?" he asked. "That they did this—or that they succeeded?"

Rhaenyra hesitated.

Because she knew the answer.

She had always admired her cousin. Even as children, they had been drawn to each other—not just by blood, but by something stronger, something unspoken. They had both been heirs to great things, both bound by duty and expectation, both raised knowing that the world would never be kind to them.

And now?

Now, her cousin had taken what was theirs, what was meant for them, and had burned it all to the ground.

And she had won.

The world had watched as Oldtown crumbled beneath dragonfire, as the High Septon and the great halls of the Faith turned to ash.

And no one had stopped her.

Even the King, their King—her father—had done nothing.

"The war is changing, Laenor," she said finally, her voice quiet but sure. "This is no longer just a rebellion. This is something else."

Laenor studied her, his expression unreadable. "You are afraid."

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, but did not deny it. "I am wary."

Laenor exhaled through his nose, leaning back against his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the wooden armrest. "And you should be," he murmured. "Because you are not the only one who sees it. Westeros is watching, and not just from the Crownlands or the Reach."

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

Laenor hesitated for a moment, his lips parting, then pressing back into a thin line before he finally spoke. "There is a rumor," he said carefully, "that Jason Lannister is making his own court in the Westerlands."

Rhaenyra stilled. "His own court?"

Laenor nodded. "Lannisport is swelling with nobles from all across the West. Some say that he means to break the Westerlands from the rest of the realm, that he seeks to rule from Casterly Rock as something more than just Warden of the West."

Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened against the arm of her chair, her mind turning over the implications, the weight of what this could mean.

The Lannisters were powerful—wealthier than any house in Westeros, with an army to rival even the Crown’s. And now, with dragons of their own at their side? With her cousin bound to Jason and Tyland, with Haelle and the other dragons that had been born from her clutch?

The balance of power was shifting.

And Jason Lannister knew it.

Laenor watched her carefully, his fingers steepling together. "If he declares himself separate from the Iron Throne," he murmured, "how do you think the realm will respond?"

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly. "That depends on who stands with him."

Laenor tilted his head slightly. "And if it is your cousin?"

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable, but her mind already racing ahead, already calculating what this meant, what came next.

"Then the realm will burn."

The Year of Fire and Gold (129 AC – 130 AC)

(As recorded in the accounts of Maester Aelric, the letters of Lord Tybolt Marbrand, and the writings of the fool Mushroom, as compiled by Archmaester Vaegon in his later years.)

The Burning of Oldtown and Its Consequences

In the aftermath of the fall of Oldtown, the realm found itself at a crossroads, divided not only by the scars of war but by the ever-growing rift between King Viserys I Targaryen and the noble houses that once called themselves his vassals. It is said that when the first reports of the city’s destruction reached King’s Landing, there was horror and silence in equal measure. The great seat of House Hightower, the Starry Sept—the center of the Faith of the Seven—and the famed Citadel, home to the Maesters of Westeros, had all been reduced to smoldering ruin.

According to Mushroom, who ever thrived on the gossip of the court, it was not Daemon Targaryen alone who took pleasure in the destruction. The Rogue Prince and his daughter, the Princess of the West, had left Oldtown a corpse of a city, its once-great white towers blackened by dragonfire, its streets lined with charred bones and melted steel. When Queen Alicent Hightower heard of her family’s ruin, Mushroom claims she collapsed upon the floor of her chambers, clawing at her throat as if the very air refused to be drawn into her lungs.

Yet, the King did nothing.

King Viserys, ever reluctant to move against his own kin, refused to raise arms against Daemon or his niece. He did not call for war against the West, nor did he punish House Lannister for standing with the princess. Instead, he attempted to mend the wounds with empty words, urging peace where peace had already been consumed by fire.

Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand, was not so forgiving. The Hand, now old and weary, was said to have railed against his king, demanding that Daemon and his daughter be seized and brought to the capital in chains. But Viserys would hear none of it. Some accounts claim that Otto threatened to step down from his position, but the King merely let him, and in his place named Lord Lyonel Strong as Hand once more.

Not all in King’s Landing remained idle, however. Prince Aemond Targaryen, Alicent’s second son, was said to have sworn vengeance for what had been done to his mother’s house. He was seen more frequently in the company of the City Watch, training relentlessly with sword and lance, while his great dragon Vhagar remained a looming shadow above the capital.

But it was not Aemond who would shape the coming year. It was Jason Lannister.

The Formation of the Golden Court

With the destruction of Oldtown, the balance of power in the realm shifted westward. It was not long after that Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, declared what would later be known as the Golden Court.

It is said that atop the ruined battlements of Oldtown, Jason first spoke of the need for the Westerlands to rule itself, to answer to no crown but their own. Though he did not openly declare independence from the Iron Throne, he refused to kneel, stating that House Lannister had paid for its loyalty in blood and that he would no longer be commanded by a king who could not even stop Faith before it was too late.

With his wife, the Princess of the West, at his side, Jason returned to Casterly Rock, and there, under the great banners of his house, he began to forge his own court.

The Golden Court, as it would come to be known, became a gathering place for the powerful lords of the Westerlands—Marbrand, Lefford, Brax, Crakehall, and Reyne all swore their loyalty, declaring that they would rule their own lands as they saw fit, answering to the King in name only. Even Lord Farman of Fair Isle, long a loyal vassal of the Crown, turned his banners to Jason’s cause, offering his fleet to guard the western coast.

And, most notably, dragons now resided within the Rock.

Haelle, the Nightmare Queen, and the hatchlings born of her clutch, now rested within the bowels of the Rock itself, deep in caverns where no scorpion or spear could reach them. It was the first time in history that dragons had made their home in Lannister lands, and with them, Jason Lannister had something no other lord of Westeros could claim—a deterrent even against the Iron Throne itself.

A Realm Fractured

The reactions to the rise of the Golden Court were swift and divided.

In King’s Landing, Queen Alicent raged, demanding that Jason, Tyland and their Targaryen wife be named traitors, that their dragons be put to the sword, their court torn apart. But King Viserys, ever slow to act, remained indecisive. He did not wish to lose the wealth of the Westerlands, nor did he wish to march against his niece, a move that could very well ignite the war he had long sought to prevent.

Meanwhile, in the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn watched cautiously, wary of the power growing in the west. The Arryns had long been staunch supporters of Rhaenyra, yet even they could not ignore the strength of House Lannister’s defiance.

At Dragonstone, Rhaenyra received word of the Golden Court with both caution and curiosity. Though she still considered her cousin an ally, it was clear that Jason Lannister’s ambitions stretched further than mere loyalty to her cause. Some of her advisors urged her to seek an alliance with him before he turned his back on the Iron Throne entirely.

And in Dorne, where the Martells had long watched the realm tear itself apart from afar, murmurs spread that perhaps the time had come to seize their own independence further, following the Westerlands in defying the Throne and giving them support.

A year had passed since the fires of Oldtown, and in that time, Westeros had begun to shift.

The war had not yet begun in earnest.

But it would.

It was only a matter of when.

The Years of Gold and Fire (130 AC – 140 AC)

(As recorded in the writings of Archmaester Halys, the letters of Ser Adrian Lannister, and the bawdy recollections of the fool Mushroom, as compiled by Maester Tomas in his later years.)

The Death of a King and the War That Followed

King Viserys I Targaryen died in the year 130 AC, and with him, the last fragile hope of peace that had held the realm together for more than two decades. His death was kept secret by the Queen Dowager, Alicent Hightower, and her allies in the Red Keep for a day and a night, long enough for them to secure their positions before announcing what should have been a seamless succession.

Instead, war erupted.

Though Rhaenyra had long been named heir, the Green faction moved swiftly, crowning Aegon II as King before the Princess could make her claim from Dragonstone. Alicent, ever the dutiful mother, had seen in her son not only a king but also a weapon to wield against those who had wronged her. With Viserys gone, the long-awaited reckoning for Oldtown's destruction had finally come—or so she thought.

It is said that upon learning of his coronation, Aegon II was unmoved by talk of the Faith or the ruins of his mother’s House. Unlike Alicent, who had long seethed over the loss of her uncle, her kin, and her seat of power, Aegon saw greater threats before him—Rhaenyra and her Black Council, Daemon and his growing strength in the Westerlands.

Yet Alicent persisted, demanding justice, demanding that her husband’s bastard niece—as she had taken to calling her in the privacy of her chambers—and her Lannister husbands be punished for their crimes. Aegon was said to have waved a hand and muttered, "If you want her dead, mother, go kill her yourself."

The Dowager Queen did not lead an army herself, but the war she had long desired finally came to pass.

The Westerlands and the Dance of Dragons

The Lannisters did not move at the onset of the war. Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West in all but name, had declared the Golden Court separate from the rule of the Iron Throne, answering to neither Aegon nor Rhaenyra. Some thought he would bend the knee to Aegon when the time came, yet the Lord of the Rock remained unmoved, his loyalty, as ever, tied only to gold, family, and power.

It was his wife, the Targaryen Princess, who shaped the course of the Westerlands in the years to come.

By 130 AC, she had already borne two children, Seraphina and Daemon, yet over the next ten years, her brood swelled to fourteen.

Mushroom, ever crude in his observations, noted that "For every year of war, the Princess of the West birthed two more lions, and if it had lasted longer, we might all have been Lannisters by the end of it."

Five of her pregnancies were twin births, and it remained unknown which of the golden twins sired which children. Some whispered that Tyland fathered the more cunning ones, while Jason fathered the ones who roared the loudest. The only certainty was that none of them were weak.

Though Westerlands remained independent, the war did not pass without its touch. Daemon Targaryen did not return to Rhaenyra’s side in the Crownlands as many had expected. He remained in the West, at the Golden Court, where he had found a place at his daughter’s side, wielding his sword and influence to maintain their power. It was whispered that he had grown fond of his grandchildren, even if he claimed no patience for them.

But where Daemon remained, Haelle reigned.

Haelle, the Nightmare Queen

The Nightmare Queen earned her name thrice over during the war.

Unlike her fellow dragons, who engaged in aerial duels or scorched castles upon command, Haelle answered to no banner but her own. She circled battlefields like a vulture, descending only when the screams had faded, tearing through the corpses with gleaming black fangs.

At the Battle of Tumbleton, where betrayal and slaughter turned the tide of war, it was said that Haelle came upon the field after the carnage had ended. While dragons had battled dragons, and men had torn each other apart, the Nightmare Queen descended from the sky and feasted upon what remained.

According to Lord Unwin Peake, she devoured the carcass of Seasmoke, leaving only scorched bones and splintered ribs as proof that the dragon had ever existed.

It was not only dead men that burned beneath her. Haelle became infamous for attacking ships, seemingly without command, disrupting military operations for both the Greens and the Blacks. She was said to have burned an entire fleet near the Arbor, forcing them to retreat before they could reinforce Aegon's forces in the Riverlands.

"She has no master," Mushroom wrote. "Not her rider, not the Rock, not the throne. She is a beast of her own making, and she has decided she likes the taste of war."

It is uncertain whether the Princess of the West ever attempted to rein in Haelle’s growing hunger. Some believed that she allowed it, knowing that fear of her dragon alone kept the Westerlands unchallenged. Others claimed that she never had control over Haelle to begin with.

The truth, as always, lay somewhere between.

The Fate of the Hightowers and the Fall of the Faith

After the war, when Aegon II lay dead and Aegon III sat upon the throne, the surviving Hightowers attempted to seek justice for their kin.

It was a quiet effort, made not through war but through the courts of King’s Landing, where the last remnants of their house pleaded for vengeance against the Targaryen woman and the Lannisters who had burned Oldtown to ash.

Nothing came of it.

The war had reshaped Westeros, and no man in power wished to reopen old wounds.

The Faith never recovered.

With the Starry Sept destroyed, and its leaders dead or scattered, the power of the High Septon waned. Though the Faith would remain, it would never again hold the same strength.

The Citadel, once the seat of knowledge in Westeros, became a shadow of its former self. Many of the great maesters had perished in the fire, their archives lost, their influence shattered.

What knowledge they attempted to restore was done under the watchful eye of the new order of lords and kings, who did not forget the lessons of the past.

The End of a Decade

By 140 AC, the realm had changed.

The Iron Throne was ruled by a child king, Joffrey I, whose reign was shaped by mourning and shadows. The Riverlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands struggled to rebuild. The North and the Vale remained distant, ever watchful.

And in the West?

The Golden Court still stood, separate from the throne, untouched by the war that had torn the rest of the realm apart.

Its princess was a mother of fourteen, a ruler with two husbands, and a dragon whose very name sent shudders through those who had seen her fly.

And House Lannister?

House Lannister still stood apart from Westeros, standing upon its mountain of gold, a kingdom in all but name.

The chambers within Casterly Rock were grand, carved into the very heart of the mountain itself, where the walls bore the weight of history, of power, of an empire built not by conquest, but by gold. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and candlewax, of perfumed oils spilled across silken sheets, and of the deep, musky fragrance of passion. The warmth of flickering firelight bathed the great bed in amber glow, casting shadows against the carved stone, where two lions had claimed their prize between them.

Jason Lannister’s hands roamed your body with possessive reverence, fingers pressing into the softness of your hips, dragging you down onto him as his golden mane spilled wildly across the pillows. His lips were hot against your throat, teeth grazing against flushed skin, his breath heavy with the satisfaction of a man who took what was his, and knew it was his. His body was still strong, built for war, but here in the confines of your chambers, he wielded himself not as a lord of battle, but as something more primal—a beast, indulgent and unrestrained, gluttonous in his desire for you.

And yet, above you, another presence loomed—one not so easily consumed by reckless pleasure. Tyland was behind you, his chest pressed flush against your back, his fingers tangled in your hair as his breath ghosted along the shell of your ear. Unlike Jason, whose touches were searing, who demanded devotion with each kiss, each bruising grip, Tyland remained forever calculating, a man who played the long game in both love and war. His lips traced along your shoulder, softer, teasing, as though he reveled in the slow unraveling of your composure.

For all their differences, they were the same in this. You had them both, and they had you.

And yet, even in the throes of pleasure, their natures could not be denied.

Jason gripped your thighs tighter, rolling his hips up into yours with a deep, satisfied groan. "You see, brother," he murmured, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips as his gaze flickered toward Tyland. "She was made for this. For us."

Tyland scoffed, his fingers tightening in your hair, tilting your head just enough to force your gaze toward him. "And yet you indulge yourself like a man who has never known restraint after all these years," he mused, voice rich with amusement, but edged with something sharper. "Perhaps you forget that you are not the only one who shares her bed."

Jason laughed, though his grip on you remained firm, unrelenting. "Oh, is that what this is about?" His green eyes gleamed with mischief as his hand trailed up your spine, slow, teasing. "Feeling neglected, dear brother?"

Tyland's lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk. "I do not squander what I have," he retorted smoothly. "Unlike you."

Jason let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head before thrusting up into you once more, pulling a strangled gasp from your lips. "Squander?" he mused, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Is that what you call it? Then tell me, Tyland—why do you hold back? Do you fear you might break her?" He leaned in, his teeth nipping at your throat, dragging a moan from your lips. "She is stronger than you think."

Tyland’s grip on your hair tightened, a quiet warning. "I do not need to break her to claim her," he murmured against your skin, his free hand sliding down to your waist, holding you firm. "Unlike you, I do not have to prove my worth through excess."

Jason smirked, though his movements did not slow. "Ah, so that’s what this is," he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, pressing a kiss there. "Jealousy."

Tyland let out a sharp breath, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I think not."

Jason chuckled, low and rich, his grip shifting as he leaned up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "You always were too measured," he mused against your lips, his breath hot. "And yet, here you are, with your hands on her, your cock buried in her, just as mine is." His smirk widened. "So tell me, brother—who is the indulgent one now?"

Tyland's patience was thinning. "At least I am not a boor about it."

You let out a sigh, rolling your head back against Tyland’s shoulder, your fingers tangling in Jason’s golden hair, tugging sharply to force his gaze to yours. "If you two are going to bicker like children," you murmured, your voice laced with both amusement and frustration, "I will get up and take a bath alone."

Jason's smirk faltered, his grip on you tightening. "That would be a shame," he mused, his eyes darkening.

Tyland let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Unacceptable."

You hummed, amusement curling at your lips. "Then move and use me properly, and stop wasting my time."

A sharp grin split Jason’s lips, his eyes gleaming. "Now that, my love, is an order I am happy to obey."

And just like that, their argument was forgotten.

The heat between your bodies was unbearable, the slickness of sweat and passion mingling between where your skin met theirs. The tension of their argument had only added to the fevered urgency in the way they moved now—Jason’s hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements with firm, practiced control, while Tyland’s lips traced the back of your neck, his breath hot, his fingers splayed across your stomach, holding you in place between them. You were caught between fire and steel, between indulgence and precision, between the two men who had claimed you, who had made you theirs in every way that mattered.

Jason drove into you with relentless hunger, his pace unyielding, his hair damp with sweat, his jaw clenched with the effort to hold himself back until he could feel you unravel around him. Tyland, ever measured, matched him stroke for stroke, his grip tightening against you, his movements coaxing, teasing, pulling you further into that unbearable edge where pleasure and agony met in a violent collision.

You felt it building, the tension tightening in your core, spreading like wildfire through your veins, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to Jason’s shoulders as your nails raked across his skin, leaving faint red marks against the tanned flesh. Your body arched, muscles coiling, and then—

"Yes," Jason groaned, his voice thick with satisfaction as he felt the first tremors of your release begin to seize you. "That’s it, my love—come apart for us."

Tyland let out a quiet hum of approval, his fingers sliding lower, stroking the most sensitive part of you, pushing you over. "Let go," he murmured against your ear, his voice low, reverent, commanding. "Now."

The pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath, leaving you shuddering and moaning, your body clenching around them both as the waves of ecstasy surged through you, consuming you whole. Jason groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as your release pulled him into his own, his pace faltering, breaking apart as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan of your name.

"Gods, woman," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, his body still trembling from the force of it. "You’ll be the death of me."

Tyland followed soon after, his own release more controlled, but no less intense. His breath shuddered against your skin, his grip tightening as he buried himself one final time, releasing deep within you, his lips ghosting along the shell of your ear. "Perfect," he murmured, almost to himself, his fingers skimming down your body as if memorizing the way you felt beneath him in this moment.

The three of you remained tangled together, breathless, spent, your bodies slick with sweat, the scent of sex thick in the air. Jason, ever indulgent, nipped at your collarbone lazily, his hands still splayed possessively across your hips, as if unwilling to part from you just yet. Tyland, ever calculating, brushed his fingers over your stomach, smearing the mixture of their release against your skin with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

"A sight to behold," he mused, his voice rich with amusement. "A woman truly claimed."

Jason let out a satisfied hum, smirking as he ran a hand through his damp hair. "And yet," he murmured, his lips curling into something wicked, "we still have a bath to attend to, lest the water grows cold."

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. "Then perhaps we should move," you teased, though your body still felt heavy with exhaustion, your limbs unwilling to part from their warmth.

Jason grinned, his hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the bed. "Oh no, my love," he purred, carrying you toward the bath. "Let us see if we can tempt you again before the water cools."

And you had no doubt that they would.

The warm water had long since cooled, and the three of you had finally emerged from the bath, skin flushed and softened from the heat. The dampness of steam still clung to the air, perfumed with the oils Jason had insisted upon, the lingering scent of jasmine wrapping around your senses like a second skin. Your hair hung loose, still drying in the open air as you stood upon the balcony, wrapped in a silken robe, gazing out over the gardens of Casterly Rock.

Jason and Tyland flanked you, each holding a goblet of wine, their hair gleaming under the soft afternoon sun. They had been in rare agreement today—both indulgent, both languid, content to simply stand at your side, watching the world below.

And there, in the lush gardens of the Rock, was Daemon.

The Rogue Prince, your father, the man who had once burned Oldtown to the ground at your side, now sat beneath the shade of a sprawling oak, surrounded by a flurry of golden-haired children. The younger ones climbed over him as if he were a great dragon of flesh and bone rather than fire and scale, tugging at his sleeves, chattering excitedly as he bore their weight with the practiced indifference of a man who had known far worse.

Your eldest son, Daemon—named for his grandsire, though he carried more of Jason in his features than the name would suggest—stood beside the tree, watching the younger ones with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest. Seraphina, your firstborn daughter, had draped herself along one of the higher branches, her curls spilling over her shoulder as she peered down at the chaos below with an amused glint in her eyes.

One of the youngest twins, barely more than a babe, had all but climbed onto Daemon’s shoulders, yanking at the strands of silver hair that had begun to show streaks of white with age. He merely grunted, adjusting the child’s weight, his free hand reaching out to steady another grandson who had nearly lost his footing in his rush to clamber into his lap.

Jason let out a low chuckle beside you, swirling the wine in his goblet. "He endures it well enough," he mused, tilting his head slightly as he watched the spectacle unfold below. "One would think he resents the swarm of them, but I suspect he enjoys it more than he lets on."

Tyland scoffed softly, sipping his own wine. "Of course he does," he murmured. "Daemon Targaryen does nothing he does not wish to do. If he truly hated it, he would have tossed them off him long ago."

You smiled faintly, watching as Daemon grumbled something under his breath, only for the children to laugh, unafraid, unbothered by the sharpness of his tone.

"He’s softened," you murmured, tilting your head slightly. "Age has not tamed him, but the children have."

Jason smirked, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned in, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. "Or perhaps you have," he mused. "He never left after the war. He stayed—for you."

Your eyes flickered to him, your expression unreadable. "For us," you corrected. "For our family."

Tyland hummed, tilting his goblet slightly. "For the Golden Court," he added.

Daemon shifted below, his gaze flickering upward as if he had felt the weight of your eyes upon him. His keen, knowing gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, there was something unreadable in his expression. Then, with the slow ease of a man who had never once bent to another’s will, he smirked.

"Don’t just stand up there like ghosts," he called out, his voice carrying easily through the garden. "Come down before they start climbing up to get you."

Jason let out a bark of laughter, his free hand coming to rest at your lower back. "A fair warning," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "We do have too many of them to keep track of."

You smiled, tipping your goblet against your lips as you gazed down at the sight below.

Yes, perhaps you did.

But you would not have had it any other way.

[writer-by-the-sea]

I need to collaborate with a modder.

Wouldn't it be fun to have bizarre villager requests?

Looking for a Prismatic Shard. I don't know what it does, but it's pretty and I want to take photos of it next to the river on a Sunny day.

-Haley

Could someone bring me a scorpion carp? I have a feeling it's stinger would make a wonderful pen!

-Elliott

I need Spicy Eel ASAP! Sebastian and I made a bet, long story short; he lost! Now he has to eat it!

-Sam

Miss Penny told us dinosaurs were real. I don't believe it!! Can someone prove it?!

-Vincent

Requesting fresh Fiddle Fern! It has such a wonderful aroma when ground up and used...

-Emily

I need a void egg, looking to raise some hell. Or an omelette, whatever's easier.

-Sebastian

[specialfanboying]

takumi is the prince to karua/nozomi's princess. but he's the princess to hiruko's prince. everything he does to nozomi, hiruko has done to him sometime or another. there is a dynamic of Protector (To The Point Of Toxicity)/Protected.

i'd say they differ in that karua is a deliberately crafted idea. there is something genuine in takumi wanting to ease her worries despite that he never can, but she exists first and foremost to get takumi to fight without questioning if she would. those evil invaders are going to kill and assault your girlfriend, of course you have to kill them. whereas nozomi is...an actual person. either takumi can see her for who she is and that she wants to protect him too, and they can form a bond of equals for real, or...he doesn't, and their relationship sorta deteroirates from the atrocities he's willing to commit for an image of karua he projects over nozomi.

whereas hiruko is herself...well, at this for longer than takumi. like i realize it's a messy comparison but homura is really the best eway i can put it. person whose heart has already been hardened by the time we get to the present day though judging by her bond events hiruko was already kinda a perfectionist thrillseeker and only person they feel much for in the many timeloops. like hiruko mostly needs takumi for moral support. he is the only one she's been able to tell her secret and be genuinely soft and hopeful again with, it's just that she'd ensure their doom stays put if it ensures they have that moment of connection together. he's her ideal of hope and happiness.

eito's takumi's princess but only in the slay the princess kinda way in like. person you're inextricably connected to in the eternal torment together. person who does change quite a lot based on how you treat them. if you come in with a knife you cannot complain about the timeline you've got coming full of violence and hate. they're most often like the witch and the opportunist but like that's juts. scorpion frog stuff. but like the element of to kill them is ot kill a part of yourself/in your parting you left a shard of yourself in them, and a shard of them in you there. and that you can be so many things to each other over the infinite timelines.

[gravity-what]

Chinese Character on Shen Gong Wu Scroll?

One thing I’ve been curious about is the bottom left symbol on the Shen Gong Wu scroll. This one:

And what it could mean for the Shen Gong Wu itself and, well, I found images of as many of the Wu entries as I could and I present you with translations:

熊 = Bear = mikado arms, fist of tebigong,

龍 = Dragon = ring of the nine dragons, Fountain of Hui, Lunar Locket, shroud of Shadows, Sapphire Dragon, Longi Kite, Shard of Lightning, Sands of Time, Ying-Yo-Yo (NOTE: Yang Yo-Yo’s page is blank), WuShan Geyser, Moby Morpher, Kuzusu Atom, Rio Reverso, Ruby of Ramses,

蛇 = Snake = Mind reader conch, Sphere of Yun, serpents tail, Lotus Twister,

猴 = Monkey = Mantis flip coin

蠍 = Scorpion = emperor scorpion, Manchurian Musca

豹 = Leopard = Eye of Dashi, Sword of the Storm, Crouching Cougar, Shadow Slicer

鹿 = Deer = Helmet of Jong

蝶 = Butterfly = Changing Chopsticks, Wings of Tinabi, Shadow of Fear, woozy shooter, Denshi Bunny, Zing Zom-Bone

象 = Elephant = Two-Ton Tunic

鷹 = Eagle = Tangle Web Comb, Falcons Eye, Crystal Glasses, Reversing Mirror

鯨 = Whale = orb of Tornami

螳螂 = mantis = Glove of Jisaku, Fancy Feet,

? 虫 = insect = Black Beetle (I get the feeling this is supposed to be beetles as well like ants in the pants but whoever drew the scroll didn’t know what they were doing…)

甲蟲 = beetles = ants in the pants

蜘蛛 = Spider = Moonstone locust

牛 = Cow = Cannon Blaster

——

Personally (and I wish I had translated this earlier for the sake of fanfics) but bet is on these either being 1) the type of spirit that is trapped in the Wu (ex: a monkey spirit is what was trapped to create the mantis flip coin) or 2) potentially the symbol is more just to highlight a specific characteristic of the Wu. (Ex: the eagle character has two Wu that relate to vision and sight. However how the tangle web comb fits into that… idk)

Either way! Just some interesting notes for people to use as they wish! Also below the cuts are the unknowns since I couldn’t find a scroll image for them

Third-Arm Sash •

Jetbootsu •

Monkey Staff •

Golden Tiger Claws •

Star Hanabi •

Tongue of Saiping • = ????

Sun Chi Lantern • = ????

Heart of Jong •

Silver Manta Ray •

Wushu Helmet •

Thorn of Thunderbolt •

Tunnel Armadillo •

Ju-Ju Flytrap •

Silk Spitter •

Sweet Baby Among Us •

Lasso Boa-Boa •

Monsoon Sandals •

Mosaic Scale • = ???

Monarch Wings • = ???

Gills of Hamachi •

Eagle Scope •

Shen-Ga-Roo •

Golden Finger •

Hodoku Mouse •

[jjwolves]

More Merci please 🗣🗣What about her trying to comfort the reader?

HELL VALLEY SKY TREES

What: 5 Part Merci X Reader Comfort Imagine

Who: Merci from ENA (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1400 Words, ~7 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: Language

You're not sure if dreams are just dreams here or something more. If they aren't, you're relieved; if they are, you're concerned. Every night (or, at least when the sky presents itself as such), you're shaken awake by confusing and disorienting nightmares. You thought your dreams were weird before, but in this place it's like everything bleeds together. Who's to say that dreams are exclusively internal here? One moment you're being lulled to sleep by the warmth and admittedly odd construction paper-like smell of your weird mime girlfriend, and the next you're holding up a lantern to get a better view of the dreadful labyrinth made of volcanic glass that you find yourself walking in. Strange beings with long necks like sausage links eerily loom above in order to survey your progress, or maybe they're waiting in the wings for you to slip up and have a free meal delivered to them. The tails of scorpions flail out from between the rocks and wrap around your legs. You scream and beg the nightmare to end--or maybe you're begging for this world to end. The lines between the two grew thin with terror. Thankfully, the world seems to register your request and begins shivering with an apocalyptic tremor, the labyrinth splitting apart into shards and swirling down into an abyss. Then you're in your bed, blearily gazing up towards your savior and/or rude awakener. Your mind takes a moment to put its reading glasses on before you realize that it's Merci violently shaking you in order to wake you up.

"You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were being abducted by the Masked Abstractor. Remember that movie? I know it wasn't your favorite, but I liked that one quite a lot, actually." Fresh out of a nightmare and Merci was already making sure to bring up that horrifying movie she watched with you a few skycycles ago. Still working through the haze of dread that your dream had momentarily drenched the waking world in, you clutched the sheets tightly, red-checkered patterns ceaselessly moving as if scrolling downwards. You think that Merci is taking note of your uneasiness when her head tilts to the side and one of her hand-mouths rubs her chin. Then again, maybe not; it was always hard to tell. "You can pick the movie next time, you know. Maybe... Are you angry at me for being an insistent asshole?" Holding in a chuckle, you tell her that you're not mad about that. Not mad about anything really. Just scared by a dream you had, which has been a common occurrence for a while now. You just wish you could get a full night... stretch... whatever, of sleep.

"Aha. I see. Well, I'm glad you're not angry. My grand apology performance is pretty bad for my back." Merci hunches over into a cross-legged sit, seemingly stricken with an idea, while you pout at her having once again escaped needing to perform the apology performance. You were curious! You take the time to joke that being angry is her job; she's got it covered for both of you. Merci acrobatically leaps off the bed and begins stomping with rage. "I don't get fucking angry! Every artist is supposed to have passion, right?! I have passion!! You make me sound unrefined!" Admittedly quite amused, you apologize, at which the mime flips back to the subject of her idea as if what you just saw didn't happen. "ANYWAYS. I have a solution for your tendency to fall into horrible little sleep-worlds. I think I'd like to sleep with you." A moment of silence. Somewhere, a beetle with a nightcap awkwardly scuttles out of the room. With slight hesitation, you squeak out a "but we already do," your voice awkwardly shifting the statement into a question. This time, Merci looks bashful. Or, at least, her posture does. Her mask never really changes all that much. "Aha, well, actually... I don't really sleep... So. I apologize for lying to you, and also for watching you sleep while I'm... not. Actually. Ahem." Your face gets hotter as you throw a pillow at her, which she gracefully dodges. Her beret falls off, though. A miniature victory, even if your pillow exploded into frozen chunks when it hit the ground. You really needed to fix the floor temperature someday.

Merci explains her plan to you, which goes like this: The next time you go to sleep, Merci will cuddle up to you and follow you into the dream to "see what all the screaming's about". After another lethargic day spent with the fatigue of sleep deprivation weighing on your shoulders, you're unsurprised to find that you're actually eager to hit the hay again, even if it means confronting night terrors. You've got Merci with you, though, and if dreams work the way she says they do, then maybe you'll actually get a full cycle. Your beloved mime lays down to cuddle you as the big spoon. "There's a joke I could make about this position but I'm not going to say it." You turn around to shoot her a look. "Forget what I said. Go to sleep! And once you're in, I'll just follow you." You close your tired eyes and let the world melt into another. You see fractals, starting off soft and simple before sharpening into gray and red. And just like that you're back in hellworld.

The sky is blanketed by dark green clouds which pulse as if organs lie underneath them, and the ground shines like the volcanic glass you're all to familiar with. With a slight tremor, you begin walking forward; there's little choice to do otherwise when your mind is screaming at you to run from the monster which is sure to bear down on you and attack at any moment. Once again, the sausage-neck monsters rise to stare ominously, snaking towards you to cut off any path of escape. That's when you see something out of the ordinary for this place: A stage with the curtains drawn. There's nowhere else to go, right? You elect to book it to the one place which isn't immediately horrifying. but by the time you get there, you're overwhelmed with horror as another one of the sausage-necked creatures creeps out from behind the curtains. You skid to a stop and shake with fear as it stretches high above you before... shaking and dancing around like a goofball. Huh? You're not sure if your brain is running out of ideas to scare you or what. At this point, the curtains open themselves to reveal Merci maneuvering a pair of sticks in order to properly move what is, apparently, a giant puppet. "Hey, take a look." Merci lets go of the sticks and the puppet falls lifelessly to the ground. Now that you're not running from it, it's shockingly fake-looking. "I wouldn't worry to much about them. They're just stage props. Imp guys seem to puppet them around from behind the scenes." Well, that was one fear out of the way... But despite the reassurance, you still felt like you were being hunted, and the feeling was only getting worse. Merci seemed to recognize your building tension for once. "You can rest easy now, right? It's all just a show." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, an imp-like monster with a scythe for a hand leaped out from behind a rock, causing you to let out a shriek of fear. "FUCK!" Merci yelped, before swinging her staff into the monster's knees. A loud CRACK resounded, the monster falling from the blow and pathetically clutching its legs. You awkwardly nudge it with your shoe, but it's still reeling, it seems. "...Let's get out of here. Follow me backstage?" You nod and dip into the darkness of the curtains.Time blurred and passed. Before you could even register it, you woke up in your bed after a night of full rest, unshaken. You turned to face Merci, who was laying beside you. You quietly thanked her, to which she primly and mischievously rested her head in her hands . "Of course. Maybe this is a bit bold, but... I think I'd like to sleep with you again." You reached behind you to grab a pillow but Merci already somersaulted out of the bedroom.

A/N: I'm starting to realize that these aren't really "headcanons" so much as short stories grouped into different sections so I might just relabel some stuff (entirely arbitrary, I know). I hope you enjoy! There will be more Merci coming up soon, but I will probably do something with another character in between. Maybeee Mitu? I don't know yet. I'm thinking the next one will be about sharing a house with a character but it's not set in stone. Until next time.

A/N: I worried about writing Merci's outbursts because Meanie is very similar in that way. But at the end of the day, they're very different, right? Meanie is fed up with everything and is kind of jaded, while Merci has much more "active" anger outbursts. Just my thoughts, though.

Edit: Dude this app's formatting can go fuck itself seriously.

[shipperwolf1]

Emet-Selch narration be like: Mastering the art of this sophisticate manner of movement will ever be left to us who have known perfection. Stretching from limb to limb and putting the energies into grace and dexterity. In the Fifth Umbral Era, this style of movement became common form amongst the nobles of the great empire of Allag. And I was of no difference. In order to get close to the Archmage Amon amongst his esteemed peers. I had to dedicate myself to such practice. Child's play to someone like myself, the real trick was making it appear as though I struggled with such a feat at first. To appear run of the mill amongst the fellows also vying for the shard of Fandaniel's attention. For hour became day and day become week and week stretched ever longer unto years. Until finally, I stood among even the highest of ranks as the most graceful of my peers. When the Archmage finally deigned to grant me audience. I performed for him the magics of action for whence, I had feign a practice. I will not reiterate unto you, fare adventurer and translate each styling into verbal form so as to elucidate you as to the lengths, I have gone, for this star. I performed for him; the pizza toss, the tornado, the scorpion, the--OOPSIE DOODLE. Yes, quite so, I was hoola hooping to gain access to him. And the grandest part of my plan is no one will ever believe you should you tell them.

I read this in his voice and I hate you for it

[hellaverse-reimagined]

Stairways AU - Soul Coins & Husker’s Deal Origins

In hell, souls are commodified as currency for high-value deals, with each soul being split into 9 coins (one for each ring of hell). Mammon and others aligned with Greed have gone as far as to refer to them as “SoulBux” to further the appeal of spending.

This makes the nature of deal making more complex, with souls being capable to be owned by 9 different people at once, including the soul themselves.

This takes turf wars to a whole new level, with soul coins being the main conquest in any turf war. All souls owned in the territory belong to the Overlord of that territory, not including individuals who still own their own souls.

One tactic of Overlords is to offer “protection” in exchange for a shard (coin) of a sinner’s soul. This “protection” is typically just a promise to leave them alone, but in other cases, this protection can be from other overlords or even Hell in general (This is the case with Alastor and Niffty, where Niffty eagerly offered all 9 of her soul coins and her servitude in exchange for safety).

Overlords adept at gambling go another route- they will open casinos where, yes, typical money can be gambled, but patrons also have the option to gamble with their souls. This is a high-stakes gamble and is only reserved for life-or-death betting, or when someone loses everything and wants to gamble their souls to earn back what they lost. This is a very lucrative business, with all souls gambled going to the Casino Owner. Employees of these Casinos are typically souls who bet their souls away, or Hellborne who have no souls but work for pay.

Husk was one such Overlord, and owned a very successful casino called “The Lions’ Den.” When Alastor was at the height of his Overlord infamy, he visited The Lions’ Den and made a winning streak that made Husk suspicious. This chump was threatening to squeeze his casino dry! If he let some dog come in and clear him out, his reputation would be on the line! So he decided to have a friendly chat with the Radio Demon.

“Word around here is you’ve had quite a winning streak. It’s making people suspicious.”

“Now whatever could you mean, dear chum? I’ve just had a bit of luck is all” grinned the wolf in red.

“49 in a row? That’s some luck, pal. It goes against the odds. I’ve got a good nose, son. And I smell a cheat.”

“A cheat?” The Radio Demon guffawed, wiping a tear from his eye.

“You think me a skilamalink? Why my good sir, if you think I’d frog such a fine establishment, you are poorly mistaken!”

“But if you wish to see my skills for yourself, then by all means!” He smiled, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Husk flared his leathery wings with annoyance, but his black scorpion tail twitched in anticipation.

“Fine. But it’s all in. You lose, youre outta here. I don’t want to see hide or tail of ya.”

The radio demons permanent grin grew a bit wider at the challenge,

“Why don’t we make this a little more interesting?” He grinned, producing a glowing gold coin with a wave of his hand, pressing it to the table.

“All in… and…” Alastor’s eyes blinked black

“Every scrap of soul in the loser’s possession.”

Husker’s mean mug cracked into a sadistic smile. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear.

Husk snapped his feline fingers, and a set of well-dressed imps immediately replaced the dingy casino chair with Husk’s personal gambling thrown, seating him at the table. A Basset Hellhound immediately dealt him a hand of cards, which husk fanned in front of him with one hand.

“You’ve got a deal.”

[maverick-werewolf]

Daily Werewolf Thoughts - Days 24-30 (includes HUGE posts on berserkers and Peter Stubbe)

img: illustration for my upcoming huge novel release (Knightfall), by Saber-Scorpion

Day 24- So I just talked about how much I enjoy the werewolf concealing the curse, something that may or may not always go with that is having no memory of what the monster form did-- or, sometimes, not even remembering turning into a werewolf at all. It is, again, another fun layer of drama, character exploration, and meaning that comes with the wonderfully robust tale of the werewolf.

I really cannot emphasize enough how much I love this kind of stuff. Everything about it. But on the subject at hand, the scene of a man (or woman, as the case may be, since we do have those too) awakens in the morning and finds just a few things off - or has literal blood on his hands. Has no memory of what happened. Does he know? Does he figure it out? Or is he left in total confusion? How do things play out from there? What -did- he do last night, and how bad was it? Will anyone else find out? There are so many endless possibilities. It's something else that I, obviously, love exploring in my own fiction*.

I always address whether or not such a concept existed in folklore, and in this case, the answer is pretty much no. This is yet another thing we can thank The Wolf Man (1941) and writer Curt Siodmak for. So, thank you yet again, Curt Siodmak, for adding another layer onto such a fantastically tragic story.

*: shameless plug for my book coming later this year, Wulfgard: Knightfall, so please stay tuned and check that out when it releases; I am currently dying during the editing process and every copy contains a small shard of my soul

Under the cut are some BIG POSTS on berserkers (and how they are not "bear warriors") as well as Peter Stubbe (who was not a werewolf), other thoughts, me freaking out about how cool werewolves are, and more!

Day 25- A hill I have chosen to die upon is that portrayals of berserkers as "bear warriors" are wholly inaccurate, preposterous, and baseless. This is considered a sweeping statement in the academic community (because they are the ones who first proposed this utter nonsense, in search of a "new argument" for "the conversation" in the 19th century; before this, everyone accepted that "berserker" means "bare of shirt"), and yet, when I made it, I received support and even a stamp of approval from a lifelong Old Norse and Icelandic scholar and professor. Let me tell you why…

Snorri Sturluson, the historian to whom we owe knowing about almost any of these legends and the preservation or creation of many Sagas and the Eddas, who lived from 1179-1241 AD, has always been the foremost source for all things Norse. It is he to whom we owe a great deal of, and likely even the majority of, our knowledge of Norse mythology. And yet, today, scholars love to disrespect Snorri and claim he was wrong about nearly everything. It's absolutely absurd.

Snorri said that "berserker" means "bare of shirt," and I've heard many native Icelandic speakers reinforce this theory and other scholars agreeing as well. It refers to throwing off their armor in battle upon entering their rages, or perhaps even fighting shirtless; there are arguments about that too. Many scholars still refute this idea of berserkers being bear warriors (there are numerous examples, such as Anatoly Liberman), and some don't even bother acknowledging it; you can find some things today that, thankfully, don't touch this bear concept at all, especially outside of America. Huge props to Robert Eggers for his incredible research for The Northman film and an execution that resulted in the coolest portrayals of a berserker that we have ever gotten, and that feels accurate to the sagas. Modern scholars like to say that Snorri was very wrong and that "berserker" means "bear shirt." They refute Snorri for saying that his theory has been abandoned because of "lack of supporting evidence," which is so rich because they have no supporting evidence for their "bear warrior" etymology, either.

Long story short, I will not stand for Snorri disrespect. We love Snorri in this house.

Now, on to berserkers themselves. Why do I insist, then, that they are wolf warriors? We have many examples of what are sometimes called the ulfheðnir, or "wolf-shirts." Note that you recognize the Old Norse form of wolf in "ulf," same as you generally would recognize "bjarn" or "bjorn" for bear*. An ancient Roman account describes them thusly: “Their eyes glared as though a flame burned in their sockets, they ground their teeth, and frothed at the mouth; they gnawed at their shield rims, and are said to have sometimes bitten them through, and as they rushed into conflict they … howled as wolves.”

Berserkers were described variably as "strong as bulls," "howled like wolves," and other animal comparisons. But, more often than not, we see berserkers associated with wolves across the sagas. They were said to enter mad rages, their berserk state, during which they endured impossible amounts of pain, were unharmed by fire or iron, and performed superhuman feats of strength and bravery. They were sometimes called hamrammr, or shape-strong, and it is implied they are stronger than an ordinary man no matter what shape they currently took. Some were associated with shapechanging, such as Kveldulf the evening-wolf, a highly intelligent man sought for his wisdom - but, around dusk each day, "he became so savage that few dared exchange a word with him … People said that he was much give nto changing form, so he was called the evening-wolf, kveldúlfr." Kveldulf appears in multiple sources, such as Egils saga and more. Other ulfhednir appear in the Vatnsdæla Saga and the Holmverja Saga, among others, with several being cited as capable of changing forms and "wolf-shaped."

Also, not only is there a suspicious lack of named bears in Norse myth as a whole (though we have many named wolves, a named boar, named goats, ravens, and even named roosters, squirrels, and more) to claim they are so important to their culture historically, but again, we are notably lacking in direct evidence of this "bear warrior" concept. Some love to cite Bodvar Bjarki from Hrólfs saga kraka - a warrior who could assume the shape of a bear - but he specifically was NOT a berserker, and in fact he frequently came in contention with berserkers and talked down about them.

As you can see, I could go on about this for quite some time, and I plan to at some point. There's a lot more to say and discuss, but I'll leave it off here for now.

More on this in a huge article sometime next year, probably. Way too much work left in this year. I do have this one, however, that I wrote many years ago now and have expanded upon some since, though it requires far more expansion and specificity (some of which I did here instead): https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-facts/berserkers/

And this is also discussed in my book, The Werewolf: Past and Future, which I will always shamelessly plug as a great way to get started with the werewolf legends throughout the march of history: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1949227022 And also my own edition of Sabine Baring-Gould's fantastic work from the 1800s about werewolves, includes footnotes, translations, etc by yours truly; he discusses the sagas quite a bit: https://www.amazon.com/Book-Werewolves-Superstition-Annotated-Translated-ebook/dp/B0CK4YY16Z

*: why aren't they called "bjarnskins," then? Why would berserker begin with a Proto-Germanic "bero" for bear when "berr" is Old Norse FOR BARE, like "bare of shirt"?? A form of "berr" meaning "bear" did not exist in Old Norse. Why does anyone even believe this bear warrior berserker crap?

image: helmet plate from the Vendel period (540–790 AD) depicting Odin and a wolf-cowled or wolf-headed berserker

Day 26- A huge pet peeve of mine is werewolves that turn utterly brainless when they assume their monster form. You see this a lot in media, like a werewolf that becomes so angry after transforming that it will bash its brains out against a wall trying to reach a person. I'm all for uncontrollable and furious werewolves, but they shouldn't just be idiots. How do they even still feel threatening when they're so earthshatteringly stupid?

Creating a sense of threat with a werewolf is incredibly important to conveying a good, serious, and earnest werewolf story. If the werewolf is that braindead, it will never feel like a real threat. In folklore, as well, werewolves retain their human intelligence (whether they are capable of speech or neutral/good-aligned or not), and this is very much a mark of what makes them so dangerous and terrifying. I can't think of any justification for making the primary monster and/or primary threat in your story so dumb that it will accidentally kill itself against a solid object or run headlong into a mirror or not understand doors and trees. It's plain old bad storytelling.

image: William Corvinus from Underworld again - I know that some Underworld comic or another suffered from the extremely stupid werewolves trope, because at one point Selene perches on a building and watches the "lycans" kill themselves bashing against a wall trying to reach her. Just typical Underworld things.

Day 27- Alright, remember how I'd die on that berserker hill? This is my other hill. "The Werewolf of Bedburg," Peter Stubbe or Peter Stump or Stumpp, is considered one of the most famous werewolf legends. Problem is, it is not a werewolf legend. Let me tell you why.

Firstly, let's begin with the legend itself. I will be pulling quotes from The Werewolf in Lore and Legend by Montague Summers. It's a good werewolf book, but Summers sometimes contradicts himself in his ramblings and sources, so you have to study it carefully. Overall, though, it's a very good work and very good for cross-referencing. His account of Peter Stubbe is one of the best elements of the book.

Peter Stubbe was a man who used satanic magic ("Damnable desire of magick … and sorcery") to assume the shape of a wolf and commit terrible crimes. The works specifically say that the devil may grant followers "the shape of some beast" (it was not always a wolf; witches took the forms of many, many animals) inorder to "live without dread or danger of life, and unknown to be the executor of any bloody enterprise." Stubbe asks for the shape of "some beast," not a "wolf" specifically. However, the devil gives him a girdle that allows him to "transform into the likeness of a greedy devouring wolf, strong and mighty, with eyes great and large, which in the night sparkled like unto brands of fire," among other description. Should he remove the girdle, he would become human once more.

This separates him from other werewolf accounts and tales of his era in that he asks for no specific animal and the court ruled him a "sorcerer," not a "werewolf," unlike - for example - Jean Grenier, whose tragic tale took place in 1603. Stubbe would "ravish" children and women and devour them, as well, something never before associated with werewolves. And not since, either, until these wonderful modern scholars latched onto Stubbe and decided his trial was a werewolf trial, even though it wasn't. So we have even more quotes about how he committed "devilish sorcerie [sorcery]," no reference to lycanthropy or werewolfery or anything else as such, while he went about performing atrocities like killing, devouring, and violating women and children, including Stubbe's own sister. And no matter how many times he is referred to as a "wolf," he is never called a "werewolf" even once.

Tales of "witch-creatures" exist that are apart from werewolf legends and other sorts of monster legends due to the fact that witches and/or sorcerers were very unique and important entities during their time. Stubbe's account concludes,

"Thus Gentle Reader haue I set down the true discourse of this wicked man Stub Peeter, which I desire to be a warning to all Sorcerers and Witches, which vnlawfully followe their owne diuelish imagination to the vtter ruine and destruction of their soules eternally, from which wicked and damnable practice, I beseech God keepe all good men, and from the crueltye of their wicked hartes. Amen." Note: sorcerers and witches again. No mention of werewolves.

Stubbe was executed in Bedburg, near Cologne, on the 31 of March 1590. He has a pamphlet from the time period, as his case and execution created quite the stir…

"A true Discourse. Declaring the damnable life and death of one Stubbe Peeter, a most wicked Sorcerer, who in the likenes of a Woolfe, committed many murders, continuing this diuelish [devilish] practise 25. yeeres [years], killing and de- uouring [devouring] Men, Woomen, and Children. Who for the same fact was ta- ken and executed on the 31. of October last past in the Towne of Bedbur neer the Cittie of Collin in Germany."

Note that he is referred to as a "Sorcerer," and again, another discourse about the case from the period refers to him as "Stubbe, Peeter, being a most / wicked Sorcerer." Works from Stubbe's time period and covering Stubbe's trial never once refer to him as a "werewolf" or reference "werewolfery" (a term seeing relatively frequent use in this era). He is repeatedly referred to as a sorcerer and using sorcery, and he is even once called a "hellhound," but he is never directly called a "werewolf."

Here's where the issues start. Peter Stubbe lived during a time period when people were, in fact, still using the term "werewolf" (and/or "loup garou" and other terms) in a fashion almost as categorical as what we use today. This is in opposition to older time periods that didn't collect and classify legends and monsters and declare they're all madmen and rationalize them in the face of scientific thought. This was entering the Early Modern Period, when werewolves became seen as madmen and belief in them justified via diseases and insanity. Many other werewolf trials occurred before, after, and during the time of Peter Stubbe, and they were specifically called "werewolves" in their trials. For example, a decree issued by the parliament of Franche-Comte in 1573 - years before Stubbe's trial - specifically orders that people "chase and pursue the said were-wolf in every place where they may find or seize him" (after properly arming themselves with "pikes, halberds, arquebuses, and sticks" of course).

Peter Stubbe, however, was not. He was only ever referred to as a "sorcerer." If you've read the Malleus Maleficarum and other, similar works of these eras, you would know how important classification of such things was during the time period, and why it is important to recognize the differences among witches, "witch-animals," werewolves, and other beings ranged from cursed to satanic to insane to everything else. His case also lacks integral elements to werewolf trials of the time period, such as the lack of self-control and declared insanity (remember, werewolves were associated with madmen at this time).

Scholars only started referring to Peter Stubbe as this "Werewolf of Bedburg" in later time periods. Calling him a werewolf at all is very much a machination of modern scholarship and academia and a distortion of werewolf legends that has in turn led to some misconceptions about werewolf legends as a whole.

And if you think I'm just being pedantic, I'm a scholar and historian. It's what I do. Preserving things as they were actually believed in during their own time periods is important. Calling this a werewolf legend and/or account is simply inaccurate, and it never should have happened. Peter Stubbe's trial was not a werewolf trial. It was a sorcerer trial.

There is a very large Werewolf Fact for this. I go into laborious detail here, with many quotes, citations, and further discussion of this entire concept and its lasting importance: https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-of-bedburg-peter-stubbe/

This is, again, also something I discuss in my work, The Werewolf: Past and Future: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1949227022

img: woodcut depicting "The Life and Death of Peter Stubbe," 1589

Day 28- I have all too often seen assertions that "werewolves don't have tails," as if there are facts to be had about a mythical creature at all and as if this is a certainty. If we could theoretically have any facts about werewolves (as is my nonfiction branding), we would turn to folklore - which explicitly states that yes, werewolves have tails. What's more, having a tail is what separates a werewolf from other mythical beasts.

This begins not only in the fact that werewolves in folklore are often described as being wolves, often very big ones, without mention of lacking a tail, but more specifically in that the Early Modern Period, a differentiating factor between werewolves and witch-creatures was a tail.

In 1590, Henry Boguet in his treatise "Of the Metamorphosis of Men into Beasts" says specifically that the difference between a werewolf and a witch that has turned into a wolf is that witch-animals have "no tails." This is in fact true of every witch animal, apparently. And yes, in this time period, again, they did in fact differentiate between a werewolf and a witch who turned into a wolf. This specificity persists in the Malleus Maleficarum, specifically question X of part I, "Whether Witches can by some Glamour Change Men into Beasts," which states, "the devil can deceive the human fancy so that a man really seems to be an animal." This is a deception, not a transformation, as we generally get with a werewolf. Furthermore, "no creature can be made by the power of the devil, this is manifestly true if Made is understood to mean Created. But if the word Made is taken to refer to natural production, it is certain that devils can make some imperfect creatures."

Bear in mind that there were some works in this time period that considered werewolves to be related to witchcraft but not entirely equal to it. Generally, a werewolf becomes a werewolf and is out of his or her own control, unlike a witch, who undertakes such practices willingly. The idea of witches being "imperfect" animals persists in many works of this time.

Not saying this to rip on the tailless werewolves of popular culture, though. Just providing context. I actually fully understand not wanting your werewolf to have a tail. While I don't think having a tail inherently makes a werewolf "cute," and I personally will always battle tooth and nail against that, I also understand that having a tail could insinuate "cuteness" to certain modern audiences in particular. Perceptions change over time, and this is definitely one that has. I also realize that tails are frequently left off of film werewolves because they're very hard to create in a convincing way, and then regardless of anything someone might be capable of creating today, the design concept kind of stuck in film.

I also often hear excuses that "people will be attracted to the monster" (to put it in more socially acceptable terms, but I'm sure you know what I mean) and that's supposedly a justification for making werewolves look like naked mole rats with scabies and mule faces and bulging eyes and arms longer than their legs, but honestly, someone's going to want to screw even that thing. And tail or no tail, regardless of design, this definitely still applies. I don't think such a discussion has ever been held in the boardroom of a major film project (no one cares), but I've seen it discussed on the internet, and I don't think those internet people should let other internet people dictate monster design or perception to them.

I also still think a tail as a sign of inhumanity can still hold frightening power, as long as it is presented properly. A tail is something humans do not have - only beasts have tails. To grow a tail is a sign that one has truly become something other than human - a werewolf turning into a monster.

I will continue the fight. My terrifying werewolves have tails… mostly just because I think it looks better as a design choice instead of a tailless human rear like a donkey without a pinned tail, as pictured here on The Howling werewolf.

Day 29- It's almost Halloween! Honestly, my very favorite kind of werewolf could essentially be summarized as "the Halloween werewolf," which is of course very inspired by The Wolf Man (1941). I love the spookiness, the classic horror, even the way they're generally lit. I love the dead black trees, haunting graveyards, the full moon, the tattered clothing, the bite that can make you share in its curse… and the promise that behind that terrible wolf-beast is an innocent man.

Even just seeing werewolves like the classic Halloween kind inspire me to an incredible degree. They fill me with joy and set my imagination aflame. They always have. I love their motifs and how they're portrayed, everything from scary old horror movie werewolves to spooky Halloween setups with fog machines to silly cartoon Halloween werewolves. I've adored them since day one, and really, the werewolves that come out at Halloween are the ones that made me fall in love with the concept and legend of the werewolf.

I've always used these classic motifs to inspire my own fiction (and Halloween monsters and atmosphere is like my entire thing) because they do make me so happy and give me so many thoughts and ideas and put so many stories into my head. Did you know, too, that the idea of a werewolf stalking a graveyard (as Halloween werewolves often do) also comes from folklore? Werewolves were often associated with sites of the dead - like many other wolf entities - and could be found in graveyards digging up graves and devouring the corpses, in many stories.

So, although I have so many thoughts and rants and raves and research and countless stories to write and folklore to preserve, I'll always be inspired the most by the simplest werewolf concept: the ones that come out at Halloween.

Day 30- This one might seem like it's coming out of the left field, but I overthink every single aspect of werewolves and also their designs, so naturally I have thought long and hard about what ears look coolest on a werewolf. I've come to the conclusion that a werewolf needs big, scary ears. They're just badass and really emphasize the wolf aspect.

No, I'm not talking about cute ones or the silly ones or the big lynx-bunny ones (sorry, The Howling, but you went seriously overboard). I'm talking about horror werewolf style emphatic beast ears. If your werewolf has short, squat, or rounded ears, it ends up looking more like a bear. I'm talking much more like Anubis. Man, those werewolves look so awesome. But, obviously, the usual wolf ears are great, too. I also have gained a considerable fondness for the Underworld like William Corvinus style side-of-the-head ears, as long as they're sufficiently long and pointed.

But these werewolves that have really small and de-emphasized, rounded ears? Yeah, they mostly just look like bears or something. Ears are so important. Even on wolf-men, I think bigger, pointed ears help emphasize the inhumanity and the wolfishness. It makes them scarier.

img: some werewolf from a thing called Horror Legends? I actually have no idea what it is, but I've seen this image going around and I just really love this design

[merchant-wizard-and-jerry]

“Hello, I’m the friendly wizard _____. My name got taken by a fey prince but it hasn’t really hampered my life. Anyways I am new to this wider wizard community and would like to get along. I have a magic book, a cart, and a friend. His name is Jerry, he is a fungus colony that has taken over my magic book and acts sort of as my patron. He…is a little weird but great fun.”

*sound of an explosion in the background, a book flys by being chased by goblin shamans casting fire ball*

“He is…”

“He is fine.”

“Anyways, I am here to sell goods and make a small profit. If you need something I’ll see what I can do : ) ”

“Also apparently I helped smuggle an amnesiac @fattocatto-wizard out of the city in my wagon. That was a shock, though he was just a cat.

Character Cheat sheet

( 3 currency to 16 silver crowns and 2 copper crowns)

(3 skulls to a coin)

(2 currency to 1 gold)

(100 currency to a 1000 grams gold bar)

(1 currency per 10 grams of gold)

(Current balance 89,359.250,001 currency, one penny, 23 meat pucks, 14 pounds, 2 gold coins one with Julius Cesar on it, 3 naturally-grown mana stones, 2 highly enchant able metal pieces, and one bar, 1 special bug corpse, 1576.5 gold, silver 18, 70 aus, 5kg silver, magic dirt house size. 24 counterfeit currency. Moss/lichen-coded bio stone. An inverse cold torch. 99 BG silver. EMERALD LINCOLN, GOLDEN CARROT, 200 SALTED MEAT DISKS, 200 POLISHED ROCKS, 82 FIGET SPINNERS!, A FULLY EQUIPPED LICH'S DUNGEON, and a cardboard box (magic black marble).” Invisibility stone, a bundle of drake feathers, quantum locked rock, raw gold. 9 Gold coming from the green goblin empire, 50 mushrooms, 92 secret society emblem. 5 trans enchanted gold coins, 2 skull coin, ancient lost civilization fragment, 5 glistening green metallic coin, 31 writhing bugs of gold, jade coin. Pile of gold coins and gold coin bugs, pile of shines from harpy, dust, quantum glass shards, bag of tooth shaped candy, 6720 candies from the festival, bag of holding money bag, 68 money bags, 500 flat Foxen, double sided dollar coin, 3 floppies, a Brahman horn, a medkit, a few candy bars, and an umbrella, 130 goblins eggs (goblin cooked chicken eggs.), 17 bars of pure gold, 1 crate of guns, temp singularity potion. 762 grasshoppers glow in the dark.Book on the formation patterns of natural portals - @serious-tabaxi. Edward Evandrian’s expired library card. Gems and frenicx mother gem and a junkarian leap amethyst. white mithril sapling. Timeseed, infinite note book, time tunnel. A nice gold bag. bag full of candied scorpions 💰, large gem stone. 💰 💰 💰, gems = 70currency. 1/3rd a gold bar. Compass map, it's keyed to the Island of Silence. N=10^7 menger sponge. 2416 shadow cloaks, 52 shiny stones. 20$, 3 gold coins 100 grams. Gummy worms. 100 journals of Ventus Asamuran, Last Peacekeeper of Har Aminas. car keys, box of a 27 rusted necklaces with warding spells. an amulet made of stone, with blue rectangular crystals growing out of it. 48 shiny stones, 30 currency worth of silver. 3 sets of custom made chips @crickled-thorn-thug. Gold potion It opens a portal to the realm of metals! It causes any land within 20 feet to be transmuted, temporarily, into a variety of metals. If left untouched, the land reverts after a day. If harvested, the stuff stays metal and can be used. It also causes uhh 20 gold peices to spawn, and anyone within the radius to get a bit of vertigo. Causes slight iron deficiency, for some reason. 23 bouquets of metalic flowers. They're grown beneath volcanic chambers, uses the heat of magma as a supplement for sunlight. Given their environment, they grow petals sharper than claws and harder than steel. They can be used for creating armours and weapons. one box of nightmare inducing Mac and cheese)

(Currently holding baby dire bunnies. A ring of mana (covers energy into mana. Only suitable if you don’t have mana)

(Jerry’s balance 13 gold, a fancy rock, 1 coin, flower petals (snacks for later), harpy eyes, feathers, vocal cords, and talons, a coin with @informis-the-many-faced on it, it is locked away for emergencies. bottle of magic mold rejuvenation powder, wooden key @crickled-thorn-thug)

(Warlocks of Jerry @fungal-boy-witch-yay @ignisuadaroleplay @life-is-okay-rn2 I think that is who it was…)

(Possessions - wealth stone, Antidote stone)

Owner of membership cards

——————————

@the-final-knight-2

@confused-sorcerer

@bi-gender-sorcerer (+ 10% off for employee discount)

@the-mighty-dalob

@detectivewizzard

@goblin-wizard-in-the-making

@serious-tabaxi

@weltreths-wanderings

@ignisuadaroleplay (will)

@shittest-wizard-ever

@wizard-wylin-wylerian

@akronus-and-associates (the primordials)

—————————————

@hallowed-the-silver-gun

@jormungand-seas-champion

@crow-natures-wrath

@antros-ember-of-fear

@akronus-the-redeemed

@clockwork-time-watcher

@aldira-born-anew

——————————

@wizard-ghost

@yeast-wizard

@crickled-thorn-thug

@sorcererest-sorcerer

@damnable-druid (+ 10% off for employee discount)

@informis-the-many-faced

@kittycatwizard

@gun-sorcerer

@crime-wizard-conglomerate

———

Perks

———

5% off all purchases

Special requested items

More favorable bartering

———

[codenamehazard]

.:In The Dark of the Night:.

[TRIGGER WARNING FOR ARACHNOPHOBIA AND OTHER CREEPY CRAWLIES!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!]

Chapter 24: In The Dark of the Night

Hey guys!

Holy Moly, I can't believe it has been almost an entire year since I started this journey with what was supposed to only be a simple one-shot of Cole saying "Fuck you" to the destiny thrusted upon him and running off into a Conduit Mad-Maxian playgound to have some fun. I even checked back on the creation date of "Breaking the Shackles" and it was back on the last day of March. March! That's insane!

And I have you all to thank for giving me the push to keep going on this story. So, thank you all from the bottom of my heart, I'm sending you all digital hugs.

The year is coming to a close and this will be my last chapter of the year. So with that, I wish you all a very Happy Holidays, whatever it is you celebrate, and here's to a safe and Happy New Year!

I've rambled on long enough, time to jump in! I hope it's a worthy chapter to close the year on!

--------

Everything hurts, everything. My muscles ache, my nerves burn, my brain reels and my heart constricts in fear. My entire world is nothing but fear, panic and pain, but I know I can’t stop, I won’t stop.

Not until Trish is safe in my arms.

My body begs for rest as I had been doing nothing but running, climbing and fighting non-stop for the better part of an hour. Even with the boost of being a Conduit, my body still produces lactic acid and it burns my muscles all the same. Yet I still climb, running on nothing but pure adrenaline and will-power. Pushing through the pain.

Every pull of my arms, every push of my legs brings me closer to her. The love of my life, the woman I would move mountains for, who I would scorch heaven, hell and Earth for.

I can hear his damned voice chastising me. Telling me how disappointed he is, how he expected more from me. How my selfishness is blinding me from whatever “big picture” he was rambling on about, but I don’t give a damn. As long as I have Trish, the whole world could go to hell and I wouldn’t care.

She’s the only light in this god-forsaken city I have left, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone snuff it out.

My heart soars when I crest the ledge and pull myself up with a flourishing flip, rushing over to the bomb and defusing it.

“Trish!” I call out, panic and relief mixing in my voice.

“Who the hell is Trish?!” The color drains my face and my blood runs cold as a stranger’s voice is what I hear. Who the hell is this bitch?! “Get me out of this!!”

“Looks like I was wrong.” That damn voice taunts over the radio as my blood freezes in my veins with the realization that I’ve been played for a fool. It was a trick, Trish is with the six and now I can’t get to her in time.

“COLE!!!” I can barely hear her voice over the sound of the bombs going off and the mounting static in my ears as I watch the six bodies fall.

“TRIIIIIIIIISH!!!!!!!”

—-----

The same word bellows out of my mouth as I scream myself awake. Black and red sparks arcing off of my body as I sit up with the start, objects fly off of me from my sudden movement. A woman’s scream only adds to the panic in my blood as Kestrel is startled awake and sent tumbling out of her hammock and onto the floor with a squishy crunch. 

I hyperventilate as my eyes dart wildly, trying to remember where I am and what’s going on, it’s only then I get a good look at what was flinged off of my body.

Scorpions… Giant, gnarled scorpions, the size of my head! Seeming to be blinking in and out of existence… They were everywhere.

A panicked squawk comes out of the bird’s mouth as she scrambles onto her feet and heats up her arms, I just let out a disgusted yell before turning these things into target practice. Though with their ability to just disappear into thin air, it’s easier said than done.

“Kestrel, what the hell are these things?!” I bellow out as I stomp my feet around like the most fucked up game of Dance Dance known to man. “Blink Scorpions!” Kestrel shouts back at me as she uses her slug bursts as opposed to her typical shots.

“Blink Scorpions?!” I repeat. What the fuck does that even mean?! I get the name, but it doesn’t mean anything. “A little more detail would be nice, Kestrel.” I snarl in irritation as I narrowly avoid getting tagged in the ankle.

“Big, nasty, carnivorous arachnids with a taste for Conduit flesh, a sting that can completely incapacitate one. They can turn invisible and can only be revealed by UV light.” I stare dumbfoundedly at the girl, and they never told me about these things until now?! I’ll grill her on that question later, right now I have a bigger question on my mind.

“Did whatever the hell made the Warped make this fuckers too?!” I roar in anger as I turn another bug into a purple splat on the floor.

“Yeah!” Kes confirms. Great, so it’s not just zombies and living tumors I have to worry about.

Memories flicker in my mind, back to Empire City. The absolute nightmares that were the damn Cloaking Conduits of the First Sons. These overgrown cockroaches reminded me of them, made my blood boil with white hot rage as I fry them when they show their ugly mugs. As I kill, I think to myself; I struggled with the Cloakers because of their tech, but these things don’t have any.

Could the Radar Pulse find these bastards? Only one way to find out.

A simple pulse and holy shit, they lit up like Christmas lights. Well, that makes my job and Kes’ jobs easier.

“Hey little birdie!” I call out to Kes, she turns her head towards me. “Creepy crawly at your six!” She turns around and blasts it, splatting glowing purple gore on the floor.

“Thanks Cole!” She calls back as she continues to blast at the bugs flickering in and out. “How did you-” “Less talking, more blasting!” I interrupt. “I’ll explain later, just keep blasting where I call!” She gives me an annoyed look, but nods before we get back to playing exterminator with Kestrel painting the air blue with cussing and bitching.

“What in God’s name are these things doing here anyways?!” I hear Kestrel shout out as she dodges a sting. “Blink Scorpions aren’t even supposed to be here!” I blink and stare before punting the bug against the wall.

“What do you mean they’re “not supposed to be here?!”” I balk as I zap another blinker. 

“I mean they’re not supposed to be here.” Kestrel snips back, firing off some slag shards to pin a bug that’s too close to my head. “These bastards are normally found near Arkansas, not here!” Arkansas?! That’s miles away!!

“Maybe they’re crawling south for the winter.” I snark a little and that nearly got me a slag-shot to the head.

“Very funny, MacGrath.” Kes shoots back as we finally clear enough room to get to the door of the trailer. We both grab the doors and swing them open, but before we could get outside, something sounding like a mix of nails on a chalk-board, a broken tornado siren and a human scream rings out. Kestrel and I cover our ears in pain.

The trailer jostles as whatever it is rams into it, making the two of us tumble out like the rug was pulled out from under us.

The freezing cold rain makes black and red spark jump and arc off of my body as I get back up on my feet, god-damn it, of all the times for a swarm of things to attack. I glare as I turn my head back to the trailer and…

Jesus fucking Christ…

What is crawling and attempting to flip the trailer over is… God, I thought the Summoner was bad… 8 creaking legs tipped with large claws, four giant eyes on its head with four smaller ones under the two on the front, fangs so big it could split a man in half and it’s body covered in stoney armor, so much so that if it stood still, you might mistake it for some random boulders in the middle of nowhere!

And the thing that makes this creepy crawly monstrosity all the more horrifying? Out of the nooks and crannies of that rocky armor crawl those blinking bastard scorpions that gave everyone the rude awakening.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together, those things were that giant boulder-spider’s babies and we just pissed off the momma.

It’s only when the cacophony of shouting and screaming starts that I notice the rest of the Misfits, rushing around and panicking. Mako and Pangolin trying to set up spots to take cover under and Kestrel rushing towards the armory to get weapons. I’d facepalm if I weren’t busy trying to keep from getting stung as in her fear, Kestrel forgot Big Momma is on top of the trailer that houses the armory.

A loud metallic THUNK rings out when Big Momma swipes her leg at the dumbass bird and sends her flying.

The panic in the air thickens as we all come to realize that we were going to have to fight with our powers, if Warped Spikes are anything like using powers in the mines, then we were going to ring the dinner-bell while trying to stay alive.

I fire off a Hellfire Rocket at Big Momma, but to my horror the electric missiles bounce off the stone armor. Memories of the Devourer flash in my mind when I see that, but this time there is no bigass mouth to chuck grenades into. I curse loudly as I feel a pit of helplessness sink inside my stomach and by the fearful look of everyone else’s faces, they’re just as scared as me.

The heavy hitters get to work on the stone-spider-nightmare, trying to crack the shell, Mako blasting sharpened shards of bone,  Pangolins firing off shotgun like blasts of brick into the armor while trying to tank hits from the legs and Kestrel firing spears of Slag into areas that looked the thinnest, but the monster didn’t even seem bothered as she charges and swipes at the scrambling Misfits.

Dove and I are trying to do our part by keeping the tiny scorpions at bay so that the three wouldn’t need to worry about them. The little bugs were easy enough to kill, but there’s just so damn many of them and they seemed to be everywhere.

The pit in my stomach gnaws and scratches at me. I try to focus on my task at hand, but the feeling of helplessness and utter uselessness is suffocating and infuriating. I wanted to help take the big bitch down but knowing that my powers, all of them, are useless against her, causes the sparks on my arms to hiss and spit as I do the only thing I can do to help and take my emotions out on these tiny bastards.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the scittering bugs slip by. I try to zap it, but it is a jittery thing, making it hard to track. It’s making a bee-line to Kestrel. I’m about to call out to the Gunsmith, but Pangolin beats me to it.

I watch as the Brick Spartan spots the creature charging at Kes, tail raised and ready to sting, before he barrels into the girl. Knocking the bird out of the way, Pangolin takes the hit, right in the leg. Purple liquid oozes from the injury as the man screams out in utter agony. The same purple glow starts to crawl through his veins slowly as he collapses to the ground, his pinecone armor crumbling to dust as he writhes, powerless.

The sounds of the world become static and wailing as I watch Kestrel and Dove scream out in terror as the swarm rushes towards their victim.

“THOMAS!!!!”

[To Be Continued]

[a-sad-mage]

Storm Hawks Au / OC lore dump

So, I've made like, 2-4 posts talking vaguely about it.

↓ So time to lore dump ↓

The Au takes place 10 years after the Storm Hawks chase after Cyclonis to the far side.

And they have not returned. A key element is that every Sky Knight Summit, there is a full hour dedicated to sharing information and leads on the Storm Hawks and how to help them.

The plot of the AU follows a brand new Sky Knight Squadron called the Emerald Shards.

The squad is comprised of:

Dart - 19, a Raptor/Terradon who is Squad leader, uses a whip as his main weapon. And has a real long tail, like, it's so long, it can be used to do thos tail hug things with like five whole people. Has pure golden retriever energy, really sweet and caring, but can be real intimidating when he needs to be. Cares about is team so much.

Viggo - 18, a wheelchair bound Wallop, who is the helmsman and Sharpshooter, his wheelchair can transform into a scorpion and connect to a custom made skimmer, curtesy of the combined efforts of the Crystal mage and Engineer. The wheelchair and a Crystal powered sniper rifle are his main weapon. He used to work cutomer service at a Sky Ship dealership. Hated his job so much, but he was good at it. Smart, and sarcastic.

Jax -19, a Blizarian with two missing limbs a la Edward Elric style, metal mechanical limbs and all, who is the Strongmen and demolition expert. He used twin short blades similar to Aerrow (because I think I'm funny). Jax is kind, but can also be dense. And due to his Blizarian upbringing he tends to side with the Crystal Mage and Medic in an argument and is generally down to do whatever the girls want.

Chickadee (DeDe) - 17, a Merd and crystal mage, she uses a staff. Is really into fashion and infusing Crystals into clothes. Has a bunch of high grade shielding Crystal embedded into the harness she wares.

Ashly (Ash) - 17, a Cyclonian, he's the teams engineer, he uses a sword, similar to Dark Ace, but it's less claymore and more broad sword. Bro is scared easy, and is a sweet bean. He's general Chicken Feathers son, the third oldest.

Robin - 17, half Sage combat medic. She uses crystal infused trick hoops and has the ability to create duplicates with a low-grade duplication crystal, as they are now more safe to use but are hard to fine. As a Sage Robin has the ability to turn into an avian(a crow like bird with greed tipped fethers) and an electrical affinity, she doesn't use her abilities all that much, but if they squad mutually agrees, she'll do what she can with then. Is a bit of a pessimist, and blunt, but truly dose care about her team and the people around her.

-

The base story takes place 10 years after Cyclonia Rising.

With the biggest player out, a lot of other factions scramble to fill the void Cyclonia left. Snipe, Ravess, an unknown Sage and a few other more minor factions are all still causing trouble, and even fighting for what remains of Cyclonia. Snipe, Ravess and the unknown Sage are the three largest factions, comprised of former Talons, bandits, machineries and anyone else they manage to drag into their madness.

A thing the whole Atmos is dealing with is something known as "Black Outs", in this case Crystal Energy across the open expanse, all just stops/dips, for a period of time before booting back up. They happen once every few months, and has been a constant since about a year or so since Cyclonia fell, and everyone is concerned about it.

The Emerald Shards, are a newly minted team, everyone being 17-19 years old. And choose to follow in the foot steps on the Storm Hawks, flying across the skies in their sky ship The Jewel Box, answering the call where ever and when ever.

A major theme for all of them is a sense of identity.

Dart, as a Raptor is often seen as scary at a first glace despite being a really kind and sweet individual. he want's to brake out of that, to be seen for who he is, and not just 'another raider'

DeDe, is actually the daughter of two skilled Merb doctors who ran a small clinic on a Terra they moved too not long after Terra Merb was taken over by Cyconia. DeDe always loved fashion, and had a fascination with crystals, but her parent's wanted her to be a doctor as well. They where very much so against DeDe learning either of the two things, until Robin's guardian, a retired Sky Knight approached with an offer, they teach Robin medicine, and he tach's DeDe everything he knows about Crystals and what little he knows about sewing. DeDe's parent's agree, but DeDe still can't help but feel she's disappointing them, and not being a 'good daughter'

Robin, as a half Sage and Medic, deals with her identity issues more quietly. She doesn't like being compared to, or put in the same category as the other Sages. They are egotistical and pawn off their work to anyone dumb enough to do it. At the same time because she technically dose have inate abilities, an electricity affinity, most think she should be doing 'more' then just being a medic. And sometimes she can't help but feel she should be more even though she chose to be a medic because it's what she wanted. And then there's the whole 'medics are weak and unless' thing.

Jax, after being critically injured and losing the function of his left leg and right arm. He felt like less of a Blizarian. Even after Ash and DeDe made his prosthetics, he can't help but feel he's still being too careful. On top of that, some think he's stupid and just an adrenaline junky when he's so much more.

Ash, his dad, Chicken Fethers gave him a damn complex all because CF wanted him to be like Dark Ace. Ash just wanted to be his own person, but because of his dad's instances on him learning how to use a sword he sometimes compares himself to Dark Ace which he hates because that man scares the shit out of him. On top of that, as the only visibly Cyclonian of the team, he faces discrimination even though its been ten years.

Viggo, is literally a Wallop bound to act wheelchair. Wallops are known for being strong and tuff, braking rocks with their heads, and bending metal beams like butter. He feels like he's inadequate. His parents basically steamrolled and took control of his life because he was disabled, making sure he never did anything 'dangerous' to the point they made him get a job at a Sky Ship dealership even though Viggo loved maps charting them, all because the dealer was the 'safe job'. After joining the Shards as their Helmsman he made it his mission to be more, and with Jax and Robin's help learned to Shoot a Crossbow(he's always leveled right lmao) and Ash and DeDe made him a custom transforming Wheelchair(it looks like a scorpion) to give him the ability to choose how much he wants to interact with the word, either with wheels for the the metal scorpion legs. Others outside his friends still tend to demean and over look him however, and he can be self conscious about that. (he later builds a literal sniper rifle, its been ten years so tech evolved)

fun fact, all the Shards identify as Cyclonian. this is because they all grew up on Terra's colonized by Cyclonia. But aside for Ash who visibly looks Cyclonian, none of the Shards bring it up unless asked.

Robin especially. She won't clarify unless she is specifically asked about it. And even then, she won't even volunteer it on paper, not even when she had to fill out the registration forms.

Since Storm Hawks has always, in a way, been a show about Generational War and its effects in some sense, I'm doing a bad, yet realistic thing, where not all the Sky Knights where as noble as they claimed. And early in the war with Cyclonia, a number of Sky Knights attacked Cyclonia civilians, and a lot of it was covered up.

This gets exposed when the Shards are interviewed for a broadcast segment, a few months into being an official squad. They are not seen as well by some of their fellow Sky Knights after it airs.

Sages, are like Mages, but they don't need a crystal, but can't do the Bond like Mages can. Many Sages had gone into hiding, some just disgusted themselves as Shapeshifters, like Arygen, to still interact with the world, but not be seen as what they truly where. But with the war over, they have started popping up, and reclaiming their rights.

Robin is half Storm Sage, with an electrical affinity, she doesn't have a whole lot of control of her abilities, and quite frankly hates them. She can sense when a Storm is coming, zap/smite, and generates her own energy filed.

And because of that, that The Jewel Box and their Skimmers are modified with special batteries to absorb and use the green electricity the medic just naturally makes, and it's just as potent as using Power Crystals, so they save a small fortune on not needing to buy them. They still have a supply of Power Crystals, but that's mostly for emergency's. Not an day goes by when Robin wishes she could just, get rid of her abilities. So the Shards tend to keep it on the down low, and only have Robin use her abilities when absolutely necessary and they all agree on it. And cuz their equipment is powered by Robin, they aren't effected by "Black Out's" all that much.

Following a fairly cool fan theory, Ash earns a Phoenix Crystal by earning the respect of a Phoenix. its a whole thing.

WORLD BUILDING

oh and, a cult forms around Dark Ace's actions, specifically the moment when he struck down Lighting and the other OG Storm Hawks. its comprised of young Sky Knight recruits who harmed their Sky Knight's and squad in hopes of doing so makes them as infamous, and powerful as Dark Ace. again, its a whole thing. a Terra Atmosia gets blowen up.

but yeahhh... thats just, some on the AU... probs make some HC posts about it later...

[creetch]

I would walk through shards of glass I would swim in an ocean of lava I would lay down on a bed of nails I would jump out of an aeroplane I would bungee jump off a cliff I would throw myself into a pit of scorpions I would -

[izscha]

Current scoreboard on who has what Shen Gong Wu in Metallic Figment (as of Chapter 5)

Will be making scoreboard updates as the story progresses for your own reference (as well as my own lol)

[Spoilers beneath the cut]

Xiaolin monks:

Ants in the Pants

Arrow Sparrow

Big Bang Meteorang

Black Beetle

Blade of the Nebula

Cannon Blaster

Cat's Eye Draco*

Changing Chopsticks

Crest of the Condor*

Crouching Cougar

Crystal Glasses

Denshi Bunny

Eagle Scope

Emperor Scorpion

Eye of Dashi

Falcon's Eye

Fancy Feet

Fist of Tebigong

Fountain of Hui

Gills of Hamachi

Glove of Jisaku

Golden Finger

Golden Tiger Claws

Helmet of Jong

Jetbootsu

Ju-Ju Flytrap

Kaijin Charm*

Lasso Boa Boa

Longhorn Taurus*

Longi Kite

Lotus Twister

Lunar Locket

Manchurian Musca

Mantis Flip Coin

Mikado Arm

Monarch Wings

Monsoon Sandals

Moonstone Locust

Mosaic Scale

Orb of Tornami

Rio Reverso

Sapphire Dragon

Serpent's Tail

Shadow Slicer

Shadow of Fear

Shard of Lightning

Shen-Ga-Roo

Shimo Staff

Shroud of Shadows

Silk Spitter

Star Hanabi

Sun Chi Lantern

Sweet Baby Among Us

Sword of the Storm

Tangle Web Comb

Thorn of Thunderbolt

Third-Arm Sash

Tongue of Saiping

Tunnel Armadillo

Two-Ton Tunic

Woozy Shooter

WuShan Geyser

Wushu Helmet

Ying Yo-Yo

Zing Zom-Bone

Hannibal:

Moby Morpher

Mind Reader Conch

Heart of Jong

Ring of the Nine Dragons

Ruby of Ramses

Jack (and Wuya):

Monkey Staff

Kuzusu Atom

Reversing Mirror

Silver Manta Ray

Sphere of Yun

Yang Yo-Yo