#silver wolf : visage .

[wcvensouls-archive]

* TAG DUMP / honkai star rail .

kafka  :  threads . kafka  :  visage . kafka  :  about . kafka  :  aes . kafka  :  closet .

silver wolf  :  threads . silver wolf  :  visage . silver wolf  :  about . silver wolf  :  aes . silver wolf  :  closet .

[everbloomingsoul]

tag dump two*!!

*will be added to as necessary!!

[araneitela]

Character, connections, and verses: (2/2)

[devinevirtue]

Tag Dump - Welt Yang, Blade, Silver Wolf

╰  :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Welt Yang : visage / aesthetic. ╰  :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Welt Yang : ic / responses. ╰  :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Welt Yang : musings / isms. ╰  :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Welt Yang : character studies.

╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Blade : visage / aesthetic. ╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Blade : ic / responses. ╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Blade : musings / isms. ╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Blade : character studies.

╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Silver Wolf : visage / aesthetic. ╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Silver Wolf : ic / responses. ╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Silver Wolf : musings / isms. ╰  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 【☆】 Silver Wolf : character studies.

[jifanjiang0710]

Dinner with the Stellaron Hunters

yandere kafka x reader x yandere blade

“SILVER WOLF!”

Your fists start to hurt from all the pounding. She’s locked her door again. “Time for dinner!” She can definitely hear you. Whether she responds or not is her choice.

“Boss fight!” She yells back.

“Come downstairs quickly!” Scurrying down the flight of stairs, you stop at Blade’s room. An ominous reddish glow is emitting from under the door, reeking of death… or is it your imagination? You raise your hand to knock, before a voice from behind sends chills down your spine.

“What are you doing?”

Turning to meet his scowling visage, ever-unchanging (SW likened him to an NPC), you see Blade glaring down at you, and neither of you speak.

“…dinnertime.”

He slinks off.

You groan irritably. You do everything in this house. Thankfully, Kafka is already at the table.

After a quick scan of the seating, you heave a sigh of relief. There is a seat at the table between Kafka and Blade. Thank the aeons. As you head for the spot, Silver Wolf plops herself down onto the chair in all her glory, eyes not leaving the handheld console. You stare dumbfounded for a minute, partly at the audacity, the rest a growing conflict arising from within you.

The most vexing decision of the night: sitting next to Kafka, or Blade. Only one party can be sated, and the other will then shower you with the fruits of their displeasure for the rest of the night. Tread lightly in this delicate situation.

Choose Kafka, who lets her fingers glide up your thighs, particularly when you are drinking; who whispers vile things in your ear as you try to focus instead on the noises from Silver Wolf’s console; who sometimes holds a spoon to your mouth and expects you to say ahh...

Or choose Blade, who barely tries to hide his growing fascination with you at this point; whose fiery eyes bore into you carrying a heavy sort of intensity that cannot be described; who you know has no qualms about cornering Kafka’s favourite pet and finding out just what makes you so special to her.

The purple-haired woman notices your hesitance, chuckling breathily. She takes the initiative to beckon you over, with a single curl of her fingers. You trot towards her, deeming her, just for tonight, the lesser of two evils. Then you catch sight of his gaze. It’s a warning and a threat, all expressed within a single flash of the eyes.

“What’s wrong, little one?”

“I- I….” You feel yourself starting to sweat at this minor conundrum. How can you defy a direct order from Kafka?

She sighs, evidently disappointed at your lack of decisiveness. “Oh, go on. I’m sure Bladie deserves you for just one night, with how long he has been eyeing up what’s mine.”

The tension builds, and you bite your tongue. That sentence was biting, indirectly instigating another cold war between both hunters. So, gathering up stray remnants of courage you take a seat next to him.

The atmosphere is even more strained.

“Ah…how is your hand?” You direct the question to the man sitting beside you, glare turning less pointed. “Has it healed?”

“Yeah,” SW says suddenly, accusatory. “How is your hand?”

He sighs, irked. “Still healing. Isn’t it obvious?” For it was still wrapped in bandages.

“Blade, our supply of bandages is depleting. The others need them too. Is it really necessary to cover your torso?” He can very well heal himself should the need arise, and any pretense on his part is to avoid having to game with Silver Wolf. Blade ignores you, as if you’d committed a crime against him personally.

Kafka is unusually quiet.

You chide Silver Wolf to finish off her broccoli.

“Oh dear. Little one?”

Her sudden shift of attention to you makes you jump. “Yes, Kafka?”

“Will you be a dear and run off to fetch a cloth for me? I seem to have spilt some soup onto my lap.”

Blade watches intently as you fuss over her, asking whether there are burns, if she is alright, and run off to pour another bowl for her.

His fists clench, tightening around the bowl. “That was intentional.”

“What an astute observation, Bladie. And do you keep your uninjured hand bandaged so my little one may continue clouding their pretty little head with concern for you?”

“They do not enjoy being toyed with, treated like the fragile doll you make them to be.”

“And they don’t seem to like treading on eggshells whenever you are in the vicinity either, or stared down in the way a rabid beast would reserve for its prey.”

“You think you are almighty, Kafka-”

“Oh, but I am. Everything I orchestrate, as I predict, shall come to fruition.”

“Just because you claim control over me, you will not be the most powerful, nor the most infallible. You know just as well as I do, Kafka, and even you cannot deny it. [Name] would be better off anywhere but with you.”

“And if Elio were to say otherwise? Will you continue deluding yourself in such pitiful manner?”

A sharp noise of a crack emanates as the bowl chips under his grip. “…very well.” Blade says, after a second of contemplation. He looks up at the woman opposite of him, the intensity of his gaze like piercing wind, “Let us ask Elio.”

Kafka does not answer, but the slight stiffen of her lower lip speaks volumes. She crosses her arms.

“Listen, Bladie-”

“Enough! Kafka, what did I say about commanding Blade? And Blade, that’s the third one you’ve broken this month. Please be more careful.” The two tear their gazes away from each other.

“My mistake, little one,” Kafka responds breathily, as though this matter were of minimal importance to her.

“I think I cut my finger from the shard,” says Blade.

You turn towards him, raising an eyebrow. He clears his throat, trying to appear innocuous. “…it hurts.”

“Do you need a bandage? You seem to have an abundance of it.” A petty remark by that woman, intent on having your attention solely focused on her.

He meets your eyes. “It still hurts.” On the surface, what with his deadpan expression, it sounds like a command, an order to tend to me. You hear it for what it really is, a plea for attention.

“Aw, fine. Give me your hand. Where does it hurt?”

Kafka’s turn to watch on as you examine his (supposedly) injured finger. You feel an odd sensation of impending doom…

“May I be excused?” Without giving you time to respond, the young gamer stands, tossing her plate into the sink and scampering upstairs once again. You look down and see that your own bowl has been piled suspiciously high with vegetables.

This girl… You sigh, but do not protest this time.

For the night, the Stellaron hunters disperse.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a more wholesome note:

His phone buzzes. Fumbling a bit with the home screen, he swipes. It’s a message from Kafka.

That Woman: Kys

She receives a reply in return.

Bladie: One day I will.

‘I can only eagerly await that day’

‘As will I.’

‘You’re lying, Bladie~’

‘What.’

‘You no longer want to die, do you?’

‘Good night.’

‘Ah, don’t chicken out. They make you, for the first time in a long time, want to live. I can tell. You’re intrigued.’ ‘…’ ‘Hello?!’ ‘Leaving me on read again?’

He sets the phone down, sighing deeply.

The window shutters are half closed, swaying gently in the breeze. There is a dim starlight scattering the night sky. It reminds him of a home he had lost a long time ago. The wind picks up, blowing away a stray strand of hair off his shoulder.

He does not know how he got there, but his shadow looms over your room door. After some hesitation, he knocks.

[autumnaaltonen]

UGH Imagine Alucard fucking insecure fem reader in front of a mirror to show her just how sexy she really is. The whole time he’s purring words of praise and love into her ear. 😩🤚💦

Alucard Doing His S/O in Front of a Mirror (Headcannons)

Good luck finding a mirror inside Hellsing manor that doesn't have a silver back lining, although that in itself would make for quite the show

Alucard loves watching his invisible visage raw-dogging you like a ghost, the claw marks from his nails and the squeezing of your soft flesh appearing through the grip of an unseen force, seemingly being used against your will

Then again, Alucard knows how much you love staring at him, so it's only polite of him to meet you halfway and find a mirror in where you can actually see him ruining you like a well-loved toy

It's overwhelming to watch him in the reflection as he takes you from behind, his dark and looming presence towering over you, like a wolf devouring a rabbit

Sometimes when he really got into it, you'd try to look away in embarrassment at the sheer amount of sweat and...other liquids, that cover your bruised skin as Alucard continuously pounds into you from behind

But you know your lover will have none of that, and would quickly snag the back of your head, hair yanked between his fingers, and force you to look at you both as he continues to ruin you

Seeing you so bashful and wrecked really checks off a lot of boxes for Alucard, and will trigger his dastardly mouth to start going down on you verbally, just as his hips were smacking against you audibly

"This is my art, little one, don't you dare look away."

"Only you will ever get to see yourself like this, drink in your fill, as I know I will never been satiated."

"The more you squirm, the more marks I will leave on this tender body. But we both know how much you secretly enjoy showing them off, hm? You love to present my work to the world."

He will contort and play with you in ways you never knew your body capable, and thanks to his enormous size and girth, he knows it well too

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

<<spoilers in this blurb guys!!>>

the 'reunion' of the high cloud quintet wasn't always something that had been weighing on blade's mind- he had seldom remembered the past. being with the stellaron hunters and going on missions directed by elio was a good distraction- what with kafka's words supplying him the numbness he needed to keep his mara in check. still, the person he mentioned needing to see before leaving the luofu was no doubt related to that very past.

when kafka had parted ways with the trailblazer after getting blade's condition back under control, you stood off to the side of the meeting place in the divination commission and watched as he also had a brief conversation with the stellaron-infused being.

in truth, you weren't sure what you were doing here. you had no reason to be and the script elio had prepared was finished, hence why kafka had already left. you should be right behind her, moving to get back to rest up before your next errand. and yet, you stood against the wall with one arm crossed over your chest and the other looking lazily at your phone screen.

the text thread between you, kafka, and silver wolf was mostly kafka announcing her return, silver wolf trying to convince you to come back to help her with some sort of dual hack for some game, and you saying that you would be on your way shortly. by the time you had left the thread and lifted your eyes from the screen to the looming shadow that now stood near you, the trailblazer had vanished, and blade was within your bubble.

"all finished?" you asked plainly, pocketing your phone before pushing off the wall and standing to meet him. his aura was always somewhat intimidating, but you had been around him long enough that it hardly phased you anymore. plus, he was probably exhuasted from the constant flow of mara that had just now been placed under wraps again. not that he would admit it.

"there are other matters." he blandly responds. with a sigh, your hands come up to your midrift and silently prod him for an answer to your silent question. 'am i staying or leaving?' "do as you please," was his reply. as he started off, you shifted your weight to your left and shook your head.

someone had to make sure he made it back, and since kafka had already up and left...

if he found your trailing presence irritating, he made no mention of it as you both found your way towards scalegorge waterscape.

stepping off the small boat that had carried you to the destination, your feet pressed firmly into the sand of the shore. from where you were, you could vaguely see a small group of four already near the statue of imbibitor lunae. your throat felt tight as you glanced over at blade, knowing that this has something to do with him and most probably his past that haunts his body.

without speaking, you move past him to lean against a large enough rock to support your weight comfortably.

"i'll be here when you're finished," you said. your back was towards the center of the land, and beyond it was the parted sea of dragon palace. you had been curious to see such a sight, but you knew now was not the time- and since now wasn't possible, you just swallowed your disappointment because you knew you wouldn't be returning to the luofu to ever try and see it again.

the visage of the calm sea that drifted your small vessel here would have to suffice.

"I won't be long," he tells you back, and whether he means it or not you're unsure. still, it was strange that he even replied to you in the first place- like a reassurance he would be back at all. you heard his boots crunching and shifting the sand as he made his way more inland until you couldn't hear him anymore.

you let out a deep breath before lifting your leg up. you rested your ankle on your opposite knee and set your elbow up so your chin rested in your palm. the breeze was nice at least.

you sat there for a while before you heard a commotion loud enough it made you tempted to go up shore and find out what was happening. blade could handle himself in more ways than one, you knew this fact well. still, the more you heard the more intrigue gathered in your mind. it was the echoing of blades clashing that finally got you to drop both your legs to the sand and start sauntering to where he had started off to before.

when you had finally made it, you slid behind one of the many fracture stone walls and peered around it. the blonde man and two cloud knights you briefly saw earlier had left, but the general had remained. alongside him and blade were two others, a woman with long white hair with a blindfold and the man you recognized as dan heng- one of the nameless that had been on the luofu at the same time as the trailblazer.

of course, you also knew that dan heng as imbibitor lunae with how much of an effect he had on blade before kafka had shut him away in some random building to calm him down.

whatever had happened had already concluded with blade laying on his back on the ground before bursting awake again with a gasp and small cough as he picked himself up. you had half a mind to go to his side and act as his crutch- as much as that would tick him off- but you refrained. it felt... wrong to let yourself be seen with so many people present. people you didn't even know at that.

so, you tucked yourself back behind the wall fully and shut your eyes, waiting until the chatter died. and soon it did. first the woman left, then the general, followed by blade's voice speaking coldly to dan heng. then, finally, silence and the sea.

feeling safer, you allowed yourself to step out into the open and as you suspected, all had cleared out aside from the black-haired man who kept his gaze glued to the eroded statue of a friend long since lost to him.

while he stared off into space, you finally turned your attention to the parted sea you were so interested in. you let a satisfied smile grace your features, as you look on at the beauty of the walls of water and what it had previously enclose in its depths. it truly was a wonderous sight, and you felt a little less guilty for being nosy as you gazed at it.

satisfactory eyes shut before you looked back to blade, seeing if he was done reminiscing... moping? whatever it was he was doing. his gaze had dropped from the statue at some point before you saw and he was now locked onto you. maybe he was waiting for you to finish gawking. you felt unsettled under the gaze of his heavy, crimson eye that wasn't concealed by his hair.

"are you quite finished?" his voice asked you before you cleared your throat.

"don't act like you were waiting on me."

"i was." your head dropped with a sigh. he was the one keeping you waiting! after all it was his mess you had to tag along with him for. was he pinning blame here?

"let's just go," you huff. "i'm sure the general won't be as generous if he sees us roaming around yet another time. kafka is probably already back by now." you turn your back and brush shoulders with the immortal, mara-man before stretching your arms in the arm as you step further away from him.

blade watched you go, getting further from his visage. watching your arms stretch then fall, seeing your shoulders expand then drop with each deep breath you took, yingxing almost felt envious of your life. then, with closed eyes, he reminded himself that you had suffered your own losses and closed the gates to those emotions he had lost.

in truth, he was waiting for you. knowing that you wanted to see the remains of the hidden sea palace even though you never voiced it was easy enough to read. he had been beside you long enough to read you and it helped he was already a fairly good judge of character to begin with. so, he waited for you to get your fill of the sight before finally bringing your attention back to him.

"blade!" you yell with a slight twinge in your voice. he opened his eyes and saw you had stopped walking, not hearing him fall behind you in step and turned around with your arms crossed. "we're leaving sometime soon i hope."

blade said nothing as he finally turned to chase you with his own, long languid steps. somehow, even if his old friends had drifted, died and shunned him for crimes that could never be taken back, being with the stellaron hunters- even if for ulterior motives- felt easier on him.

you especially somehow.

[midnightsun-if]

My friend pestered me to make this little snippet since they saw my post about the Arlatha game, as I mentioned I have somewhat of a plot in mind, and I agreed due to the fact that it’s somewhat winter-themed and it’s almost Christmas… So a small holiday present for you all. 😅

It’s nothing too long, just a small moment between the MC and their older brother. (Small Note: The MC is technically adopted, but it’s a complicated situation.)

Howling winds rip through the air, bringing specks of powdered white along for the ride, covering the expanse of land in a cold blanket that wouldn’t thaw until the first rays of light appeared over the horizon when spring returned.

From where you sat, nestled safely against the window in the grand library of the castle, you could just barely make out the blurry visage of Wintervale— the culmination of nightfall and snow not doing you any favors. Growing up in The North, an unimaginative name for the icy landscape, meant that you either grew used to the cold or perished; a harsh lesson to learn. Of course, growing up within the castle, among the fineries of life and the loving warmth of family, meant that you didn’t have too severe consequences for failing in the teachings of it, but you’ve known more than enough people that have fallen prey.

Not to mention what could have been if certain events hadn’t transpired…

“What are you doing up, little wolf?” The smooth baritone voice interrupts your musings, your attention quickly shifting from the world outside panes of glass to gentle argent. “I thought mother put you to bed hours ago.”

Despite the reproachful sounding words your older brother doesn’t lose his soft expression, amusement dancing within the flames of his silver gaze. White hair falling across his forehead in messy waves, fair skin tinged red from the cold, telling you that he had been outside in the stables. No doubt visiting Chione, you muse. Ever since his Lycana had bonded with him you hadn’t seen them apart for longer than a few minutes. Not that you could blame him. You couldn’t wait until the day you had your own.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question Kal?” You tilt your head, deliberately looking over the fur-lined cloak hanging off broad shoulders, specks of white still clinging to the black leather of his boots. “I thought mother said to stop visiting Chione once nightfall approached.”

A charming smile catches his lips, Kaladin easily settling beside you on the plush seat. “I suppose that means we both have a secret to keep.” He nudges you playfully with his shoulder. “I won’t tell, if you don’t. Deal?”

You nudge him back. “Deal.”

“So what’re you doing up?” He looks over your form briefly, a small frown of concern appearing. “You’re not feeling unwell, are you?”

“No,” you sigh, resting the side of your head against cool glass. “I just didn’t feel like going to sleep.”

You didn’t have to say anything else for Kal to understand what you were implying; his warm presence nestling against your side, a strong arm wrapped around your shoulders, giving you the feeling of protection that always seemed to follow him. Fighting away the looming darkness that the night can bring with his gentle presence.

“Would you like me to stay until you fall asleep, little wolf?”

“You’re tired too, Kal,” you argue. “Don’t think I don’t know that you had to spend all day in court.”

Kaladin huffs out a gentle laugh. “I may be tired from irksome lords, little wolf, but never enough to leave your side when you need me.” Standing up, Kal offers his hands for you to take. “Come on.” Mischief sparkles within his gaze. “Before we head to bed why don’t we raid the kitchens? I think father hid the sweet bread in his usual spot.”

You take his hands, a light feeling settling within your chest. “You’ll let me have the bigger pieces this time, right?”

“Anything for you.”

[jhamkul]

Ring of Lesser Adaptability, Ring, Uncommon (requires attunement)

Polymorph into other creatures… well, only kind of. This silver ring bears the intricate visage of a fearsome hybrid bat-wolf creature on its front. The face depicted on the ring is a blend of a wolf's noble features, a bat's keen ears and nose, and the piercing gaze of a snake's eyes. Let me know what you think down below in the comments!

————— Thank you very much for checking out this new creation! If you want to see more of my content, feel free to visit my Instagram, where I ask for advice, post teasers, and you can vote for my future posts.

[crematedcow]

Hi!! Do you have any physical description of the ROs?

yes! i plan on maybe commissioning some artworks later on when i have the money and get to the part of actually introducing the ROs in the story. but for now have these poorly written descriptions

Chulainn: They maintain an average height but often appear slightly shorter, owing to their perpetually brooding posture. A preference for attire in somber shades of red and black further reinforces the aura of "I despise the world and all who inhabit it." Chulainn's warm, tanned complexion is adorned with delicate freckles gracing their cheeks, and their high cheekbones lend an air of distinction to their visage. Their hair, reminiscent of mahogany wood, flows in wavy strands, draping either just past her shoulder blades or gently resting upon his shoulders. Forest-green eyes, unobstructed by any bangs, gaze out, and one can't help but wish for more smiles to illuminate those beautiful eyes.

Lys: Born slightly shorter than most, Lys's stature often goes unnoticed thanks to their preference for shoes with slightly elevated heels. They typically attire themselves in styles reminiscent of the High Queen's fashion choices. However, when venturing beyond their abode, their wardrobe leans towards regal blues and other dark, majestic hues. Their complexion boasts a rich, dark skin tone, its cold and almost ashen undertones earning Lys the nickname "workaholic vampire" among some, though their soft and graceful facial features belie this moniker. Lys maintains well-groomed, raven black hair that drapes just beyond their shoulders, usually tied in a neat low ponytail. Their greyish eyes keenly observe every motion, reminiscent of the fur of a wolf.

Holly: Standing at the same height as Lys, Holly makes no effort to conceal her slightly shorter stature. While she dons attire similar to that of the pactbearer, she tends to wear it in a slightly more disheveled manner than her counterpart. If she were inclined to change, she would favor lighter hues, but she isn't overly concerned, as long as it's comfortable. Holly possesses a light, neutral skin tone reminiscent of beach sand, which provides a striking contrast to her more sharply defined facial features. Her chocolate brown hair is fashioned into a short, tousled bob, although she enjoys tying it into either a ponytail or twintails. At least her bangs are neatly trimmed, revealing her doe-like brown eyes.

Elli: There isn't much to be said about him. He stands remarkably tall, looming over most people he encounters, and his imposing figure is only accentuated by his constant attire of full armor. His hair remains concealed beneath a regal violet hood, embellished with intricate silver spikes that resemble a crown. As a Blessed One, he is bound by the obligation to conceal his entire form, leaving no room for exceptions, even when it comes to his face. A shroud of black velvet obscures his countenance entirely, leaving curious onlookers to wonder about what lies beneath.

Irydion: Irydion undoubtedly surpasses the average person in height, nearly matching Elli in both stature and build. She consistently opts for practical attire that affords adequate coverage yet doesn't restrict her mobility. While her choice in clothing lacks distinct preference, she tends to gravitate toward earthy, neutral tones like various shades of brown. Her complexion leans towards a lighter side, occasionally veering into a gentle paleness, although prolonged exposure to sunlight readily bestows a sun-kissed tan if she exposes her skin. Irydion possesses somewhat more defined facial features, which she effortlessly brightens with her frequent smiles and radiant, hazel eyes. Crowning her head is a cascade of fine, dirty blonde hair, flowing straight down to her waist. This mane is almost invariably gathered into a high ponytail or a lengthy braid.

Junius: In contrast to Irydion's lofty stature, Junius may initially strike one as rather short. However, in reality, he stands at an average height, perhaps a few centimeters taller than most. He possesses a penchant for eye-catching, revealing attire that proudly showcases his warm, copper-toned skin. His fabric choices tend to gravitate toward vibrant shades of orange and red, a preference that occasionally vexes Irydion, though he remains steadfast in adhering to his own fashion tastes. A light stubble adorns his well-defined jawline, yet his overall countenance exudes an inviting and energetic aura rather than an unapproachable handsomeness. Junius boasts dark, nearly black hair, which, under the right lighting, takes on a more brownish hue similar to his eyes. While his hair exhibits locks, its length, which extends just beyond his neck, can often make these subtleties go unnoticed.

i hope this gives a good insight in what the ROs look like, but i have to say i'm not that good in physical descriptions and at the end of the day they can look however you want to. but these are the basics given :) thank you for the ask!

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

The Witcher ceased the hunt of his contract momentarily when he realized he wasn't alone in the woods... especially when he realized that the other was not his quarry. Picking the other's presence up from miles off with his enhanced senses... detecting the different scent, hearing the crackling of a fire... and a heartbeat. Interesting. He didn't think anyone else was staying this far out in the woods of Cormanthor. Best he make sure it wasn't a potential threat, or hunting him. Wouldn't be the first time it had happened, and he didn't need the trouble. Turning, the mutant made his way through the falling rain and mist of the wilderness, and he went towards the source... eventually spotting it in the distance. A camp like his own not far away had been set up, smoke rising up from the fire.

His viper eyes assessed its layout, before sheathing his Meteorite Steel sword, though ready to take it up again or cast Signs if needed. Making his way towards the camp, dark cloak shifting about him, Eskel allowed his boot steps to be heard from some ways off. Last thing he needed was to startle the person, risk am avoidable conflict. When he was some distance closer to the camp, he stopped in his tracks when he spotted the figure for himself. Spotted her. An attractive red haired she elf... one who made his enchanted silver wolf head medallion hum and buzz faintly against the chest of his armor. A magic user, without a doubt. He would have to remain on his guard. When she had looked his way, his marred visage smiled faintly, and he inclined his hooded head, deep, languid voice addressing her.

"Evening, lady. Wasn't expecting any elves out here... least of all mages. Out on a hunt yourself, questing or just camping?"

@gr6ved

[etruatcaelum]

On Summer Being a Faunus.

[Hat tip to @onlyheartaches, whose wolf Ruby headcanon is what got me thinking about this.]

Eglantine Vermeil, Summer’s father (and only grandson of the last King of Vale through his illegitimate daughter Sharon Vermeil), was a human with silver eyes. Her mother, Ginger Rose, was a Vacuan faunus whose parents, once slaves in the Mistrali occupation, had become crucial informants within Sharon’s network of spies during the Great War and became close personal friends to her afterward.

As was common practice under the occupation, both Ginger’s parents had been forcibly subjected to amputation of their ‘bestial’ traits by their Mistrali master; Ginger belonged to the first generation of fauni born into a world in which this vile practice was outlawed, not just in the newly-sovereign state of Vacuo, but in every country that ratified the Vytal Accords. For faunuskind, it was a period of both searing hope and the aftershocks of profound cultural trauma, and although many fauni chose to celebrate their newfound freedom and proudly display their true selves, many others felt safe only if they could pass for human.

The Rose family belonged to the latter category. Ginger’s most pronounced trait were the ears of a tanuki, the raccoon-dogs of Kuchinashi: possible to hide under a carefully-draped headscarf, and of a dusty auburn color close enough to her hair to blend in from a distance.

(While fauni generally have features corresponding to the local wildlife, this pattern is less pronounced in Vacuo—where an unusual proportion of native-born fauni instead have the features of Animan fauna, particularly animals endemic to the Palash region and the Taiyin Steppe. This is due in part to Mistrali settlers having brought their slaves with them to the Vacuan colonies, but mainly a result of the Ruakhian diaspora. Similarly, Menagerian-born fauni more often bear the features of wildlife found in the region whence their parents emigrated.)

Few people knew that Ginger Rose was a faunus, and throughout her life, she worked very hard to keep it that way. Eglantine and his mother were two of the only humans she ever trusted enough to show her ears, and she appears human in her only surviving photograph—a grainy group picture of the miners of Visage, taken just two years before the calamity.

Her daughter’s trait is even subtler: Summer’s eyes have a tapetum lucidum, visible in photos and when light hits her eyes at the right angle but otherwise almost impossible to discern. Indeed the only reason Summer knows she’s a faunus at all is because a medic happened to remark upon it during a routine check up, about a year after Visage collapsed: the month-long coma she suffered after that calamity had left her with almost no memories of her parents, and none of the other survivors had known Ginger to be anything but human.

Summer, nine years old at the time and a ward of the state—which in practice meant being a ward of Shade Academy, raised with minimal oversight by a medley of huntsmen and huntresses who largely treated her as they would have a trainee twice her real age—didn’t have any idea how to respond to this discovery and hated her eyes in any case, so for three more years, she simply shoved it to the back of her mind and tried not to think about it.

Then she enrolled at Oscuro Academy, twelve years old, and met Silvester Kellas: the stealth and infiltration instructor; a tall, severe black man with the striking honey-brown eyes of a desert cat. Summer had seen plenty of fauni living openly before, of course, but she’d never met another who bore animal eyes. His were more obvious than hers—the irises larger than a human’s, little of the whites visible, though humans who didn’t expect to see a faunus often took him to be one of their kind—and for that alone Summer felt drawn to him.

Sil noticed her eyes right away. (He’s always liked to say that infiltration begins with the art of noticing, and stealth is the ability to see what others do not.) He took a special interest in her, becoming her personal mentor��really, the closest thing Summer had to a parent.

Together, they pieced together a little of Summer’s family history. Identifying her fraternal grandmother as the late Sharon Vermeil was straightforward. Her maternal grandparents were trickier to find, and turned out to be deceased: Canton Rose had died only a few years after his daughter’s birth after a long struggle with illness, and his wife—a woman who’d renounced her Mistrali name after the Great War and called herself only Sorrel—had lived to be eighty-two before she passed away just six years earlier.

In the course of this investigation, Summer learnt what her mother’s animal had been; and hence, that she is, in all likelihood, canine herself too. Of course, with a trait as subtle as hers, there is no way to be certain what animal she takes after; and if not for Sil, she might have left it at that. Sil, however, encouraged her to choose an animal anyway. It was an important aspect of fauni culture, he told her, knowing what animal had marked one’s soul, and it didn’t really matter if she couldn’t empirically prove her answer, if it felt right.

After giving it some very serious philosophical consideration (as fourteen-year-olds do), Summer decided she had the eyes of a golden jackal, because she saw packs of them loping along the wadis during the wet season sometimes, and they were pretty. She’s a bit tongue-in-cheek about this identification nowadays, but she’s never changed her mind.

Unlike the Roses, Sil’s parents had never been enslaved; during the first conquest of Vacuo, centuries ago, their ancestors had fled north, crossing the Paludéen Strait to settle in the grimm-infested swamps of southern Alukah. Life in this wilderness was harsh, rife with constant danger—although (unbeknownst to the people desperate enough to call such a difficult land home) it would have been far worse for them had Salem not chosen to regard them as refugees seeking asylum and let them be—but they were free, and the grimm stymied Mistrali expansion into the region.

Though centuries passed, these scattered, stateless settlements never stopped considering themselves Vacuan, and when the Vacuans living under occupation on the mainland gathered themselves for rebellion and threw in their lot with Vale during the great war, the Alukite Vacuans leapt into the fray too.

(In the ‘World of Remnant’ spots, these were the settlements marked in red on the unnamed continent and the reason for the battles implied to have been fought on that continent during the Great War; all were ultimately lost to that conflict, but the people who’d lived there survived, returning to their ancestral homeland after Vacuo reclaimed its sovereignty.)

This had, naturally, given Sil a rather different outlook than those fauni whose parents and grandparents had been enslaved or survived the brutal persecution of Mistrali rule. He felt there was a time and a place for trumpeting pride in one’s non-human features, and a time and a place for being discreet, and of course it was important to know which was which; but the most important thing was not to define oneself by the perception of others.

He did his level best to impress that lesson upon Summer, with only marginal success: against his lone voice urging her to be curious about herself and make her own choices was an overwhelming tide of everyone else who saw a only a young warrior with silver eyes.

In the short term, the only thing Sil did manage to impart was his faith. He was a devout Faunalian: monotheistic worship of the God of Animals influenced by orthodox Draconism, with whose Light the Faunalian God had become heavily syncretized over the centuries. (The ‘Judgment of Faunus’ creation myth is a Faunalian tale.) Summer is more of a feast-days-and-the-Vigil type of Faunalian, not all that spiritual, but she keeps the tenets.

Going to Beacon ended up being tougher than Summer expected. There were way fewer fauni living in Vale than in Vacuo, and the culture was quite different: the faunus she’d known in Vacuo never kicked up any fuss about her being passing, but that was suddenly a problem. Didn’t matter that she could see in the dark or smell a grimm upwind from miles off. Didn’t matter how her pupils glowed in every photograph. Didn’t matter what god she worshipped. The type of human who went around snickering behind their hands at a little girl’s antlers or ‘accidentally’ grabbing tails left her alone, and in the eyes of a lot of Valean fauni, that made her materially not much different from a human faker.

Which struck Summer as really unfair, because it wasn’t like she didn’t collect uncomfortable looks and rude comments from humans when they noticed—half the time there’d be dark grumbling about her ‘tricking’ people—and it wasn’t like humans didn’t also get weird about it when she disclosed upfront, or else just outright start treating her worse than they did other humans. Even the headmaster had given her an odd, evaluating look that she did not like at all, the first time he caught the eyeshine.

Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. She felt isolated, stuck in between two kinds of people who didn’t want her… and it didn’t take her long to decide she’d keep the faunus thing to herself and go all in on silver-eyed warrior. That, at least, no one could argue didn’t really count. Summer had been honing her mastery over the light since she was ten, and she was pretty damn good at it.

Even that was an imperfect solution, because it didn’t fix anything with her team.

First problem: Summer had mortally offended the Branwen twins on day one by getting in the way of their scheme to partner up with each other during initiation. Raven’s semblance was a lot weaker, back then; her bond to Qrow let her know where he was and helped her find the fastest possible route to get to him, but she didn’t have her portals yet. The twins had planned for Qrow to find a hiding place and sit tight while Raven slipped unseen through the forest. Both of them had been scouting for the tribe for years—avoiding their classmates in the forest was a cakewalk.

Except for little miss Blinding Mirror, who just had to be using her semblance to make herself completely imperceptible until Raven walked straight into her. So, Summer hadn’t gotten off on a good foot with the twins to begin with… and then about two weeks after the initiation ended, they’d realized she was a faunus.

Neither of them were exactly okay with that, as it turned out. Tight-lipped though they were about where they’d come from beyond “rural” and “west of Mistral,” Summer figured out pretty quick that they were from the Animan heartland: a vast agricultural region dotted with free towns and family farms, notorious for being the kind of place where faunuskind was violently unwelcome.

Qrow could’ve been worse. He didn’t get outright hostile, at least, just kept his distance and didn’t talk to her much—not that he’d been all that chatty before, either. But Raven.

Raven didn’t speak a single word to Summer for the remainder of that semester and half the next, just alternated between staring her down with simmering disdain and acting like she didn’t even exist. If she had to communicate with Summer, she addressed Taiyang instead—even going as far as leaving the room to fetch him if he wasn’t around, sometimes—and flatly pretended not to hear anything Summer said to her until he repeated it.

Summer could’ve handled that. It was degrading and infuriating and hurtful, sure, but, whatever—the twins couldn’t help how they were raised, and she thought Qrow seemed kind of uncomfortable with way his sister was acting, once he’d had some time to process the initial shock of “wait, you’re one of those animals!?”—at first, Summer figured she’d tough it out for a couple weeks, maybe catch Qrow alone for a serious talk about how not okay this was. Clobber them in training a few times if she had to. She wasn’t about to let it get under her skin.

Only.

Second problem: Taiyang actually went along with it.

He had… not made a great first impression, even before the faunus thing became an issue. Taiyang Xiao Long was a Vale kid from the affluent part of town who’d attended the prestigious (and pricey) Pharos Academy, and it showed; Summer, who had never in her life met someone who owned so much stuff, felt herself bristling from the jump out of pure knee-jerk Vacuan dislike of Foreigners With Money. (Not that Taiyang was rich-rich, but like—his dad owned a car.)

Then there was the weird prank he’d pulled on the twins for their first day of classes, mixing up their uniforms. Summer hadn’t thought much of it when Raven skulked into the classroom wearing trousers—lots of girls preferred pants, whatever, who cared—but she had seen the flicker of discomfort on Qrow’s face when Tai and the rest of the Pharos boys started laughing at him in his skirt, before he’d thrown on a mask of cool indifference and slid into a desk beside his sister.

But still—Tai wasn’t some bully. He was friendly enough, an easy go-with-the-flow type of guy, just… kind of stupid sometimes. Finding out Summer was a faunus hadn’t fazed him a bit; he thought her flashy eyes were cool, and when he made a dumb comment about his semblance all she’d had to do was give him a withering look before he coughed and went okay, yeah, I hear myself—not cool, sorry.

So Summer could not understand why he didn’t get that playing interpreter for Raven was also a fucking problem. He just wanted to help, he said. It was less annoying than the alternative, he said. He felt bad for her when Raven ignored her, he said. After the fourth conversation that went nowhere and changed nothing, Summer gave up and resolved to just grin and bear it until Raven got the fuck over it—because surely, surely Raven wouldn’t keep it up once they got out in the field for the first time, come next semester.

Raven kept it up once they got out in the field.

Their first mission as a team would have been uneventful had Summer not, after asking who wanted to take first watch while they camped for the night and hearing Taiyang dutifully repeat it to Raven, gone ballistic.

Most people, in the heat of the moment, probably would have turned around and started shouting. But the Branwens weren’t the only ones on Team STRQ who spent their childhoods at war—Summer did, too. She’d been trained, not parented, and the first time her notional guardians put her up against real grimm in the wasteland, she was only ten years old. The real difference between her and Raven was what they’d been taught to kill.

So when she lost her temper then, she just drew her axe and lunged.

Raven really did not expect her to do that. In her estimation, Summer was a pathetic, freakish little weakling who whined about people not being nice enough to her and had probably never been in a real fight before in her life—pitiful creatures like that weren’t supposed to just go for the kill with no warning.

The first blow ruptured her aura and knocked her on her ass. The second would’ve taken her head clean off if her own battle instincts hadn’t kicked in fast enough to deflect it with her gauntlet, and that was the moment Raven knew that she had, to put it lightly, made a critical miscalculation; because she looked Summer Rose in the eye and felt the force of that blow break her wrist through the gauntlet and understood, beyond any doubt, that this girl was either going to kill her or die trying.

Of course, Raven wasn’t about to make that easy for her; Qrow wasn’t about to sit idly by and let his sister get hacked to death either. Taiyang tried for about half a second to pull Summer away from Raven and de-escalate the situation before finding that his options were to get out of the way or get minced.

Being the only normal person on the team, he panicked briefly, then bolted to get their supervising huntsman, who’d gone a way ahead of them to establish an outer perimeter.

It took him perhaps one minute to reach their huntsman, half another to babble out an explanation, and a minute more for both to race back to where Summer was now furiously holding her own against both twins.

The huntsman waded into the fray and broke up the fight with relative ease… and it was right about then that the grimm turned up.

Quite a lot of grimm.

Whether because of the intensity of the fight or simple bad luck, they’d lured in a pack almost a hundred strong—way more than one huntsman and a quartet of first-year students could’ve dealt with even if three of them hadn’t just spent the last few minutes doing their level best to kill each other. If they’d been any other team except Summer’s, the night would have come to a tragic end.

As it was, Summer glanced over her shoulder, snarled, and evaporated every single grimm in her sight with a single glare.

Their supervising huntsman hauled them back to Beacon after that and marched them straight up to the headmaster’s office. Taiyang was fuming, sure they were all going to get kicked out; Raven quietly nursing a broken wrist and, mainly, trying to work out what the fuck Summer had done with her eyes, and how, and if that was some sort of Faunus Thing or if their team leader had two semblances somehow or what; Summer was cool as a cucumber.

She’d met Ozpin personally, the night before the initiation. He had wanted to know about her eyes, if she knew how to use them. Summer knew a man in search of a weapon when she saw one; she had a feeling that she, at least, wouldn’t get worse than a slap on the wrist.

She was right.

Ozpin asked her to explain. She did, sparing no detail in describing the semester-and-a-half of abysmal treatment that had pushed her until she snapped. The other three received a lengthy dressing down, gentle in tone but merciless in taking each of them to task for behaving in such a disappointing manner (Ozpin was unnervingly good at that, Summer thought, way better than any of the teachers at Oscuro), and—as she anticipated—a symbolic slap on the wrist for her, for not going to a professor for help long since.

Then Ozpin sent them all to bed, with a steely warning that he expected better of them all from now on, and that was that.

Raven cut the bullshit (whether because she was a little bit scared of Summer now, or because she genuinely respected that Summer had tried to kill her, Summer wasn’t… entirely sure, but, whatever); both twins seemed to act as though Summer had passed some sort trial proving that she was alright, actually. Taiyang made it his singular mission to teach his three clearly deranged teammates how to Be Normal, with mixed results. Nobody apologized to anyone for anything, but they did crush it at the Vytal Festival a few months later, so really, it all worked out fine.

The Faunus Rebellion broke out in Mistral during their second year at Beacon, and raged for the next four years; by their final year, Team STRQ had been inducted into Ozpin’s inner circle, and he sent them off to Kuchinashi the minute they graduated to bolster the counter-insurgency.

Summer did not… feel great about that, but at the time, she trusted Ozpin’s suspicion that Salem had stirred up the rebellion to advance some nefarious end.

After that war ended, they went back to Vale. Summer still didn’t feel at home there, but thinking of going back to Vacuo just made her feel bad, for reasons she couldn’t yet articulate. Finding community with other fauni in Vale didn’t appeal, not after the way she’d been treated by the handful of other fauni at Beacon; and human attitudes sure hadn’t gotten any better in reaction to the rebellion on the other side of the world. So she stuck with her team, who’d become her family, and the rest of Ozpin’s most trusted colleagues, and the Vale Huntsman Guild, where her silver eyes had enough heft for her peers—even the ones who never failed to find a polite reason not to like any other faunus—to pretend they didn’t see the eyeshine.

None of it felt great, but what can you do?

In the present,

Summer’s a lot more comfortable in her skin than she was in her early twenties, working for Ozpin, and that includes her eyes. It took her a long time and a lot of work to get herself to a point of feeling like ‘silver eyes’ and ‘faunus eyes’ are features that can coexist without being in competition, or as if one negates the other, but she did get there. She doesn’t bother telling people she’s a faunus these days, and has zero patience for people who make a thing of it if they notice.

She’s aware of most of the particulars of Salem’s historical relationship to the faunus. The God of Animals Summer worships, at least notionally, as a mostly-secular Faunalian holds very little resemblance to Salem and no relation to her in Summer’s view. She has referred to Salem as ‘her goddess’ exactly once, as a joke, and Salem was so sarcastic about it that Summer felt obliged to promise never to do that again.

Unless otherwise discussed (and obviously, not applicable to Ann’s Ruby), I’ll default to Ruby having been born apparently human with no obvious visible trait and leave it at that—in the case of Ruby not being visibly a faunus, Tai would not tell her that she is or might be, and he’d ask Qrow to do the same.

In his mind this is a way to protect her from the discrimination she’d face if she identified herself as a faunus: after all, hey, if she doesn’t know and nobody can tell by looking at her, that’s basically the same thing as being human… right? Practically speaking?

(<- how to get defenestrated by your ex wife in one easy step!)

Otherwise, if Ruby has a visible trait, obviously that can’t be hidden from her, but Tai would be kind of… uncomfortable. Not in a bigoted way exactly—he is legitimately supportive of faunus rights and gets along fine with fauni in general, and while he might make an out of pocket jokey remark now and then, there’s not anything deeper there than him being just… the type of guy who means well but doesn’t spend a lot of time reflecting or thinking about what he says, and grew up in a pretty homogenous environment. But… because of that, he’d feel way, way out of his depth as the single parent to a faunus child. Knowing she’ll be discriminated against for what she is, and there’s all this cultural stuff Summer could have shared with her that he doesn’t really know anything about… he’d find that overwhelming even under the best circumstances, and pretty much impossible in the midst of his depression after Summer disappeared.

So he’d tend to be just… awkward about it, and a bit reluctant to acknowledge her trait unless she specifically brought it up.

(Summer and Raven did end up becoming really close after Summer beat the shit out of her, and Raven’s long since left the vile attitudes about faunuskind in the past—for whatever ‘the bandits who raided your town are equal opportunity killers and thieves!’ is worth, which isn’t much. Details pertaining to Qrow here are all flexible, obviously, since I don’t write him.)

[chrisgates]

TIMING: Within the past week LOCATION: Bearcliff Motel, Room 237 PARTIES: @chrisgates & @fearhims3lf SUMMARY: Mateo comes across Chris' delicious nightmare potential and decides to have some fun with him. Unfortunately, his meal is cut short when the wolf makes an appearance. WARNINGS: Parental death, sibling death, body horror, unsanitary

Mateo was never the type to let himself go hungry. In fact, many times, he overindulged, what with how often he went out in search of a meal. It wasn’t like he was always hungry, he just really enjoyed what he did. Conjuring up people’s deepest fears and secrets had been the most intriguing thing to Mateo since he finished school. His abilities presented him with so many new opportunities, granting him the chance to delve into someone’s psyche so his creativity could really shine. 

That late summer night was no different. Rob The Prez-O-Dent by That Handsome Devil thrummed through Mateo’s headphones, and he danced around, eyes closed and a smile on his face. He could feel the Astral form around him before the song’s final notes drifted away so he could open his eyes. The next song played, but Mateo busied himself with an array of potential meals he began to scour through.

“Oh, hello there.” Inhaling deeply, the mare shivered with anticipation, catching a brief glimpse of the possibilities, the hidden away fears this lovely man had in his mind. Monster, caging, dead parents… “Bingo.” Mateo muttered, slipping into the shadows of his prey’s room. The mare’s glowing red eyes looking akin to floating orbs in the darkness, hovering overhead the bed as the nightmare began. 

It began simply, everything going black for an instant before the man had a red spotlight burning onto him. Red fog puffed and plumed, circling around him like a predator ready to snap its teeth into flesh. A deep growl rumbled through the air, and a flash of glistening jowls peered through the mist. It was waiting. Mateo was waiting.

Every night when his head hit the pillow, Chris prayed for a dreamless sleep. Not a good sleep, a dreamless sleep. Nightmares plagued him and served to only fuel his tightly wound fear. Dreams would have been preferred if they, too, didn’t goad him with something he could neither have nor ever see again.

Dreams lied. They were a nice reprieve but that was it — a bandaid for the terror he’d endured, for the terror he still endured. So he preferred nothing. Chris wanted nothing more than to drop his head to the pillow and wake up, uneventful. He wanted to forget. He wanted to rest.

But his prayers went unanswered.

Chris found himself back in that cabin — a two bedroom, wooden shelter with a metal roof. It smelled of rain and dirt, but it was clean. The early afternoon light bled through the curtainless windows. There was no sign of life, not until the front door opened with a creak. The flash of long blonde hair and blue eyes appeared suddenly, a broken image conjured by the mind.

Darkness suddenly drowned out the obscured visage, interrupting entirely. That would have been fine with Chris, but it kept going. The spotlight was sudden — but it felt familiar. He was instantly reminded of the harsh beam from a police issued flashlight and the way it felt on his eyes. The black bled into red, like ink blots melding with each other in bath water. It surrounded him, adding to the glare and confusion, but the sound was what forced him to pause in his uncertainty.

It was just a dream. The spotlight caught the curve of fanged teeth. It was just a dream. The red leaked over wet, hungry chops. It was just a dream. It couldn’t hurt anymore. It wasn’t real. It was just a dream. Despite that mantra and unwavering stare, Chris felt himself take a step back.

A bar, a silver one, began to fall from the void overhead, plunging into the ground with an earth-shattering boom. The first of many. Mateo continued to hover, letting the fog plume and twist as a gnarly beast prowled quietly amongst the shadows. It growled, the sound prolonged and vicious. Drool dripping off of its jowls as hunger for flesh rose. 

Time to turn it up. The mare smiled. 

The air grew colder, and a haunting whisper echoed through the room, the sound leading Chris’s gaze to another looming creature in Mateo’s malevolent domain. They disappeared in a large puff of smoke, glowing red eyes the last thing to fade away. “Chris…!” A voice hissed behind him, pulling his attention away for only a moment. It hissed again as soon as he turned, and again, and again, and again, until Chris’s father suddenly appeared at his final turn. 

All voices ceased, a piercing silence filling the area as his father’s smile grew and grew. It turned into something frightening and evil. “Do you wanna see a trick?” Mateo had to bite back a laugh as he sent another silver rod down to put a barrier in the path that Chris tried to run down in. When he turned, his father towered over him, face uncomfortably close as he pressed his smile into Chris’s cheek.

Movement in his peripheral broke his concentration from the thing that lingered in the darkness. It came quickly, a flash of silver before its contact sound drowned everything else out. It took over everything; he could feel it in his bones. One, two, three, they kept coming. But the beast was still there despite the chaos happening around him. 

There was one thing that scared him more, though. More than the memory of canines that sunk deep into his flesh and tissue. More than prying eyes and booming noises — and he could hear him. At least, Chris thought he could. Nothing lingered longer than he wanted to, no, wait — no, he didn’t want it to. He wanted to curl up into a ball and pretend that none of this was happening. He couldn’t shake the voice, though. It felt like it was playing with him. Between the fickle fleeing, his heart pounded on, deafening.

Chris felt everything in him to run, to flee. Get out! Get out! And he tried, but to no avail. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to wake up and to feel the space in his bed and to hear nothing. But it only got worse. Oh god, it was so much worse.

He was there now. 

It felt like Chris’ heart stopped. Dread filled every corner of him, every little pocket it could find itself and commingled with the fear that lived there. It was just a dream, just a dream, a dream. He wasn’t there. He couldn’t be. He couldn’t hurt him anymore. No, he couldn’t. It was just a dream. Oh god, please it was just a dream. He just stood there — menacingly, and no, god no, Chris didn’t want to see a trick. He didn’t want to see any of it anymore. So he did the only thing he could think of: run. 

And like the last few times he tried, he was severely thwarted. Another metal bar crashed to the ground in front of him, much too close for comfort. The urge to escape became great, too great and suffocating, but Chris couldn’t move another inch. He could barely breathe. Suddenly frozen, he could do nothing but cower before the thing that looked like his father. He shoved his eyes shut when he felt the pressure on his cheek; he could feel its hot breath against his skin and the sob that choked him. It didn’t want to come out.

“S.. Stop..” His voice came out small, barely audible, as he stood quivering.

It didn’t matter what Chris wanted. It didn’t matter that his heart drummed wildly in his chest, thrashing against its cage. Mateo was hungry, the monster would be sated, and he’d be full. His smile grew even bigger, the delicious smell of fear sprinkling in the air. He growled hungrily, thrashing another rod into the ground. It landed in front of Chris, once again obstructing his path. 

“There’s no running away from this!” 

The voice rumbled like a distant thunder, a subterranean growl that resonated through the very ground Chris stood on. It sent tremors in its wake, splitting the ground. Mateo cackled, shaking the ground further as fear squeezed Chris tighter. No matter how hard he fought, the pressure increased, reminding him of the damage inside. 

Mateo felt like he was floating in euphoria, the nightmare growing increasingly chaotic. Red began to flash, the father returning with a vengeance the moment Chris turned to run again. No matter which direction he picked, his father would be there, and the scene would turn more and more gruesome. 

“Here comes the trick!” He yelled as blood ran down his chin, ripping his shirt open to reveal the shredded flesh beneath. He let out a blood-curdling scream, more family members shuffling in like zombies to do the very same. It was a dissonant symphony of terror, the final rods crashing in to bring the music to its climax and close the cage.

“Nowhere to run, murderer! Lookit! Lookit!” Mateo sneered as the father once more, body pressing against Chris’s until he was pushed against the silver cage. It burned, bubbling his skin all over. “The monster is burning you with it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckpleasepleasepleasethisisn’trealthis isn’t real oh god, please, fuck! He wanted to scream but every turn only elicited a new fear, a gasp, a throat grab that only gripped tighter. Breath wouldn’t come and heart only pounded harder; he felt his head grow heavy as each new terror sidled up to him with the intent to truly traumatize. It was working. He thought he was going to die.

Chris’ lips hurried in a flurry of silent, breathy pleas but nothing actually came out. He kept trying to run from something that refused to let go. And when he woke up, he’d keep running. He wouldn’t learn, he wouldn’t feel brave or ready or whatever else they liked to call it. He didn’t think he ever would, truthfully. Maybe this was meant to be his eternal punishment, like Prometheus chained to the rock, forever to have his liver devoured while he remained awake, to feel the pain, to feel — everything. Maybe he wasn’t meant to escape it.

Burning tears pricked Chris’ eyes. They threatened to fall, he wouldn’t let them. Even now, choking on fear and terror with a man who was long since dead, he couldn’t. He couldn’t cry in front of his father, even when he knew he wasn’t real. 

The terror only grew and tears, though present, retreated and made way for the gruesome and distressing sight that morphed before him. There was so much blood, oh god, so much. Chris tried his hardest to grow the space between him and the horror, a natural instinct to see your family melt before your eyes, but his father was already there, already on him in a blink. “Stop! Please! Stop, stop it! Stop stop stop!” He screamed as he was pushed against the bars. The burning was incredible. White hot pain began in a flash and he could truly feel his skin bubble—

And then it was gone. The pain started to dissipate, but it didn’t disappear entirely. It was dulled, as if someone had used a cloth to diffuse a lightbulb. That cloth would soon catch aflame, but Chris suddenly found himself being pulled away. Not him, exactly. He was still there, between the decaying body of his father and the claustrophobic metal bars. But he also wasn’t? It felt like he drifted away, like he didn’t have a body. 

But he did — it was right there.

The energy in the nightmare shifted. He not only felt, he saw, his body contort as much as it could beneath the withering, oozing form that used to be dad. A hand reached out and blindly roughly grasped at his father’s shoulder; his fingers pushed into the burning flesh with mild resistance. A blackness started to creep in from the edge of Chris’ vision, threatening very much to suffocate his sight. The body that was his own did burn, but it also changed. It was a scene straight out of Carpenter's, The Thing; teeth grew sharp and poked out from the mouth, some missing completely and breaking straight through skin while thick, dirty blonde fur sprouted from between knuckles. 

On the surface, Chris’ body writhed against his mattress, his changing there matching the nightmare beneath.

The high that came with breathtaking fear was something Mateo knew he’d never get over, but what he created with Chris? He thought he was about to kill the man. His heart thudded in his chest harder than a sledgehammer plunging a rail spike into place. Was he really about to make a mare? Could werewolves become mares? Guess he’d find out soon. Mateo’s chest tightened at the idea, his mind trailing toward thoughts of his brother, or Junior. Is this how he felt? Was it overwhelming for him, too?

Chris gasped, ripping away the climax of death before it reached its apex. Of course, that happened. Getting edged wasn’t exactly in Mateo’s plan, but he supposed not having to find out whether or not he’d be a mare-dad was a positive thing. He didn’t have time to show anyone the ropes if Chris, could in fact, become like him. Turns out though, that hardly mattered anymore. Chris was thrashing against his mattress, growling like some feral beast, and Mateo took that as his cue to leave. 

“Thanks for the meal! Uh…don’t be a bad boy!” He waved his finger like he was some sort of pet owner getting onto their dog. A low blow? Probably. But Mateo didn’t care, and the smile on his face made that obvious. He rarely thought about the consequences. Why would he when he could snap his fingers and be somewhere else? This could only mean that the little werewolf problem he created would inevitably be someone else’s. “Deuces!” He offered his rocker gesture, disappearing just as a sharp set of claws swiped at Mateo, just barely missing him as he blinked away. 

Chris would have preferred to be the one who woke up. Instead he’d been pushed down into the dark, a reprieve from the nightmare that had quite the chokehold on him. He didn’t know that his body twisted into a mangled amalgamation of wolf and man or that there was something else in the room with him. 

The wolf that took over, effectively kicking Chris out of the pilot’s chair, could feel the disturbance. No one was supposed to be in the room — no one. That was why the ‘do not disturb’ sign was on the doorknob. No one was supposed to be in the room. The wolf growled an almost too human sound at the goading words. It thrashed among the twisted and torn bed sheets and lashed out with a still forming arm, hoping to reach the unwanted visitor.

It missed, which only served to irritate it further, and before it could retaliate, they were gone. The wolf howled within room 237’s walls, furious with being poked and prodded. The sound echoed throughout the motel. It tore through the mattress as it lumbered awkwardly off the bed and clambered through the one available window, breaking it, before disappearing into the night.

[talmineer]

Kiss In The Dark

(I) The Broken One

    To say she was an interesting choice would be an understatement; I'm a creature of fine and exotic taste after all. The thing that drew my interest towards her was how she had the fighting spirit of a rabid wolf trapped in the body of meager pooch. I remember the day like the shadows on my walls; always there, always lingering.

I remember what I was wearing. A nice lavender button up long-sleeved, coupled with a black vest and pants. As per the usual, I had wore white gloves. The masquerade mask I had chosen for the day was the visage of a silver owl. I refused to leave my home in the daylight; it would reveal myself to those who I don't want to see me. I hate unwanted visitors...

But her? she was the opposite. She looked pathetic next to the others. Her pale blonde hair was frizzled and in a mess, her skin dirty and unwashed; I could see the dirt piling underneath her finger nails. Underneath her green eyes were the darkest shadows I had ever seen on a face, she looked like she had lost more than three days worth of rest. She was not even dressed properly; a broken product that the investors had no interest of selling before they could fix it. 

Truthfully at the time, I was considering the other options. While I waved my torch examining the other products, my mind could not stop conceiving the broken one. The beautiful ones; the ones that were ready for sale just did not appeal to me...they had already been tamed, already been propped up as a generic item. 

The other one though; oh she was special. There's something that many tend to forget; what's so beautiful about a blank canvas is that you can shape it anyway you want.

"Are you going to make your selection?"

One of the investors requested of me, his voice echoed through the hood of his brown robe and reverbed off the stone walls. I responded with a nod, and waved the flame of the torch towards the face of the broken one. She was so tired, she responded to the glare in her face much too late, as if she were a snail caught in the tracks of a coach wagon.

"Are you sure about her sir? There are others worth much more for your coin. Besides, there are no negotiations for price in this business." 

"I assure you, I am making a sound decision with this one. She will be worth more come due time." 

I informed him. 

"Very well, let us see to your purchase then."

As the agreement was made, the investor reached into his robe to pull out an iron key, he pushed it into the shackles that confined the product's wrist. When they fell down to her lap, I saw that they were a bright red, almost as much as an apple. The investor grabbed hold of her by her wrist, forcefully pulling her up and dragging her along. As she finally stood up, I saw that her stature was short; the pointed ears and hair that covered her shins and ankles let me know that she was a halfling woman- something I was not expecting at the time. 

While her captor guided her down the long and dark corridor, she could be heard grunting quietly and vainly attempting to pull her arm away from him. 

Unacceptable behavior.

A part of me felt something I had not felt in a long time a feeling of pure excitement. Every attempt to pull away, trying so desperately to run- let me know that I was in for quite the experience. I felt the rush of an artist, eagerly waiting to brush away on the blank canvas; molding it into the perfect masterpiece. I felt....

LUST.

[fuck-yeah-romantica]

The original "I'm not gay mum I'm glam rock", Karen Fox.

First romantica photoshoot, 2004

- Position: Voice, Lyrics.

- Birthday: 1977/march/5 (our man is fucking old)

- Zodiac: piscis

- Height: 190 cm

- Previous musical projects: Afrodita, Bestias negras, Karen fox.

First look, 1996

- Favourite bands: X-japan, Lareine, Malice mizer, Me/dousa, Hizaki grace project, Celestia le ciel, Moi dix mois [Juka era], Luna sea, Kuroyume, Je*reviens, D, Schwarz stein, Velvet eden, Pride of mind, Syndrome, Phantasmagoria, Kisaki Project, Vidoll, Dir en grey [Visual kei era], Psycho le cemu, Shazna, Parasite, Sadist, Neil, Hide, Seikima ll, Dead end, Angel heart, Due le quartz, Madeth gray'll, Eliphas levi, Missalina rei, L'arc en ciel, Baiser, Noir fleurir, Shiver, Silver ash, Loudness, Ziggy, Kamaitachi, Klaha, Izam, Jun, Guitar Wolf, Sex pistols, The damned, Judas priest, Ingwie j. malmsteen, Pretty boy floyd, Tigertailz, Whrathchild u.k., Helter skelter, Foxy roxx, Crashdiet, Heart throb mob, Queeny blast pop, Peppermint creeps, prom queen star, The guttersluts, Alleycat skracht, blitz lipstick, Murderdolls, Spiral fetish, Motley crue,Vixen, Ratt,W.a.s.p., Twisted sister, Whitesnake, Bon jovi, Europe, Stryper, david bowie/ziggy stardust, King cobra, Mark free, Signal, Him, The rasmus, The 69 eyes, The horror pops, Tiger army, Boy george, Dead or alive, Visage, Sigue sigue sputnick , Adam ant ,Talk talk, berlin, Billy idol, Duran duran, Depeche mode, Pat benatar, Cetu javu, The human league, New order, The cure, Lords of the new church, Soft cell, The ramones, Baltimora, Pulp, The beatles/Jhon lennon, Enuf z'nuff , Lacrimosa, Velvet Revolver, Dana international, Alaska, y dinarama, Fangoria, Alta tencion, Gothic sex, V8, Hermetica, Logos, Friccion, Virus, Abuelos de la nada, Nervios, Acacia, Americana, Moderatto, Juana la loca, She-ra, Venus desnuda, Nino bravo, Raphael, Camilo sesto. (Our man really couldn't choose)

- Favourite disc: Blue blood (X), The last of romance (Lareine), Merveilles (Malice mizer), Requiem [Phantasmagoria], Dignity of crest [Hizaki grace project], Systems of romance [Pride of mind], Nevermind the bollocks (sex pistols), Hit list (Hearth throb mob), Leather boys (Pretty boy floyd), Young and crazy (tigertails), Stack atack (wratchlid u.k.), Whatever happened to fun? (Spiral fetish), Shake the fundation (Foxy roxx), Creep show (Peppermint creeps), Vixen (Vixen).

- Favourite videoclips: Weekend (X japan) - Beast of Blood (Malice mizer) - Fuyu Tokyo (Lareine) - Sakura Hanazaki Somenikeri [D], Guardian angel [Celestia le ciel], Philosopher [Hizaki grace project], Zuihyoku ~Emerald~ (Je reviens) - Sad Mask (Velvet Eden) - Cage (Dir en Grey) - For dear (Kuroyume) - Iris (Izam) - Melty Love (Shazna) - Michi no sora (Psycho le Cemu) - Nostalgia (Syndrome) - Fairy times memory (Phantasmagoria) - Occult Proposal (Vidooru) - Blurry Eyes (L'arc en ciel) - With Transparent wings (Klaha) - Jisatsu Ganbou (Due le Quartz) - Eyes love you (hide) - Shadow of love (The Damned) - Breaking the Law (Judas Priest) - On and on (Raven) - Rock n roll (Pretty boy floyd) - Lesvian (Peppermint Creeps) - White Weding (Murderdolls) - Live wire (Motley crue) - Blin in texas (W.a.s.p.) - We are not gonna take it (Twister sister) - She don't know me (Bon jovi) - Life on mars? (Ziggy stardust) - Iron Eegle (King cobra) - Join me (him) - In the shadow (The rasmus) - Lost boys (the 69 eyes) - Incorporeal (Tiger army) - Karma chamaleon (Culture club) - Out of fashion (boy george) - Spin me round 80's (Dead or alive) - Fade to Grey (Visage) - Prince charmin (Adam ant) - Rebel yell (Billy idol) - Don't you want me (The human league) - The metro (Berlin) - Boys don't cry (The cure) - Rock n roll highschool (The Ramones) - Take on me (a-ha) - Like a prayer (Madonna) - Tarzan boy (Baltimora) - Disco 2000 (Pulp) - Imagine (Jhon lennon) - Fly high michelle (Enuff z'nuff) - Fall to pieces (Velvet revolver) - Diva (Dana international) - Hoy no (Entre rios) - Sueño sensual 2 (Karen fox) - Lady Oscar (Romantica).

- Hobby: watching rock videos

- Interest: Hollow earth, Reptile connexion, Flat earth, Necronomicon (Lovecraft), Nazi esoterism, Comics ,Horror movies, Romantic movies, Sci fi movies, mangas.

- Personality: strong

- Favourite Colour: violet

- Ambition: nothing

- First love: at 19 years old

- would you like to be in love again?: I don't have time!!!!

- Romantica in one word: putos (faggots)

- Favourite phrase: "You are a horrible public and i hate all of you" by: Zorak (Space Ghost)

- Favourite book: The Picture of Dorian Gray

-Favourite writers: H.P. lovecraft, Oscar Wilde, Julio Verne, H.G. Wells, David Icke, Lord Byron.

- Favourite movie: Hedwing and the angry inch

- Favourite t.v. serie: Lost.

- Favourite politician: Gral. Juan D. Peron.

- Favourite word: Rock

- Type of woman liked: like Arcueid (Lunar legend tsukihime), Lady oscar (Lady oscar), Aya toujo (ichigo 100%), Satsuki (ichigo 100%). Sakurouka sei (Gantz), Kotomi (DNA2) (our man likes heterosexual lesbians)

- Type of woman disliked: all i met in my life. (Our man is also an incel)

- Treasured thing: cd's, videos and comics.

- Favourite anime: Lady Oscar, Saint seiya, Pet shop of horrors, Gravitation, Robotech, Astroboy, Mazinger Z, Mazingkaiser, Great mazinger, Ufo robo grendizer, Getter robo G, Voltron, Lunar legend tsukihime, Gantz, Dna 2, N.H.K. ni Youkoso?, Neon genesis evangelion, Get backers, Full metal alchemist, Oh!my goddes!!, Mikami, Ranma 1/2, Yamazaki, Captain harlock,Cosmo warrior zero,Gun frontier, Sailor moon, Galaxy express 999, Crayon shin shan, Elf, New angel, Ikitousen, ichigo 100%, Cyborg 009, Speed racer (2000).

- Animated series: South park, Dr. katz, The simpsons, Futurama, G.I.joe, Transformers, Thundercats, Spiderman and his amazing friends, Mask, Jem and the holograms, Batman the animated series, Batman of the future, Justice league unlimited, X men, Fantastic four, Hulk.

- What did you wanted to be as a child: super hero

- What was your favourite subject at school: none, I hate school.

- Something you always carry with you: my photo book

- Time of the year: winter

- How do you recover from depression: I don't recover, i live depressed.

- What places would you like to go: Tokyo, London

- Who you would like to meet: Yoshiki hayashi

- A song that defines yourself: Weekend - X japan.

- Message to fans: I don't have fans, I don't want to have them, I hate 99% of human race. Die!!! FUCK OFF!!!!!! (Our man was almost 30 when he wrote this)

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 24: Confession

MASTERLIST

Summary: Naera accepts her truth, and swears her allegiance

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: nothing, really

“Where is the princess?”

Naera opened her eyes with a start, cold, harsh fog surrounding her. A distinct chill ran down her spine, flowing in short, quick bursts, as though the winter flood had come to the Riverlands. The sky was tanned, the colour of burnt sugar, dusted in mist.

Scales whipped past—pink, stained gold, scarred and leathery, humongous wings with a screeching presence. She could smell smoke, ash, and the salty seas. With a gasp, Naera blinked away the haziness. The rushing of waves greeted her ear, the sight of cavernous rocks around a stone corridor. Dragonstone. She stood on the passageway to the fortress from the sandy beach, half a dozen armoured knights behind her.

Daemon stood beside her, dressed in the finest, darkest black she had seen—black as though the terrorful night had embraced his visage—and his hand crawled along Dark Sister’s hilt as though the very air held threats. His face resembled a scowl, his shoulders tensed, but he glanced at her, and his eyes took some relief from her calm. He nodded, absent, catching his lack of control.

Her sword was in her hand, safely within its scabbard, and her Valyrian Steel dagger dangled at her waist. She thought of the day he had gifted it to her, that day in the hedges when he’d proclaimed wanting to know her, admitted his desire for a successful marriage, his desire for her, against her every belief,

Daemon stared upwards, hardly shocked by her presence—as though they hadn’t warred over their last meeting as terribly as she recalled. Silver clasps held together his cloak, and Naera felt the familiar, long-faded urge to rip it apart, to hear the clinking of its metal against another’s, to feel him as a part of herself, however fleetingly so. She followed his eyes to focus on the dragon that flew overhead, pink and red, with a long snout—Syrax, she recognised, as well as the flapping black cloak of her rider. Rhaenyra, white hair twirling in the wind, clothes as dark as Daemon, with a flicker of gold on her brow.

Syrax circled the air, humming her song which was but a battle cry, and Naera felt a sense of urgency despite her languor. She felt the danger Daemon did, the tightening of the air, the crispness of their conduct. 

When Naera’s eyes dropped, so did her heart. Otto Hightower stood a few paces before her, eyes trained upwards, with a dull hunch that suggested fear. A man with a white cloak stood before him, another dozen with green following.

Syrax thundered down on the corridor behind Otto Hightower and his swords, Rhaenyra slipping off her mount and crossing the sentry to stand a pace in front of Naera and Daemon. Syrax growled as Otto stepped forth again. Naera’s eyes trained in on Jaehaerys’ crown on Rhaenyra’s head.

It was a ring of gold and silver, engraved with the seals of every major House of Westeros—the Stark Wolf of the North, the Tyrell Rose of the Reach, the Lannister Lion, the Baratheon Stag. Naera could only recall having seen it on her father, and her heart shuddered at the implication.

Viserys was dead.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto began, solemn, as though the fact that Rhaenyra stood at Dragonstone while soldiers in green accompanied the Hightower snake didn’t mean what was apparent. A coup had taken place. Otto looked distressed, as though the day didn’t spell out his long-sought glory, the fruit of his every ambition.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” her sister corrected, “and you all are traitors to the Realm.”

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace is offering terms,” Otto tried, testing the waters, as though the knights with polished swords and archers with deadly aim that watched him were not enough indication of their folly in trying to make amends. Still, he spoke, “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son Jacaerys, upon your death.”

Naera stepped forth, her sword growing light in her hand, as though a single stroke wouldn’t hurt. “Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon, after the death of your lord husband, Lord Laenor.” Daemon tutted, nearly silent, but Naera heard him. Rhaenyra listened to Otto’s words, devoid of the fury the fire had promised. She listened to Otto’s words, not truly considering them, but respecting their attempts—regal, in the very literal sense.

Emboldened by the lack of response, Otto spoke louder, “Your nieces and nephews, the children of your sister Princess Naera, will be allowed return to their home or residence at Dragonstone or King’s Landing as respected members of the family, and will also be given places of high honours—your son Joffrey, and nephew Aegon the younger as Kingsguards upon their coming of age, your nephew Viserys, the obvious younger, as the King’s squire, and your niece Rhaenys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children.

Daemon said, “I would rather feed my sons and daughters to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” Their children.

Naera spoke, without thought, without intention, “Do you consider us cowards if we tread in the strength of Dragonstone, Lord Hightower?” Her voice was bold, strong, hardly aged and mocking, “This is where the Conqueror planned his war, and it is where we shall win ours, should the day arrive.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto said with finality, a touch of the pride, of the malice leaking through his perfumed visage, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a Septon of the faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” He smiled, ugly, and the world saw him for what he was. A man whose ambition had been fulfilled. His blood on the Iron Throne. “Then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—Houses that have also received and are at present considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra spoke, for the first time, her white hair flickering with the air. Her voice was cold, “Stark, Tully and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.”

“Stale oaths will not place you on the Iron Throne, princess,” Otto took silent, leering steps closer. Naera tightened her grip on her sword. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Rhaenyra ran forth, faster than the wind, and grasped the old man’s cloak. She plucked off his golden pin, the hand with its pointed finger, and said, “You are no more hand than Aegon is King,” she tossed it off the side, down to the crashing waves below the stone passage. “Fucking traitor.” The green soldiers inched closer, swords at the ready. Rhaenyra looked at Otto through her lashes, daring his hand.

The red-caped knights of her own company stepped forth, but Naera stopped them with a raised hand. They were not so foolish.

Otto called for the Grandmaester, that tattered old man who called himself Mellos. The grey-robed man husk of a man offered him a page, old and folded, fraying at its edges.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered, glancing at Naera for a clue. She kept her eyes trained at Rhaenyra, at her locks of silver, at the golden crown that rested on her head as though she was borne for it. She was, Naera reminded herself. Rhaenyra was born to rule.

Rhaenyra studied the page out of sight, but Otto spoke, “Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other.” Rhaenyra’s shoulders hunched, hesitant. “No blood need to spilt so the realm can be carried on in peace,” he glanced above Rhaenyra, at Naera, at Daemon, at their primed swords and unbreakable resolve. Rhaenyra was queen, and there was to be no question of it. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

Daemon answered, “She can have her answer right now stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce,” and the shrill sound of steel against steel rang resonant in the air, as all drew their swords except Naera. The maester stepped away frantically as Daemon continued, Dark Sister gleaming red in the twilight, and Naera couldn’t help but imagine running a hand through his wind-ruffled hair, pressing a fleeting peck on his cheek, holding his hand despite the war that raged on. “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” Syrax groaned in warning, wings flapping behind the green escort. They were surrounded—swords facing them, a dragon behind, with a hundred feet fall into jarred rock and crashing waves to the sides.

Rhaenyra clutched the page still, and Naera watched her hands tremble. No.

“Udligon issa sepār mēre másino, jorrāelagon mandia,” Tell me just one thing, dear sister, she said this without knowing, as though she was a mere spectator to the event, not an involved actor at all. Naera pulled her sword out, brandished steel from the Shadowland, polished to the colour of silver, like her name, like her legacy.

“Gaomagon ao jaelagon ērinnon isse bisa vīlībāzma?”

Do you want this war won?

Do you want the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms, the rule that is your birthright?

Rhaenyra caught her failing self, pushed away the sentiment she had long been cursed with, and stood straight, head held high, the golden crown gleaming.

“Rūsīr perzys se ānogar.”

With Fire and Blood.

She crushed the old parchment in her grasp, felt the page wrinkle and tear against her skin, and tossed it into the waves.

Rhaenyra turned back, walking towards her knights, and Naera saw a hint of something different in Daemon’s eyes, an admiration uncontainable, a love aged and solidified until it had become a part of him. His hair, nearly reaching his shoulders, flapped with every turn of the wind, a smile etched on his unaging face. Naera felt the all-familiar ache in her chest she had grown to associate with only a certain woman, but with this came a wave of fire, a flame of courage. Naera trailed after Rhaenyra, the knights parted to make her way, and Daemon took her side again, his arm going around her shoulders, lips brushing past her ear.

As they began their ascent into the fortress, Rhaenyra spoke, clear and loud over the hanging air, “Dracarys.”

With a roar untethered, Syrax breathed fire—raw, hot, magical flame unto the green escort, embellishing their towered shields and silken cloaks with the might and wrath of Valyria.

But within Naera’s mind resounded not the screams of Otto Hightower. Instead, it was those names—those three names, again, and again, and again. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children. Daemon’s children.

A sound pulled her from her musings, eyes snapping open to white calicoes and stony roofs. A storm raged outside that same fortress, thunder, lightning and wind clamouring against the windows. The sound returned, a deep knocking on wood.

“Come,” she uttered, barely heard by herself, but the door opened. She swept in a breath of cold air, dragging herself up. Her head felt clear, though she couldn’t discern how. A dream such as that, prophetic in all but name, could hardly come without a cost.

With careful footsteps emerged Rhaenyra. She wore the darkest black, much like her dreams, but not quite. On her face was the same solemn, regal expression she had donned for as long as Naera could afford to recall. All their childhood scuffles lay forgotten over the succession.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Naera cleared her throat, “how fares—” Rhaenyra sat beside her, taking her hand. The touch burned both, as though the mere distrust had made the other’s touch anathema.

“They shall return in a fortnight.” Merchants could hardly afford a week’s absence jittering over an ailing arbiter. Naera nodded absently, mind yearning to return to her ponderings. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children, by Daemon. That very Daemon who Rhaenyra had yearned for, to the point of betrayal, to the epitome of disgrace, to the brink of exile; that very Daemon whom she yearns for still, Naera thought, and the dread that followed that realisation confused her, bothered her, stripped away the defences she had long built and tore her wounds open to the salty sea air. She yearns for him still, but so do I. “You aren’t well, sister, I did not mean to—”

“Don’t,” Naera stopped, her free hand trailing to her neck, to the bruises long faded, so the anger long drowned by none other than a sickening, flooding, endlessly sweet ache. “Do not apologise for seeking your best.” It was the noblest thing for Rhaenyra to have done, and they both knew it. She couldn’t sit and wait while the Hightowers gathered support, and allies, while they plotted schemes to usurp the throne, not after she had, in finality, lost the only thing she had wanted as much as the Iron Throne. Daemon.

“I only apologise for distressing you.” Rhaenyra sighed, unable to find the proper word, unable to breach the subject she had poised herself to address. Naera stared at her sister, at the way her once innocent face had hardened with toil, at the crease of her fair brow, the shadowing of her eyes that counted far more than a dozen sleepless nights. She stared at her jewels, gilded Valyrian Steel with the bloodiest rubies, at her neck. Gold and tarred silver at her ears. Black and Red velvet at her waist, cinching scales like those of the Black Dread on her sleeves.

She imagined that somewhere west, a woman her age lay adorned in green.

“How long shall you fight silent, Rhae?” Naera trailed a hand to the embroidered wrists of her sister’s gown, tracing the spiked, metallic lines, “The Hightowers denounce you with every other word.” Why play so civil, when, “That whore of a queen cut you with a blade, challenged your sons’ legitimacy, married—” she breathed, “married the man you love to your sister.”

And it shattered, then, and there.

Rhaenyra flicked her hands away, a strangled sob being the only flash of lightning before her thundering tears broke the gates. She took Naera into her arms, against her steel gown, against her scarred self, and held her sister silent, as tear, after tear trailed down her cheek, dripping onto Naera’s face to mingle with her miserable proclamations.

“Forgive me,” Rhaenyra choked, “for I have caused you nothing but pain—for I have given you nothing but hatred, hatred over deeds you never committed.” She shook her head, gasping for breath.

Naera took her face in her hands, grasping senselessly for support, “It is I who has been selfish. If I had stayed—”

“Then you’d be broken,” Rhaenyra resolved, “You’d be like the rest of us, Naera, do not seek forgiveness for doing the best for yourself.” She recited Naera’s own words. “No, do not wish me that misery, of seeing another fallen to Hightower ambition.”

Naera’s chest tightened, a desperate cry echoing through the stone chambers, “but that isn’t all I’ve failed you in, Rhaenyra.” Daemon. His flapping hair, his kindred smiles, the passion with which he burned every second, of every day. Fire and blood. Naera had fallen, defeated, immersed in his beauty, sunk in that ugly sentiment.

“I love him,” as the dragon does the sky, as the waves do the wind, as a Targaryen does one of her kin. Hopelessly, without sense, without reason, without paying heed to the screaming logic that reminded her of his flaws, but he was perfect. He was sublime, strong, ever-present, until she had pushed him away.

Rhaenyra leaned her forehead against Naera’s and whispered, “Pār jorrāelagon zirȳla sȳrī, syt nyke daor.” Then love him well, for I cannot. “Laenor treats me well, Naera,” she chuckled, nose blushed red, “Ser Harwin loves me dearly. It is well. I am well.” Naera closed her eyes. I am well. She doesn’t need him—no, she doesn’t want him, for she knows now that Naera does.

She does not want him, because she cannot have him. Her ambition has ended with the demise of her true love, but Rhaenyra cuts those thoughts short, “I have not wanted him in years, Naera, neither has he me.” She nodded, as though seeking a declaration of trust.

Naera found herself believing her sister against every fact, against her own instinct. She nodded, and Rhaenyra smiled, wiping the tears from Naera’s face. “We’ll be strong, we can win this, Naera,” a glimmer of hope, a ray of light that broke through the storm, “if you’d only—” Panic rushed through her, an image of night, of snow, of blood pouring by the gallons, and seas turning dark. Fear surged through her veins, frigid as the morning air, dead as the Long Night.

“I forgive you,” Naera brushed away Rhaenyra’s tears, and struggled to her feet, cotton chemise barely strung together. Rhaenyra protested her deeds, imploring her to take the needed rest, but Naera ignored those pleas.

She knew what was to come.

A coup, orchestrated by the Green Queen. The Conqueror’s Crown on Aegon’s Head, and the proclamation of his rule, and she knew what was to follow.

A War, unlike one that had been seen since the foundations of the Freehold.

A War amongst Dragons, and years after that

The Long Night.

And she understood her role, finally, in this grand scheme, amidst this treachery, and debauchery. This confinement had a reason, as all curses and trials do, for the Lord of Light is just, and often kind. He was kind when he granted her Melisandre, as kind as he is now, granting her Daemon, his love, his fire, his passion to ignite her world that had been dimmed by the night, to set it alight once again.

She was to stand by Rhaenyra’s side, for it was she, who would lay the foundation for the Liberator’s acceptance as Queen of Westeros. The first Queen to sit on the Iron Throne—Naera would be her Visenya, her right hand, her soldier, her Queensguard—the broken half of her soul held close but never fused to heal the rift of regality.

“I am yours and have been for long, but I implore that you hear it for once, and for all.” She drew her sword, silver steel cursed with flames, in a leather scabbard, survived from Stygai. Naera knelt, her white gown pooling at her ankles, sword held before her.

“I swear by fire and blood, that I, Naera of the House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms and Knight to Westeros, shall follow the cause of you, who are the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and die if I must, to place you as Queen of this Land.”

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