#skyward inn

[phaedraismyusername]

Hi hello I have been knee deep in a genre binge so here are some literary sci-fi books that deal with loneliness as a core theme

I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman

Translated from French this book follows the youngest girl in a group of 40 women who are being kept in a cage underground in an unknown place, for unknown reasons, until one day they get the chance to escape triggering a search for answers and survival on a desolate surface.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

This is a very subtle dystopian story about a group of people who spend their childhoods at an extremely secretive english boarding school, the course of their relationships, and where they are at the end of their lives. There's a subtle feeling of wrongness from the first chapter and the author spends the rest of the novel very slowly revealing the reasons why.

Everything You Ever Wanted by Luiza Sauma

The super short form pitch for this book is 'Fleabag if there was an option to yeet herself to another planet'. Iris is in a long term relationship with depression, kind of hates her pointless job, sometimes hates her family, and is generally overwhelmed by the weight of existence, when she hears about Nyx - earth's first space colony - and thinks that just maybe it could be the answer to all her problems.

Remnant Population by Elizabeth Moon

When the population of a company sponsored colony finds out they have been designated a failure and the people are to be packed up and shipped off to another planet to try again, one little old lady decides that for the first time in her long life she's going to break the rules - she's going to stay and live her best life alone on the planet, and finally get some peace and quiet. What could go wrong?

Skyward Inn by Aliya Whiteley

Skyward Inn is an odd little book set in a future where Earth has come into contact with an alien world that quickly surrendered to humanity. The story follows a small group of kind of unlikeable people who live behind the walls of the 'western protectorate' - a place in the moors that's decided to isolate itself and live like the old days with rudimentary technology for a simple life. Until strangers appear and things start to get... weird. Slower, stranger and with more body horror than you might expect.

[haveyoureadthisbook-poll]

[planet4546b]

really funny that i read skyward inn and the seep essentially back to back, both of which were concerned with physical transformations removing individuality but skyward inn sucks and was just about xenophobia + the seep was like. an actually interesting character study about the ways in which loss of individuality was a concern specifically for flawed reasons for one specific person. we all hate skyward inn LOLLLLLL

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part iv)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ ! soooo today on your weekly dose of Stark fluff, Kook Claere and Simp Cregan attempt to move their love language from acts of service to, ahem, physical touch.

The journey back to Winterfell had been quiet, the cold edge of the North still riddling them as they left the Wall behind. The vast, forlorn stretch of backvelds seemed to reflect their silence. Cregan had said nothing thereafter, allowing Claere her space to regain composure. He knew better than to provoke his wistful wife—knew that whatever mysteries she brought from beyond the Wall were hers to bear until she was prepared to unburden herself to him. And so, he let her stew in her mind's eye, his gaze wavering on her occasionally, wishing to trot his horse by her side, as she stared out the road.

He could tell she sensed his worried scrutiny, the implicit queries that clung to the air between them like her silver dragon that soared overhead. Nevertheless, he refrained. If the icy unknown beyond had terrorised her, he wouldn't be the one to pick apart the pieces. Not yet.

By the time they stopped at a small, weather-beaten inn along the Kingsroad, dusk had settled over the land, the last golden traces of daylight waning into the horizon. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of bubbling broth and firewood, but neither of them seemed inclined to feast as compared to the rest of their party. The weariness of the road remained, though Cregan suspected something graver ate at his wife.

He found her later, seated on the floor near the long, narrow window, her gaze turned skyward. The room was dim, the half-moon and stars luminous through the glass, and she sat in silence, as though the world beyond the window held more comfort than the inn’s fire. Wordlessly, he joined her side, his motions unimposing, as though he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled over her.

Claere didn’t acknowledge him at first, lost in whatever thoughts churned beneath that placid exterior of hers. But after a long stretch of silence, she spoke, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

"Ask me," she murmured, still looking at the stars. "You must have a thousand."

Cregan only smiled, his lips curving into a small, teasing grin. "You can keep your secrets."

He could be patient. Whatever haunted her would come out in time, as all things did. Let her hold onto them, for now.

Her indigo eyes flickered at him briefly, and for a moment, reassurance passed over her features. "I saw nothing," she echoed from before. "Nothing clear. Nothing I wanted."

He tilted his head. "What did you want?"

"Proof of my sanity," she muttered. Her gaze paused on the stars, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Proof that I haven’t slipped into madness… or that it won’t contain me yet.”

Cregan’s teasing grin faded, his expression hardening with understanding.

“Madness comes for us all in time. Wears many disguises, but you'll feel it," he said his voice a quiet rumble. "And you're still here. That’s proof enough for me.”

She huffed lightly, not quite convinced, but something in her softened at his words. The silence that followed was thick, not with tension but with the soft comfort of shared understanding. He made space for her, and it made her want to draw closer. So she did. She shifted to him, ever so slightly, her shoulder brushing his.

After a while, she leaned in closer, her voice no louder than a whisper as she raised her hand toward the glass pane, pointing out a faint cluster of stars.

“That one,” she said. her voice quiet, “I’ve always adored it. I call it drūmā—‘the dream.’”

"Drūmā," he managed a murmur.

He turned his head to the sky, but he was hardly glimpsing at the stars. All he could see or think was her—the way her lips curved around the word, the sweet reverence in her tone as if that distant constellation held some deep, unstated meaning. Cregan felt a swell of emotion rise in his chest. She was this beautiful secret wrapped in fire and caution, a valiant princess who had crossed the Wall on dragonback and yet still found splendour in the stars.

His heart leapt to his throat as he moved scarcely, offering her the comfort of his shoulder. Claere accepted it, fitting herself into the curve of his arm, her head resting back into the burrow near his collar, her gaze still fixed on the night sky.

Then she traced an invisible path in the air, drawing with the stars. "And there. They remind me of a dragon falling asleep. Sōvīr zaldrīzes."

Cregan, however, was watching her—studying every line of her flawless face, every swift flit of her eyes as they tracked the stars. She possessed every fibre of his being. She had him entirely.

Deaf to restraint, his hand moved to her face, fingers brushing over her cheek. “And what do you call this?” he asked, almost a rumble in the stillness.

Claere blinked, a little surprised at the question. "Mēre," she answered softly, her Valyrian slipping from her lips like melodies.

He let his forefinger graze the length of her bent nose, his eyes never leaving her face. “And this?”

“Lāmas.”

Two fingers hovered over the fullness of her lips, his breath catching as her violet gaze veered to meet his, the anticipation between them taut as a drawn bowstring.

"And these?" he asked, the words a bare whisper.

“Lēda,” she answered, voice fainter now, nearly breathless.

A lopsided smile curled on his lips. "And what do you say when you want to kiss them so desperately?"

She swallowed hard; unguarded, unspeaking.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, he had waited too long for this. He leaned in, slowly, delicately, until his lips brushed hers. The kiss was gentle, glorifying—as if he feared shattering the moment if he pushed too quickly. His palm, calloused from years of wielding weaponry and enduring the ironhearted North, cradled her face with unexpected tenderness, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. When he pulled back, it was with both relief and strain that he searched her face for any sign that he had overstepped.

But Claere didn’t pull away. Rather, with a spontaneous boldness that startled even her, she lifted her hand to his, slender fingers soft yet confident as they wrapped around his wrist, holding him close, bringing it to her fluttering lips. Her touch was gentle, wavering at first as if testing the warmth of his skin.

But when she leaned in again, kissing him back, her grip tightened—not out of force, but need. Her soft moan speared right into his tongue, robbing him of his breath. The pads of her fingers squeezed into his hand, her other palm lain against his chest, feeling the sporadic beat of his heart beneath the thin layer of tunic. She could've reached right in and crumbled it to dust, he would've gladly let her.

This time, it was she who deepened the kiss, her lips crashing his with a fervour that sent a tremble down his spine. Her fingers slid up from his chest to his jaw, stroking at the hair that brushed his shoulder, tracing the line of his powerful neck, her touch both curious and loving. It wasn’t hurried, but it was deliberate—every brush of her fingers, every urge of her lips, drawing him further into her as if she was memorising him through touch alone. Cregan could do nothing but follow, lost in the sensation of her, the heat of her skin against his.

When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads relaxed together, sharing the same breath and heartbeat. And in the peace, the quiet between them now felt different—more familiar, more certain. It wasn’t simply a kiss. It was an oath.

His fingers threaded through her hair, lightly scratching at her scalp, drawing her closer.

"Did you like it?" she asked, her voice a fragile whisper, almost unsure. Her violet eyes flickered between his, searching for something.

He grinned, the warmth of it softening the usual harshness of his features, though his grey eyes owned their intensity, locked on her as if she might vanish in the next breath.

"Aye, more than I can say," he rasped, his voice roughened with affection and awe. His thumb now brushed at her red lips, studying the little divots there. "I'd like to do it more often."

“You would?” she murmured, her breath ghosting over his hand.

Cregan’s grip tightened on her, his thumb moving from her lips to her jaw, tracing the line of her face with a gentleness that belied his strength. "If you'd allow it, I'd spend every breath seeking more."

A hint of a smile stretched across her face, her eyes flickering between his with something like wonder. “I’ve never shared much."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her at that moment—the way her features softened in the dim light, the way her presence, quiet and strange as it was, had become something he cherished.

"I will spend my time earning them." He brushed his lips against hers, with a newfound ease that urged him to stroke her thighs and waist, striking his fingertips with lightning bolts.

"One kiss at a time," he vowed.

X

The return to Winterfell was far from triumphant. There were no banners raised, no songs sung. The people did not look upon Claere with admiration or awe; instead, they continued to whisper behind closed doors and cast nervous glances in her direction. Word had spread of her crossing beyond the Wall, and in the minds of many, it had become a tale twisted by fear. How had she returned when so many before her had been lost? What had she seen? Why did she refuse to speak of it?

Still, Claere persisted. It was unlike her to make do with her quiet resolve in such matters. Especially those he knew would never concern her. She walked through the kitchens, speaking softly to the cooks, inquiring about the meals being prepared, offering a recipe she had learned in Dragonstone.

"No, my lady. That is not the way here," one of the kitchenmaids would murmur, polite but dismissive.

Claere’s attempts to suggest improvements to the weaving of the tapestries were met with similar disinterest. "We’ve always done it this way, my lady," they would say.

She was there, present in her part, yet treated her as light as the wind. She was seen, but never truly heard.

What stung more, though, was how the mothers kept their children away. The same little ones who once flocked to her side, wide-eyed and eager for tales of her homeland, were now kept at a distance by protective hands. She had shared stories of Dragonstone, of King’s Landing, of tasting exotic Tyroshi fruits and scouting for dragon eggs in the wilds. The children had adored her for it—had laughed and clung to her skirts, fascinated by Luna, the gentle beast who towered over them, but never harmed a soul.

Claere knelt in the courtyard with her harp on her thigh, and a small group of children gathered around her. Their eyes were wide with wonder as she described the hatching of a dragon’s egg, her songful voice painting pictures for them. One of the littlest girls, with a shock of red hair, reached out timidly, wanting to touch the dragon bone pendant that hung from Claere’s neck.

Just before the girl's fingers could graze it, a sharp voice called out from across the yard. "Ellys, no!"

The child froze, her hand dropping back to her side as her mother hurried forward, her eyes darting nervously between a stoic Claere and her daughter.

"It’s time we go, love," the woman said quickly, scooping the girl up into her arms. "Let's not bother Lady Stark any longer."

The girl whimpered, still looking at Claere. "But I want to hear what happened to the pink egg!"

Her mother cast a wary glance at Claere, voice low but trembling as she clutched her child. "We’ve heard enough stories."

Then, she turned and hurried away, whispering something under her breath to another woman nearby.

From a distance, Cregan observed this, his jaw tightening. He could see Claere’s smile falter slightly as the children were excused and led away one by one, their innocent excitement replaced by a quiet, uncertain look over their shoulders. He said nothing, though it tore at him. He couldn't. These were mothers, protectors of their own, and in the North, no lord could command a mother’s fears away. Not even the gods themselves.

Later that evening, as they sat together in the Great Hall for supper, Cregan caught her drifting gaze while sliding a few more slices of honeycakes onto her plate. Claere began to pick them apart with her fingers, reducing the golden pastry into small, crumbled pieces.

"Your heart shines brighter than a few whispers," Cregan said gently, his voice meant to pull her back from her inner thoughts. "They’ll see that, in time. You need to give them that chance."

Her fingers paused, holding a tiny morsel. "Yes," she said flatly, "but time isn't always kind."

Cregan's eyes softened, seeing through the mask she wore. He leaned closer, brushing his hand along the back of her head in a gesture meant to comfort, to encourage.

"Don’t give up on them, Claere. You’re their lady, and the North is not easily won, but it can be won."

Claere’s expression barely shifted, her lips twitching into a faint, thin smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She pushed the crumb between her lips carefully.

"It does not bother me," she muttered, almost too quickly. "I have come to understand the way things are here."

He frowned slightly, knowing her well enough to sense what was left unsaid. "You may not show it, but you don’t have to carry this load alone. I am here."

She gave a small, tight nod, her voice quieter now. "I’m not giving up. But if they can’t see me, perhaps I wasn’t meant to be seen."

Cregan’s chest tightened at her words, but he stayed silent, only watching her, his hand resting protectively against her neck as she turned her gaze down, once again retreating into herself.

So Claere, ever watchful, stepped aside. She ceased trying to win the adults’ favour, knowing now that every attempt was met with indifference. Instead, she continued to watch. Like a ghost in her own home, she floated through the halls, spending hours in the glass gardens she had devised, silently overseeing their construction. Once, she had imagined them filled with life—blue roses blooming in defiance of the North’s frost—but now, they seemed as far away as everything else she touched.

It frustrated Cregan. It wasn’t enough that Claere tried, that she performed her duties with respect and vigilance. His people had judged her the moment she returned from beyond the Wall, and no amount of goodwill could shift that perception.

But it wasn’t the whispers or isolation that stirred at Cregan; it was how the distance between Claere and his people widened, even as her subtle feelings for him deepened. He was the one thing in Winterfell that did not change, that didn’t turn cold. And though she felt more and more like a foreigner in the keep, with Cregan, she had found her home.

Claere had always marvelled at Cregan’s patience—the way he tempered the demands of leadership with calm strength. But there was something else now, something more primal in her admiration, as her attention faltered on him from the castle balcony. The training yard below was alive with the sounds of clashing steel and gruff commands, yet her gaze was drawn only to him.

He cruised with effortless power, his sword sinuating around his fingertips, his broad shoulders and thick arms bared to the cold as he sparred with his men. The North had sculpted him into its image—formidable, headstrong, every inch of him hardened by years of combat and the harsh winter winds. His skin, sunkissed, stretched over taut muscles, and his stance, solid as the very stones of Winterfell, left no question that this man was the embodiment of ancient Stark blood.

Cregan had become a gentle giant of the North, the spitting image of his forebears, a regal wolf among his men. And Claere was suddenly, inexplicably lured to it—the rawness, the sheer force of his presence. She had never truly admired this side of him before, having always been more attuned to his compassion, his unfailing patience.

But now, she found herself watching him as she never had, from the eyes of a spellbound girl. Her lips parted for air, her hand curling around the cold stone of the balcony, and for a brief moment, she was lost in the sight of him. Her husband, she thought. Remarkable.

He caught her. His grey eyes flicked up, meeting hers, and though he had pretended not to notice at first, a flicker of amusement crossed his face.

With a playful grin, he raised his hand and beckoned her with a single finger.

She felt her heart skip, heat rushing to her face. Shaking her head quickly, she broke the gaze, ducking away as if she’d been caught in some intimate moment, her mind reeling from the sudden rush of feeling. She liked the excitement, the pulsations—whatever it was—a lot.

Claere had been standing so still, so intently focused on Cregan, that when she finally turned to leave, she nearly collided with a nearby servant. She staggered back, her hand brushing against the woman’s arm.

"My apologies," she murmured, eyes downcast as she quickly regained her footing. The servant, wide-eyed and unsure of how to respond, merely dipped her head, and Claere hurried off, her cheeks burning as she escaped into the corridors, her heart still racing.

Down in the yard, Cregan caught the whole exchange. He watched as she retreated, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Got her good, my lord," one of his men said with a grin, leaning on his sword. "Thought she might’ve fallen right into you this time."

Cregan’s own smile was barely contained. “She’s no doe to be startled into my arms."

"A dragon, my lady is," one of them laughed.

“Yet it seems she has taken more than a few looks at her huntsman,” another chimed in, and the others chuckled.

Cregan shook his head, though the light in his eyes betrayed his delight.

"She’s got a mind of her own," he said, turning back to the practice, though his thoughts were still on her. He pointed his sword at his men. "More stubborn than any of you lads."

As they went back to training, the conversation shifted, and for a while, Cregan focused on the clang of swords and the weight of his shield. But when Claere crossed his mind again—her shy retreat, the way she had tried to disappear after that small, flustered moment—he couldn’t help but feel ten pounds lighter. The way she was beginning to see him differently was a triumph in itself. A sweet adoration that bloomed outside of auguries and omens.

As the sun began to set, his men’s teasing returned in full force.

“Mark my words,” one of the older guards called out as they packed up for the day. “It’s about time Winterfell welcomes another Stark. A summer child, heh?"

Cregan wiped the sweat from his brow, smirking as he sheathed his sword. “When it happens, I’ll let you pour the first ale—if you can still lift the barrel.”

Subsequently, as he stood before his small council, the rising tension returned. The air in the room was thick with unease, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over the stone walls. Every mention of the dragon princess seemed to knot their nerves tighter. They were still wary, questioning what Claere had seen beyond the Wall. While she had spoken of it to Cregan in private, with words that rang true to him, the men around the table were not as easily convinced.

“What does it mean for the North, my lord?” one of the men snapped, his voice laced with accusation rather than fear. “She flew beyond the Wall, into lands none return from. Not even crows. She’s not like us. Who knows what kind of darkness she brought back?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the small council, emboldened by the man’s sharp tone. Another voice, colder and crueller, chimed in. “We’ve heard the whispers, my lord. Bloodmagic, hexes—things no Northerner should meddle with. What if she’s hiding something? What if her silence masks the real threat?”

The room stirred with growing boldness, the men exchanging conspiratorial glances as if they had forgotten whose hall they were in. One of them leaned forward, his eyes narrow and calculating.

“The people are afraid, and fear breeds rebellion. The longer you keep her here, the more they’ll question your judgment. Is that the kind of lord you want to be remembered as? One who brought a Valyrian sorceress into Winterfell?"

Their words were sharp as blades, probing, testing his resolve, as if daring him to falter.

He did. Cregan’s patience snapped. He rose to his full height, his shadow stretching long across the room as his eyes darkened like storm clouds brewing overhead. The council fell silent immediately, the weight of his authority pressing down on them. His voice, low and controlled, carried the kind of steel that had made men follow him into battle without hesitation.

“I will make myself clear once and for all. Claere saw nothing,” Cregan said, his words cold and unyielding. His gaze swept over the table, landing on each man in turn. “Nothing but ice and desolation. There is no curse on my wife. She flew beyond the Wall and returned for one reason: to feed her dragon. And that dragon now sleeps outside our walls, not as a harbinger of doom, but as her loyal steed."

The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but none dared to meet his gaze. His presence commanded the room, the force of his conviction quelling any further protest. Still, one of the older lords, his voice a murmur barely above a whisper, tried to speak again.

“My lord, we mean no disrespect, but if—”

Cregan’s hand slammed down onto the table, cutting the man off. The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.

“Enough! I've had it all!" His voice was as sharp as the Valyrian blade at his hip. “Another word of dissent against Lady Stark’s sound mind, and I swear it upon the old gods and the new—heads will roll.”

A deadly silence followed his words. The men around the table bowed their heads in submission, their once-nervous glances now replaced by wide-eyed fear. They knew Cregan well enough to understand that his threats were never idle.

He straightened back up. “Claere Stark is of this house, of this land. She is your lady. You will treat her as such. If any of you think otherwise, say it now and face me.”

None spoke.

"Fair choice. Then it is decided."

He dismissed the council and as they hurried out of the hall, their whispers stilled in their throats. Yet, even as they left, Cregan stood alone by the fire, his jaw clenched. For all his power, for all his belief in Claere, a shadow of doubt clung to the edge of his mind. She had shared little of her journey beyond the Wall, and though he trusted her with his very life, the silence that followed her return weighed heavier than he dared to admit. Something remained hidden beneath her quiet resolve. Something he could not yet see.

Later, in the hush of their chambers, the flicker of firelight danced across the stone walls. Claere sat by the hearth, pricked fingers deftly stitching the embroidery she had been labouring on for weeks. It was still sloppy work, as Cregan loved to tease her about. He lay with his head in her lap, watching her more than the flames.

These evenings had become their tacit routine—a time of shared silence that he had come to treasure. The peace wrapped around him, soothing the doubts that lingered, though they rarely exchanged words. In these quiet moments, he felt most at ease, their closeness needing no explanation.

Tonight, however, the silence felt different. Claere's hands paused in their careful craft, her gaze dipping as if gathering her thoughts. The fire crackled softly, but it seemed distant, overpowered by the tension in the room.

“Are you burdened by me before your council?” she asked, her words hesitant, hedging.

Her fingers stilled on the embroidery, resting just above Cregan’s brow where his head lay on her lap.

Cregan’s brows furrowed, his eyes searching her face. He understood what she was trying to say—her isolation, her distance from the little ones, their fear. It was finally getting to her, as it did to every person despairing in silence.

But he only shook his head, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Claere, I’ve carried steel, fire, and the weight of a thousand dead Starks on my shoulders, but you?” His thumb traced the side of her leg, playful and reassuring. "Your heft is that of a feather compared to all that."

Her eyes met his, doubt still lingering in their violet depths. "I hear them talk to you. Endlessly."

He snickered. "Well, you should join next time."

She pursed her lips, dismissive.

He rubbed her knee beneath his cheek, voice lowering. “Let them talk. Their empty words mean nothing when they’re blind to the truth. What matters is what you've done despite it all. Tending to the hold, hunting... the glass gardens. Their opinions change nothing.”

She opened her mouth to protest again, but before she could, he suddenly pounced, tackling her to the ground with a fluid grace that left her breathless. His arms wrapped around her waist as they tumbled, her startled gasp filling the room before it veered to their soft, unrestrained laughter.

"Cregan!" she managed, trying to push him off with little strength behind her effort, her hands half-heartedly pressing against his chest.

“You thought I didn't notice?” he teased, hovering over her with ease, his broad frame casting a shadow. His smile was wide, mischievous, as though he held a secret she had yet to discover.

“You’ve been watching me train, princess. And rather intently, might I add. Devouring me with those enchanting eyes.”

Claere’s cheeks warmed at his words, the colour blooming faintly against her pale skin. It was an expression he loved—a rare slip of emotion that made her otherwise cool demeanour seem fragile.

“I have not—”

“Little liar,” he chuckled, lowering his head toward hers, close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips. “I caught you staring more than once. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

She tried to avert her eyes, but his hand came up, cupping her jaw in his roughened palm, guiding her gaze back to him. Her protests died on her tongue, replaced by uncertainty. The playful glint in his eyes softened, a deeper warmth replacing it. He was in no rush now, not when her heart raced beneath him, not when the space between them grew thinner by the second.

Her breath hitched, and her usual blankness seemed to melt away, giving way to the bare bones of Claere—joy, tension, the edges of a smile twitching at her lips.

“I was simply appreciating the view,” she mumbled, her eyes darting away.

“The view, is it?” Cregan’s grin widened, mischief in his tone. “And here I thought your attention was elsewhere.”

She huffed, trying to maintain her composure. “I’m capable of admiring more than one thing at a time.”

He arched a brow. “Though somehow, I think it wasn’t my swordsmanship that had you swooning. Something under my plates? Or perhaps... my breeches?”

He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above hers. Their laughter had long died out, the air between them thickening with tension, but it was the kind that felt like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

He could feel her heartbeat quicken, her breath coming in soft, shallow puffs, and it was all he needed. His voice dwindled to a near-whisper, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth with deliberate slowness.

“Say my name again.”

Her violet eyes flitted up to his from staring at his lips. "Why?"

"I'd like to hear it from your mouth."

She breathed out, "Cregan."

He needed no more invitations. He closed the gap, crushing his lips to the ones that were spoken for in his name, with the care that gainsaid his size like she was a glass doll he wanted to protect. But the kiss carried more than just tenderness—it was a slow burn of the long-awaited as if he had been waiting for this moment for years. And in that kiss, he felt her response, moving her lips with his to mimic him, graceless but sweet in her own way.

As they pulled apart, her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unhesitant. She blinked up at him, lips slightly parted, and though she didn’t say a word, he could see the answer written in her expression—a soft, implicit permission.

It wasn’t long before Cregan had pulled the heavy furs from the bed, laying them out on the stone floor to make a makeshift bed. His coarse hands stretched toward her in an invitation that was far gentler than anything he had ever given her before.

Though Claere hesitated, bringing her hand to her chest, a shadow of reluctance crossing her face. “My Lord, I—"

"No, I want none of that. Speak like my wife." He abraded at her courtesy rather than anything.

"Cregan," she corrected quietly. "I don’t want to be a young mother."

An invisible fist gripped his throat. He hadn’t expected her to voice such a fear, although some of him understood. He didn’t need to hear more to know that the idea of maternity, of the expectations it carried with it, terrified her in a way she would not easily admit.

Looking at her now, so frail in her admission, he realized that what he wanted most wasn’t bound by obligation or lineage. He didn’t need heirs or any responsibilities others might want to place on them. It was her. He wanted her. Just her.

"Nor I, a young father," he shared in a rumble of breath, stretching his arms further for her.

"Until then we'll simply be us," he promised.

It was all the assurance she needed. Bearing a relieved grin, she placed her hand in his, letting him pull her into the warmth of the furs.

Claere sat on her heels, back to him, and piled her thick silver braid over a shoulder. Cregan, much obliged, opened her bodice and petticoats one by one while she sat motionless, staring into the flames. He caressed the lune of her spine, his entire hand spread over the span, her skin burning under his touch, unmarred, smooth, seeming like silk stretched over glass.

She glanced at him, uncertainly gliding off her sleeves, now bare-skinned and impassive. As if prompted by the strings of a puppeteer, she slid away from her dresses and laid back on the furs, shutting her eyes. It fell far from what Cregan had envisioned, his wife lain for him like awaiting a death knell.

Rather, he raised a quizzical brow at her. "What are you doing?"

Claere opened her eyes, startled by the question. "Isn't this what you wanted?" Almost like she was trying to puzzle him out, calm and detached. "You can... take me now. I know what is expected of me. My maidenhead is unsullied."

Cregan blinked, utterly taken aback, and then a soft chuckle escaped him, one he didn’t intend but couldn’t help.

"Take you," he repeated to himself, incredulous. His grin widened, full of humour and fondness. "What do you think this is?"

Instinctively, her hands went to cover her breasts. Her brows furrowed, confusion spreading across her features as she squinted at him, her cheeks flushing faintly.

"Is this not what happens between a husband and wife?" she asked, her voice no longer carrying the confidence she had tried to summon.

He sighed, pulling her hands away from her chest, gentle but firm. There was warmth in his gaze, despite the humour. He threaded his fingers through hers.

"Aye," he said softly, "but not like this. You’re not spoils of war, Claere. I am no king to conquer you. Or your enemy to face."

Her shoulders, once tense, unwound as she looked up at him, understanding him.

"No," she agreed.

With a tender smile, Cregan reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. His hand moved down to her cheek, cupping it gently, and he looked her in the eye.

"I will have you in love, or I will not have you at all."

And so it went—their night of perfect pleasure, ruptured only by their awkwardness about what followed next. Platitudes fled replaced by yearning, Cregan ripping at his padded tunics and eager to bring her onto his lap until the distance was insignificant. She went all too gladly, bestraddling him, and he guided her hands from his waist to his neck.

Claere followed his lead with a tentative curiosity, her body flush against his chest. But he didn’t rush her—didn’t demand. Instead, he reached for her hands, gently guiding them from his thighs, where they’d instinctively gone, up toward his neck.

His fingers wrapped softly around hers, urging her to trace the roughness of his stubble and the solid strength of his shoulders. To the lines on his chiselled chest and the bow of his lips.

“Here,” he whispered. “I want your touch, all of you.”

Her breath hitched as her fingertips brushed over the nape of his neck, hesitant but trusting. He guided her the rest of the way, showing her the places that made him shiver beneath her touch, the places he wanted her to claim as her own.

He gently closed her warm hand over his hardness, her eyes flitting up to his, confused.

Their foreheads pressed together as he sighed, his eyes half-lidded, savouring the feeling of her palm around his length. It was a distinct kind of familiarity—intimate in a way that felt more sacred than godly vows. In a trail of white-hot kisses up her neck and claiming her lips once more, he adjusted her over his lap, until she was centred right over him.

Their eyes met—he melted, burned, raged, all but perfection until mending and finding the right symphony. At that moment, no one could've loved someone the way he was loving her.

In a single movement, she plunged down, perhaps some inherent impulse, and he buried himself deep inside her. Deeper, until every fragment of space in that heat between her legs was swelled with him. Her face strained as she welcomed him, and a rasping cry muffled into his neck.

"I have you," he reassured breathily, past the stars that roiled behind his eyes, holding her at her head and waist. "I have you now."

She nodded hard against his shoulder.

"Move for me, my love," he urged.

It wasn’t possession in the slightest, not when they made those noises, not when they collided like that; especially her, like she had mounted her dragon and taken to the skies. No, this was release. This was frustration that needed to end. This was her coming undone before him, subject to sensations like she was untethered from the world itself, weightless in a way she never knew she could be. The wrath of fire and the patience of ice found a way to coexist between them. They simply were fire and ice.

Cregan's hands slid up her sides, panting in husky grunts, rough nails digging into the smooth skin on her back, anchoring her deeper into him. He revelled in the way she responded, the way her lips parted for a breathless gasp, her fingers twisted in his hair, and how his name fell from her lips like a prayer. He bore her unravelling braid like a pearly rope around his wrist, tugging her back to grant him access to her throat. Sweet and sweeter, like nectar. He expected smoke and soot when he kissed her skin.

Every gentle rock of her saintly hips sent a shiver down his spine, her breath growing shallow, her violet eyes fluttering closed as though the world had fallen to ash around them. Here, in the bare intimacy, Claere was simply herself, vulnerable and powerful all at once.

For once, there was no restraint, no hesitation. She wasn’t holding anything back, and neither was he.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice rough and ragged, needing to see her, to meet her gaze as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Her eyes fluttered open, heady with lust but shining with something more—conviction, maybe, or something even deeper, something he knew they both sensed but hadn’t quite named.

At this moment, they weren't simply lord and lady, wolfblood and dragonblood—they were something else, elsewhere entirely. Bound not by titles, but by the intensity that had grown between them since the first time they met. She was his match, his equal, and he swore he would follow her to the ends of the earth if only to touch her like this again.

It was as though every wall she'd ever built came crumbling down. She didn’t resist it—couldn’t, really—because with him, there was no need to hold on. The pace became feverish, rushing quicker, desperate to chase that high. Her breaths came faster, and her heart raced, but none of it felt overwhelming. She let herself fall apart for him in a sharp, trembling cry, clutching him tight.

He smothered his gruff groan and expletive into her shoulder, getting a mouthful of her hot skin, conscious of the consequences through the dizzying drop, and gently pulled her off him to empty his spend into his breeches. The waves of pleasure ravaged him, he could hear the blood coursing in his ears as he embraced her to him with an arm, coiled taut yet loosened soft, all at once.

They came down together, back to their continent, back to Winterfell, back by the fire, as a tangle of limbs over the fuzzy down, slick in sweat and gasps. Claere’s arms stayed wrapped around Cregan’s neck, her breath still coming in soft, dreamy puffs against his skin. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, not easing her grip, as if reluctant to let go of the warmth they shared.

Cregan’s tough hand continued its slow, soothing path up and down her back, tracing the soft ridges of her spine and the delicate curve of her ribs. He kissed her jaw, her temple, the spot just below her ear.

“Claere,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm, “I could stay like this forever.”

Again, his words went by unheard. It so happened that he got used to it, that sometimes she just refused to leave her head.

As they lay in the warmth of the furs, the world beyond nothing but a memory, Claere’s fingers moved dreamily through the air, tracing invisible lines as if drawing constellations on the weathering ceiling. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as though her thoughts had taken flight somewhere beyond the stone walls of the keep.

Cregan’s eyes followed the gentle dance of her fingers, the way her hand swayed back and forth, almost in a trance, lost in some quiet reverie. He could feel the soft rise and fall of her breath against his chest, each exhale like a whisper of the wind, and yet her mind seemed elsewhere, reaching toward a distant idea.

“Do you ever wish we could just… fly away?” she asked softly, her voice drifting like her fingers, her words delicate.

Her eyes remained on the imperceptible path she was tracing, not daring to look at him just yet. Cregan felt a small tug at his heart, the way she asked not with fear but with the consequence of hope, a dreamer trying to keep her visions alive in a world that so often crushed them.

He let out a soft chuckle, his hand coming up to catch hers mid-air, stopping the slow, swaying motion of her fingers. He grasped it gently, his thumb brushing the back of it in calming strokes.

“Fly away?” he echoed, a teasing smile curving his lips as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “With Luna or..." his voice dipped lower, "have I replaced her as your favourite mount to ride?"

A small, breathless laugh escaped her. "The wolf in the North indeed."

He bit at the skin of her jaw and pulled. "I strive to please, princess."

“Not leave for long. For a while,” she murmured, as though speaking of some impossible place, a dream she couldn’t quite grasp.

Cregan’s brow softened, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. He understood that yearning in her voice—the wish to escape Winterfell, the duties, the judgment—but he couldn’t help but grin at her. Sometimes, he'd think the same.

“Well then,” he said with a playful glint in his eye, “perhaps one day I’ll steal you away to Dornish warmth. Summer beneath a blood orange orchard. But I’m not sure the wolves would forgive me for that.”

Her lips quirked, a soft smile touching her face, though her eyes remained far off, still seeing that distant place. For a girl who owned a dragon, she ought to be well-travelled. Dorne must've been one of the many places she must've flown to.

Cregan leaned in, his forehead resting on hers, their breaths mingling.

“Tonight, I believe you belong right here,” he whispered, his voice low and affectionate.

Her fingers, no longer suspended in the air, curled around his, the trance broken but the dream still lingering in her gaze. She shifted closer, her bare skin brushing against his, her head resting on his chest, the far-off look in her eyes slowly fading.

"Yes," she eventually said, soft and certain. "Here is good."

Cregan kissed the top of her head, his lips brushing the silken strands of her hair, and as she nestled deeper into his embrace, he whispered. “Always here.”

She traced wistful, circuitous patterns on his chest, a fleeting touch that soothed the storm inside him. The words were unnecessary now. He knew, and so did she. The quiet between them was no longer a vacuum—it was full, full of everything understood, a second sight they both shared, woven between heartbeats and breaths.

Outside, the winds of winter howled, but within, they had found their haven. Now, that was enough.

X

still a little to come, I promise! hope you felt luuuuurv!

question of the day for those of you still here: what song reminds you the most of claere? what song reminds you most of cregan & claere?

taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @lv7867 , @cosmosnkaz , @beingalive1 , @piper570 , @tigolebittiez

thank you all so much for your support and comments! it's what drives me to write these days <3

[kikker-oma]

FAN JOY JULY MASTERLIST

If a writer isn't tagged in their post, it means I couldn't find a Tumblr account for them - let me know if you know of one for them!

Link for the art is in "Day _" and the link for the story is in the title.

Day 1 - A Piece of Heart by @shearlin

Day 2 - I'll Hide Myself Behind You by @polynomialpandemic @locus-p0cus and Heademptilee

Day 3 - Travel Through the Darkness by @mariasparrow

Day 4 - Unraveling by @majorproblems77

Day 5 - Elastic Heart by @skyloftian-nutcase

Day 6 - Brothers Becoming by @turtleduckcrossing

Day 7 - Too Little, Too Late by @breannasfluff

Day 8 - The Inn at the End of Time by @musical-chan

Day 9 - Brothers Blood by @alicewritingstories

Day 10 - Follow the Lights by @cluelessmoose

Day 11 - Thin Ice by @rrainydaydreams

Day 12 - The Most Sincere Kind of Lie by @seekingseven

Day 13 - Do You Trust Me by @batrogers

Day 14 - A Knights Heart by @ajscico

Day 15 - The Broken Promise by @bokettochild

Day 16 - Frostbite by @theprequeltocrabs

Day 17 - Relaxing in Firelight by @freezingwhitefire

Day 18 - Recharge by @unexpectedstormy

Day 19 - Time Loop by @miladyh

Day 20 - Begging by @arecaceae175

Day 21 - Curse Breaker by @rebornofstars

Day 22 - Men's Boots, Too Big by @uncleskyrule

Day 23 - Bad Hand by @quirkle2

Day 24 - So, When's the Wedding? By @thetoyboxs

Day 25 - What Hero? By @aimeelouart

Day 26 - What's the Opposite of Tunnel Vision? By @enjolras-out

Day 27 - Drive a Man Mad by @adrift-in-thyme

Day 28 - Further by @gemglyph

Day 29 - The Bridge Over Lake Hylia by Rivernight

Day 30 -Swaying by @theoneeyedgoldenwolf

Day 31 - How Long Can a Man Endure by @telemna-hyelle

Day 32 - The Cat's Out of the Bag by @skyward-floored

[gloomwitchwrites]

Circle of Stones

Aragorn & Female Reader // Aragorn & Gandalf (Platonic)

Content & Warnings: canon-typical mentions of violence, suspense/horror, supernatural elements, Sauron’s influence, ghost story, Aragorn’s POV, pre-fellowship, canon-divergence

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Requested by @stupid-little-birdie for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Targeted by a Serial Killer)

Tracking orcs across the North, Aragorn and his companion come upon a potential source to a string of mass disappearances. When a darker influence overwhelms him, Aragorn is taken to the halls of Elrond where Gandalf asks him for a favor.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Mist covers the ground, swallowing up the road ahead. Aragorn brings his horse to a stop, gaze narrowing as he observers the grey horizon. This part of the North is almost always cold and dreary, yet there is a lingering shadow beneath that stirs the nerves and dulls the senses.

"Is the town nearby?" asks Aragorn as Wess comes to a stop beside him.

Wess consults the map and nods. Moisture collects on the hood of his cloak. "Just over that hill."

Aragorn tilts his head skyward. "A storm is approaching."

Wess frowns and glances up. "Clouds are dark. We'll want to arrive before the storm does."

Aragorn spurs his horse on, the two Rangers heading for the village. The grass is muddy and soft beneath the horses' hooves, and their arrival comes with the rain. It falls steadily, bringing an extra dreariness to the small village that it doesn't need.

Word spread about people going missing in the North from tiny towns and villages. It's not unheard of but they make for easy targets. There are no walls to protect them and no guards to defend against invaders. Just a few days ago Aragorn and Wess visited a village where so many people had disappeared that only a singular family remained.

No one greets them upon their arrival. The residents remain behind their doors and windows, looking on yet poised to hide at the first sign of danger. Aragorn understands the solemn greeting. He and Wess have met the very same reluctance everywhere they've traveled.

"Are you the Rangers that have come to help us?"

Aragorn lightly tugs on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop. A woman stares back at him from under a worn hood. His heart stirs at your beauty but disperses just as quickly. Duty comes before the heart.

"We have come to do what we can," affirms Aragorn. "Whom do I address?"

You give him your name, and then gesture toward a large, two-story building in the middle of town. "We can talk in the inn. I've had a room prepared for the two of you."

Aragorn and Wess find the small stable at the back of the inn. When they enter, the inn is warm and cheery compared to the gloom outside. It seems that spirits are low but not in here.

You approach, hood pulled back, a gentle smile on your face. "I know you were expecting my father."

Aragorn removes his cloak, as does Wess, draping them over the backs of their chairs. You unclip the small clasp on yours, revealing a simple but clean dress underneath.

"Where is the Lord of this town?" asks Aragorn.

You hesitate before speaking. "Dead."

Aragorn inclines his head. "I'm sorry for your loss."

You nod, mouth a thin line. "I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances, but he is just one of many who have been taken from us over the last few weeks."

A barmaid comes over and deposits a frothy pint before each of them and a small platter of bread with cured meats and cheeses. She disappears quickly.

"We've been tracking a string of disappearances," says Aragorn.

"And it has led you here," you reply.

Wess is already shoving food in his mouth, clearly listening but far more interested in the cheese. Aragorn glances at Wess but the man doesn't appear to notice.

"It is where the trail has led us," agrees Aragorn.

Your lips purse slightly, and then you sigh as if all your bottled grief is suddenly melting.

"Tonight, you should rest. Tomorrow, there is someone I'd like you to meet."

Under a large oak tree just outside town, Aragorn listens to a young woman recount her tale.

"You are certain?" he asks as the pieces begin to fall into place.

"Aye," she affirms. "It was an orc that grabbed me while picking mushrooms. There were several of them. At least three."

"Working together?"

She nods. "Kept whispering to each other about returning to their master."

"And you weren't the only one taken?"

She visibly swallows, her eyes wet like she's about to cry. "I was put in a pen with three others. Not sure what happened to them. I just...ran when I had the opportunity. The orcs didn't follow. I don't think they even knew I was gone."

Aragorn frowns. "How far in the forest do you think you were when you escaped?"

She chews on her lip, gaze darting as she thinks. "I remember a ring of statues. Old looking. Covered in vines. They looked like lords or something. Maybe kings."

Aragorn and Wess exchange a glance. You stand off to the side, a shadow at the woman's back. Your lips are turned down in a frown, brow creased in the middle.

"Thank you," Aragorn says softly. He gently takes the woman's hands in his and squeezes, gazing into her eyes. "You've given us more than you realize."

You slowly approach the woman, placing your hands on either shoulder. "Come now. Let's get you back. Have a warm cup of tea." You give Aragorn one final glance before departing, leaving the two men alone beside the dense forest.

Wess' face is severe, his gaze focused on the wall of trees. "There is a story in these parts of dead kings buried so deep in the forest that no one would find their graves to mourn them." Wess turns his attention to Aragorn. "A circle. Plain statues. And a hole in the ground that is said to hold their corpses."

"A myth," murmurs Aragorn.

Wess grunts. "There is always truth in myth. Even if it's small."

"There is something else in these woods."

"I agree," replies Wess. "Do you think all these missing people are being taken somewhere?"

"Perhaps."

Wess tightens his cloak around him. The sky is growing dark again. "Shall we take a look?"

Aragorn enters the forest first, followed by Wess. He keeps his gaze on the ground, considering the turned soil and disturbed leaves. There is little for Aragorn to go on, but he knows the general direction in which this circle is supposed to be. Even legends and myths are recorded, and he already knows where this supposed burial ground is located.

The rain hasn't washed away everything. As the two men venture further into the forest where the trees are thicker, it's easy for Aragorn to distinguish various tracks. There are plenty of animals that travel through these parts, but there are human disturbances, and those of orcs.

A darkness has slowly creeped in across Middle-earth. It's a subtle thing, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to plunge everything into its inky clutches.

Aragorn pauses, withdrawing his sword. Wess does the same, the two men crouching low as stone figures appear in the distance. Aragorn nods and the two men split off to either side of the circle. The air is silent and still. There are no birds or insects. Not even the soft whistle of the wind.

The bramble is thick, the bushes dense. Through the foliage, Aragorn spies Wess' form, appearing and disappearing. There is no other movement, no other presence Aragorn can pinpoint. Yet there is something, as if someone is standing directly behind him, breathing down his neck. The sensation becomes overwhelming, and Aragorn glances over his shoulder.

Nothing. Just an empty forest.

Aragorn returns his attention forward, stepping cautiously, closing in on the spot where he and Wess will meet. That sensation creeps back in, this time like two icy hands sliding over his shoulders in a cold embrace. As he exhales, his breath fogs, the air around him chilling suddenly.

Anxiousness becomes his companion, and Aragorn's feet quicken across the bramble. He circles to the other side, and Wess does not meet him.

Frowning, Aragorn straightens his legs and observes the surrounding area. There are no birds, no bugs, no sounds. Aragorn circles the small clearing, but Wess is nowhere. He studies the ground, hand hovering over the dirt and still, there is no trace of the man.

Not even footprints.

"Wess," whispers Aragorn, turning slowly. His companion does not answer. "Wess," repeats Aragorn, raising his voice.

Wess does not reply, nor does the man appear before Aragorn. The forest is silent and the statues remain solemn observers. Aragorn searches the area, inspecting the ground, only to find absence.

It is as if Wess never existed.

The icy embrace tightens to the point of suffocation. Aragorn's ribcage aches, the bones burning as if under immense pressure. He swings his sword, expecting to make contact with whatever has hold of him, but he only meets empty air.

The world darkens, consciousness slipping. He doesn't remember falling, only that the hard ground cradles his head as he stares up at the dark canopy. He cannot see the sky at all as if the trees have suddenly grown larger in the last few minutes, blotting out the grey clouds.

Drifting. And empty.

Empty.

And—

"Ranger," comes a feminine voice.

He knows that voice. He's met the woman it belongs to.

"Ranger."

Aragorn tilts his head to the side, and you appear in the dark like a candle. Your face is the last thing he sees before he slips into oblivion.

A warm dampness rests against Aragorn's brow. His eyelids blink slowly, chasing away the endless dark. Above him is a wooden ceiling. The wood warps slightly, as if his vision isn't completely clear.

"He is awake."

He knows that voice. It is your voice. The local Lord’s daughter who has taken the responsibility of everyone on your shoulders. Only a few words passed between the two of you and yet your voice is a soothing thing to him, coaxing him away from the dark.

Aragorn's head tilts in the direction of the sound. You lean against the edge of the bed, staring down at him. You smile softly and then glance away to the opposite side of the bed.

"I will shepherd him."

This voice is masculine and Aragorn does not entirely recognize it. His neck aches as he turns it, only to find a male elf with dark hair and grey eyes. Aragorn recognizes him and yet cannot place his name. It slips away from Aragorn every time he tries to reach for it.

"I am to take you home."

Home.

There are two other elves in the room that stand near the door. They watch on passively. One is a spitting image of the elf at his bedside. Twins. He knows them. Somehow.

Home. Imaldris.

That is the only explanation.

Sleep seizes him moments later, pushing Aragorn under, only to awaken in a place he hasn’t seen for several years.

He blinks, eyes burning slightly as the remanent of sleep recedes.

“Lord Elrond,” rasps Aragorn. He tries to sit up, and winces.

Elrond shakes his head and lightly places his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “Rest. Do not push yourself.”

"Wes—”

Elrond gives his shoulder a light squeeze. “There is someone here to see you.”

An old man with a generous beard and grey robes enters. There is no staff or pointy hat. Just a familiar, welcoming presence.

“Gandalf,” breathes Aragorn, some of his energy returning.

“I hope your journey was successful?”

Aragorn grimaces. “I wish I had something to tell you.”

“You’re looking much better than you were before,” says Gandalf, stepping around to the other side of the bed.

“Not unconscious?” counters Aragorn, and the wizard smiles.

“How are you feeling?”

He takes stalk of himself. Other than some aches, he otherwise feels normal and unharmed.

“Just a bit of needed rest then.”

Aragorn glances at Elrond. “You sent help.”

Elrond frowns slightly. “I foresaw a possibility.” He inclines his head. “I am glad that I did.”

“What of the village? And…Wes?”

Elrond and Gandalf exchange a glance. Gandalf sighs, face grim. “The village is empty.”

“I sent a small team to return, but they said they found no one.”

“Then I have failed in my mission.”

“No,” says Gandalf. “You did not. We know more than we did before.”

“A darkness grows,” adds Elrond. “The time of the Elves has passed.”

Gandalf glances at Lord Elrond briefly before returning his attention to Aragorn. “I am need of your tracking, friend.”

Strength is returning to Aragorn with every second that passes. The ache is dull and distance, nearly an old memory.

“I need you to depart to the Shire. I need you and your Rangers to stand guard there. Whoever you can spare. There are some…hobbits I need looked after.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @glitterypirateduck @foxxy-126

@km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath @ferns-fics

@ninman82 @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @chaostwinsofdestruction

@weasleytwins-41 @thewulf @firelightinferno @protosslady

[skyward-floored]

Dawn part 4 analysis, here we go! At it again with my ramblings.

Starting off with THE GLORIOUS RETURN OF THE MAILMAN! The moment I saw the flag I was like :O HE’S BACK!!!

(I also got the blue’s clues mail song stuck in my head)

Hey look, it’s Warriors’ money! And the inkeeper who’s happily admiring the ridiculous amount of rupees Warriors now does not own!

Rip Warriors’ money. It will be dearly missed.

Also no vacancy?? I mean, it’s possible there’s other people staying there, or it’s just a small inn, but... it kinda looks like Warriors literally bought every available room there was. Mad lad.

I (like everybody else lol) took a crack at figuring out who’s signature was who’s, based on their respective game’s Hylian texts/scripts, order of when they got there, and the OG tags on the comic. So here’s my best guesses—

1. Time is first, which makes sense based on him being the one to take Twilight to the inn

2. Hyrule appears to be next— his games don’t have a written script, but the hylian here is close to Legend’s, so I’m assuming it’s his, based on the fact that he was part of the next group to get to the inn.

3. Four is who I’m least sure about I’ll admit, but seeing as how he came with Hyrule, (and he’s the only Link left I couldn’t identify at all), I’m assuming it’s his.

4. Warriors we know for sure, since the tags say this signature is his. He gets a shout out for being the only Link who can actually write in the lines.

5. Wind seems to be next, as his hylian is very close to what’s here (his signature partially obscures Warriors’ XD)

6. Legend is who I’m going with for this one, but I’ll admit it could be Wild’s since their script is pretty darn close. But once again, based on when they all got to the inn, Legend would make the most sense to be here.

7. Sky is definitely here. His hylian is very unique compared to the others (I think it’s my favorite)

8. Wild is probably next, but same case as Legend, they could be swapped. But once again, probably not, since Wild was the last to get inside.

9. Twilight bringing up the rear! His hylian is unmistakable, and it makes sense that he’d mark his name last. I don’t think he could handle it until he woke up that morning, though I do wonder which arm he wrote it with...

(Rip Mr. Mailman in trying to figure all this out)

Moving on!

It’s gotta be close to mid-morning by now based on the light, but Sky obviously does not handle waking up at dawn well. It’ll be interesting to see if he stays sleepy during the rest of this arc, or if he'll wake up a bit.

(Side note, Sky looks so soft and fluffy here, I want to hug him)

Sky is so relatable in this update, he’s got some serious “I have no idea what’s going on” vibes. That first one he's got such a deer in the headlights look XD

The mailman is just like “you! I’ve been looking for you! Great to see you!” and Sky’s just “I have never met this man in my life” (probably forgot he actually did see him once (because he’s sleepy))

Four letters, all different languages and dialects... I’m guessing at least one Zelda based on the seal on that blue letter (it seems fancier to me), but I don’t know about the rest. I would guess Malon for one, and maybe another Zelda? Warriors or Wild or Four’s Zelda maybe? Maybe Twilight got a letter from someone in Ordon, or the Resistance!

Only thing I do know is that there’s probably not one for Sky, since he wasn’t immediately like “letter for me! :D”

Four trying to do something nice and fix Wild’s sword and this guy just laughs at him, rude 😤 At least he didn’t make a short joke, which was honestly what I was expecting. I mean I get knowing that your equipment won’t be enough for the job, but sheesh.

(Also the blacksmith’s goggles look a bit like Gondo’s in skyward sword’s, plus the ones the rescue knights wear, thought that was interesting).

(Cool pose mode: engaged)

I love this panel!! They all decided to follow Four and help him out just like they did last time, fix the sword and get Wild a good, reliable weapon.

I’ve also never noticed how similar these guy’s hair looks before, especially Warriors and Hyrule’s— if Rulie’s hair was a little shorter and blonde, it would be pretty near identical. Very interesting...

(Plus Wind has the funniest expression, he's so cute)

We interrupt this rambly analysis to bring you a brief moment of me yelling about Warriors' smile ABHDGFSFKHSBBG LOOK AT HIM that stupid cocky grin and the way he's rolling up his sleeve I'm *swoon*

Four absolutely losing it over Warriors’ jab about teamwork is SO funny, Captain you have no idea how good your joke was. (also Four, bud, you good? Little hysterical there pal)

Also he looks so happy!!! Compare that to any of the faces he was making the night before, he's doing so much better. I’m so glad he’s happy and smiling now, even if it was just at a dumb joke :)

I don’t even have anything to say about this panel. Just look at it. Glorious.

And one last thing...

MULTILINGUAL WARRIORS HOLY CROW that's such a cool trait to give him, I am in love with it now that's awesome.

An amazing update as always, it was fantastic all around <3

[nayru-s-clay-tablet]

Comic Retrospective: Ghost Inn

What is it about?

Ghost Inn, to the surprise of absolutely no one, is about a haunted inn. One could also say it's about man's inhumanity to man, specifically regarding these two idiots:

When writing any comic, long or short, a key thing is to identify your main focus -- is it a message, a theme, a setting? Triforce of Power as a whole is about Ganondorf and Link (a buddy comedy of sorts), so every side comic needs to do something with them, like:

Exploring an aspect of their personalities

Looking at something new about them (while still staying in-character)

Playing with their weird dynamic

In this case, it was about how their lines of communication break down when faced with bizarre stressors. Like a ghost inn.

Main characters turning on each other, in a true horror story, would be played for horror. Here it is played for comedy. (And winds up being a little heartwarming in the end... kinda.)

Where did the idea come from?

If ideas are hard to come by, I sometimes take two topics, mash them together, and go from there. In this case, the two ideas were:

The creepy woodcutter couple in Okami:

2. And the toilet ghost from Zelda games like Majora's Mask and Skyward Sword:

I just needed a setting in which both a creepy couple and ghost would be together. Hence, the inn!

But something interesting needs to happen regarding Ganondorf and Link, specifically. Which led to the question:

"How would each of them respond to a toilet ghost?"

And the story just kind of wrote itself from there.

Not all character-focused stories need to be about two characters that are so different -- but it does make it really easy to find points of conflict that can propel a story forward in an organic way.

Favorite things about it?

The entire comic being black, white, and red. It was so much fun to do and presented an interesting challenge, especially when it came to Ganondorf's magic.

It also has some of my favorite jokes -- not just for the bonus comics, but for everything ToP-related (including the entire main comic).

Would I make it again?

Basically, if I had the idea but had not completed the comic when I did... would I still make it, knowing what the outcome would be?

Yes. Definitely. Absolutely!

...Also, while rereading it for this post, this part stood out:

^ So, the info about roasted dead people being followed by Link saying he got a lot of free food is....... something I never noticed before.....

But is this story canon?

It could be. There's nothing in it that contradicts the main story, and there are a couple points in the storyline where it could fit. This is up to the reader, I think!

But it is canon in my heart ❤️🤍🖤

[dragon-ascent]

Mora For Your Thoughts?

Zhongli is always interested in what you have to say, no matter what it is.

★彡penny for your thoughts, zhongli edition.

"Mora for your thoughts?"

You smile up at your husband, whose question has pulled you out of your midday reverie. Zhongli sets the tea tray he’s been holding on the table, settles beside you on the couch with a tender smile and kisses your cheek, eagerly awaiting your answer.

"Well," you begin, "I was wondering why cats get nine lives, but dogs don't."

Zhongli rubs his chin thoughtfully. "A fascinating question. In fact, I seem to recall a story from centuries past that tells the story of a cat and his dog companion, and how they once compete for immortality." He pauses, knowing that the story will take all evening to narrate - which he will only do if you're fine with it.

You rest your head on his shoulder, knowing full well that any story from Zhongli's internal archives is bound to be a treat. "Go on." There is tea, and there is time.

******

"Mora for your thoughts?"

Sitting by the windowsill, you keep your gaze upon the clear sapphire sky up above. "I was just wondering what it would feel like to soar in the sky, unfettered by the troubles of the world below."

Zhongli hums. "If I weren't living strictly as a mortal, I would love to let you ride on my back across the skies."

You turn to him, a big smile on your face. "Wow, really? In your dragon form?"

"Of course, dearest. Though I doubt that would be possible at present, but perhaps one day." He, too, now looks up into the blue, blue sky.

You shake your head. "It's the thought that counts! Just imagining it makes my heart race! I've always wanted to ride you - I...I mean ride on your back while you're in dragon form..."

Zhongli throws his head back and laughs, a pleasant, rumbling baritone that never fails to make butterflies erupt within you. With golden eyes full of mirth, he says, "For now, I shall regale you with descriptions of the sky and clouds from my own experiences. Would you like that?"

"Yes please! Tell me all there is to see and experience alongside the loftiest birds!"

And thus, your husband kisses your forehead and begins to narrate his skyward anecdotes, each description more vivid than the last, until it feels like you are up there in the skies atop a draconic Zhongli, feeling the wind race across your face and the clouds split into tendrils like cotton.

******

You narrow your eyes down at the book you're reading, utterly displeased with the direction the author's taking. Though you suppose it's to be expected of a run-of-the-mill romance... still, you sigh and look up from the novel, finding Zhongli's own inquisitive gaze upon you. He is reading a book as well, but for now chooses instead to focus on his beloved.

"Mora for your thoughts?"

You smile at the fondly familiar question. "I just find it frustrating how, in the novel I'm reading, the main character is more attracted to the man with anger issues and a drinking problem, rather than the level-headed and genuinely kind man."

"Ah, a case of second-lead syndrome, hm?"

"Yup," you affirm, and then sigh again, "it wouldn't be so bad if the romance scenes were at least well-written. None of them seem romantically-charged at all. It's frustrating. There's so many things the author could have done..."

"Is that so?" Zhongli sets aside his book, his eyes carefully trained on you. "Have you any suggestions?"

It's an innocuous question, so you answer without hesitating. "They could've had a scene where they were pressed together in a tight space, or had to share a single bed at a busy inn...and their kissing scenes are drier than the Desert of Hadramaveth! I would've liked it if their kisses had both passion and tenderness."

A soft chuckle, and Zhongli is now cupping your cheek. You lean into his touch contentedly as his thumb draws soothing circles along your cheek. "Shall we enact your romantic fantasies and make them a reality?"

Saying this, your husband kisses you, equal parts tender and passionate. What follows makes sure you know firsthand that what you two have is miles more powerful than words in the pages of a book.

[adrift-in-thyme]

@skyward-floored I know you’ve been sick all week so I wrote you a little something to help cheer you up. It’s short and probably not wonderfully edited but I hope you get some joy from it anyway :)

——————————

“Up and at ‘em Captain!” Legend calls as he stomps down the hall. “The day’s wasting away!”

The sun is already high in the sky. The other heroes are already dressed and packed and well into eating their breakfast. Yet, the captain is still snoozing away, snug as a bug beneath his blankets.

Must be nice being able to sleep through all that ruckus, Legend thinks, grumpily.

Though, now that he ponders it, it is rather unlike Warriors to slumber on like this. Usually, he is one of the first to awaken. By the time anyone else rises, he is already washed and dressed and looking entirely too well-kept for someone who catapulted out of bed before even the sun dared peek over the horizon.

A small shred of worry worms its way past Legend’s careful defenses. But he pushes it aside as he steps into the doorway.

“Hey, pretty boy! Did you hear me?”

By all appearances, the bed is occupied solely by blankets. And save for a few sniffles, their occupant remains steadfastly silent. Frowning, Legend steps closer.

“Warriors? You alive in there?”

“Mmph,” groan the blankets.

Legend grasps the nearest edge and flings them off. A very miserable-looking Warriors blinks up at him.

“Vet?”

Legend winces. His voice is painfully hoarse. Speaking must be agonizing.

His eyes are glossy too, he sees now, and his cheeks unnaturally flushed. A layer of sweat coats his forehead and drags down his curls. When he pushes himself upward, the movement is accompanied by a violent shudder that nearly lands him back on the bed.

The captain presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, is it time to get up? I-I didn’t realize…”

He trails off, blinking into the rays of sunlight that waft through the blinds. Panic streaks across his face.

“I overslept.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Legend puts a hand to his chest, pushing him back as he tries to get out of bed. He shivers beneath his touch, breath hitching.

“And it’s no wonder that you did. You look like crap, Wars. How long have you been sick?”

Warriors swallows, cringing as he does it.

“Don’t know.” He shrugs, weakly. “I haven’t felt well all week but I thought…I thought I was fine.”

His eyes widen.

“I’m gonna get everyone sick!”

“Well, yeah, probably. But we’ll be fine.”

Legend presses the palm of his hand to Warriors’ head, ignoring his weak attempts to shove him off.

“You’re burning up, captain. Lie back down.”

“But we-we need to get going…” Warriors looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading. “We were so close to the…we were so close…”

Legend sighs. “The monsters can wait. You need to rest.”

“Is everything alright in here?”

Time peeks around the door, now, a concerned expression on his face. When he catches sight of Warriors it deepens. In two strides, he is within the room.

“Captain, are you well?”

“He’s definitely not,” Legend says before Warriors can try and make excuses. “He’s sick as a dog.”

Time places a hand on Warriors’ forehead, then retracts it, a frown darkening his features.

“We will stay in the inn today. You must rest.”

“But Sprite…” Warriors begins. Time shakes his head.

“I’ll hear no arguments from the very man who forcibly snuggled me until I slept as a child.”

Legend snorts. “He did what?”

Time only smiles, his attention still on Warriors.

“Pushing on will only make you worse, captain. You would be the first to pause the journey if one of us were in your place. Let us take care of you.”

“Fine.” Warriors slouches, defeated. “Why’re you two so stubborn?”

Legend grins.

“You think we’re bad? Just wait until you see the others.” He winks. “Lemme go get ‘em.”

As he turns on his heel, Legend sees Warriors sink further into the bed. His grin grows wider.

Get comforted, captain.

Less than half of an hour later, the bedroom is swarmed by eight heroes, all armed with illness-fighting supplies. Sky and Wild, come bearing warm soup.

(“It’s the best for a sore throat,” Sky says with a smile and Wild nods, “yup, I cooked a big batch too, so you’ll have plenty of it.”)

Hyrule offers healing potions. Wind and Four bring armfuls of blankets.

(“Did you two raid every house in Castle Town?” Time asks in disbelief as he takes the small heroes’ bundles. Wind grins.)

(“Basically.”)

Twilight brings fresh water from the spring just outside of town, said to have healing properties…and also a stray cat to keep the captain company.

(“You sure that’s for his benefit?” Legend asks, narrowing his eyes as the rancher sets the animal on Warriors’ lap. Twilight just grins.)

Soon, Warriors is lying down once more, wrapped snugly in what Wind dubs a “blanket burrito,” with a belly full of soup and a cat on his legs.

Time brushes his bangs out of his eyes and places a cool cloth on his forehead. Warriors sighs at the touch.

“Are you feeling a little better now?” Wind asks, eyes wide with concern. Oblivious to the captain’s warnings about germs, he has managed to fit himself in between the eternal blankets and the cat, cuddled against Warriors’ side.

Not that the knight seems to mind overly much, now that all is said and done. And as he settles on the end of the bed, Legend can’t help thinking he looks glad to have the company.

Warriors nods, eyes drooping.

“Yeah, I’m better, sailor.” He sends the heroes a tired grin. “Thanks to all of you.” His gaze flicks to Legend. “Especially, you vet.”

Legend’s cheeks heat and he looks down, waving a dismissive hand.

“Ah, no big deal. I’m not so mean as to let you die in here all alone and snotty and miserable.”

Warriors chuckles and closes his eyes. “So, you decided to suffocate me with blankets instead?”

Legend shrugs, a grin playing on his lips. “What can I say? I’m merciful.”

The blankets in question look rather comfortable and he decides to lay down upon them. He’s not the only one either. All of the heroes have drifted over now, cuddling up on a bed not made for nine men and boys. But they make do. And Warriors seems to melt in their embrace.

Legend smiles at the peaceful look on the captain’s face as he drifts off. He guesses even someone like the pretty boy needs a break once in a while. And — he chuckles as Wind and the cat compete for space — some snuggles too.

[drgnrder82]

Fictober (belated) Day 4 - Scallywag

Summary: Asher (again) is not happy following Seren as she embarks on a new stupid plan.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1018

Original Fiction

Based on characters from my fantasy WIP Triton's Sanctuary.

Prompt - "No, we're not doing that."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“He will murder you. As in kill you before you utter a solitary word,” Asher whispered urgently. He felt them. Salty, drunken, vicious eyes followed them. The sneering men waiting with knives—or hooks! What if they have hooks concealed?—ready to tear their innards from their skin…

“You’re being dramatic. I’m just here to talk with the man.” 

That tone never meant Seren was just going to talk with someone. “Stormeye,” Asher swallowed and nodded at a scraggly-haired man, false eye somehow peering straight into Asher’s terrified soul as they passed by. “He won’t go easy on ya. You’re nothing—no, less than nothing. Less the dirt and worms… and… he’s not going to talk with you! You’re not one to just ‘talk’ anyway! No! We’re not doing that! We are turning around now and getting out of here ALIVE!”

They’d entered the Seafarer’s Fortune during the dinner rush. Asher’s mom told the tale that when Red took over the Seafarer’s Fortune, he’d not wanted the hassle of keeping an inn, and he’d let his friends, all the worst of the worst pirates, pilfer the rooms and tear them apart. The ceiling swept skyward, laden with nets and bits and bobs from ships amid the last debris of the former inn rooms. A piece of a mast, a crow’s nest, torn sails. It felt like living in a ship on land. And it would be far cooler to see in person was death not waiting upon the next words Seren uttered.

And here Seren was, walking through a proverbial sea of scoundrels and scallywags in her finest frock, feather bouncing in time with her rushed step. 

Asher hadn’t meant to fall behind, but he had. Fingers grazed his pants near the pocket, and he slapped a hand over the pocket to keep it closed. Pickpockets were everywhere, but a bar catering to the rogues of the world? Putting on his best glower, a young corsair grinned mischievously back. Asher and the young man both tugged at Asher’s pocket. Once free, though, Asher found Seren had called out, “Two ales.” 

Before Asher could make it even another step, she’d struck up a chat with Red, complete with friendly banter and giggles while Asher elbowed his way through, earning at least one foul-tempered grab at his arm. “Blimey,” he complained.

“Oy! Ya spilt me ale and runnin’ runt? Ain’t got no backbone, do ya, you scurvy runt!” 

And there was the other problem of walking into a bar full of the dregs of society. 

“Didn’t realize spilling ale was a capital offense…” 

Carrying two brimming mugs, Seren gracefully kicked out the stool from under the man, grabbing Asher without spilling a drop of ale. “Oy! Hands to yerself.”

“Oh, don’t tell me.” Asher sighed. “You’re gonna drink, too?” 

The man who’d lashed out, grabbing Asher when all he’d done was innocently bump the man’s back, jabbered silently for a moment before mumbling, “You wit her?”

Inexplicably, the man cast his gaze away from Seren’s and he froze on the floor.

“You really ought to,” Seren offered one of the mugs to Asher, ignoring the bumbling man on the floor. “Calm yer nerves, why don’t ya?” 

Asher shook violently, seething. “I have a right mind to leave you here.” 

“Alright,” Seren grinned, taking a swig. “Ah, there’s the man I need now!” 

“Oh, for the love of the sea…” Asher groaned, turning to see Bram ‘Stormeye’ Vane telling some tale to a rapt group of seadogs. “Just go home, Asher. You’re being too dramatic, Asher. Fine! I’m being dramatic. Let’s see you get the business end of a rapier in your face, Seren!” The man who’d tried to pick Asher’s pocket stared wide-eyed back at him. “What?” 

“That bit o’ coin you got is yours. You’ll need it sooner rather than later.” 

“Eh, Stormeye!” Seren shouted over the dinner rush, cutting the hustle and bustle down just as effectively as Seren cut through the crowd of dogs. Pausing, Seren took a long swig of her mug, then held the other out for Bram. 

Straightening his collar, Bram stood from his stool, pulling out a charming, if slightly rotting, smile. “Aye, miss. Did ya bring a gift fo’ me?” 

Seren’s eyebrows raised higher, a grin hiding behind the way she gulped down the ale. Finally, she lowered the mug and graciously said, “I did.” 

The entire bar stilled, all eyes flicking between Seren and Stormeye, like sharks circling their prey. 

Before Stormeye could take the mug, Seren threw its contents at him. Then came the crack. Seren smacked him with the mug, knocking Bram ‘Stormeye’ Vane into a bleeding heap. The seadogs scattered to the edges of the Fortune, eyes aglow, waiting to see what happened next. “Get up, ya scurvy, rat… and try explaining to me what you did to Miss Runa.” 

“Eh, Ser,” Red called from the bar. “You owe me another coin for the mug if ya break it!” 

“Noted!” Seren said, dropping the empty mug with a thud on Stormeye’s face, then took herself down to one knee, digging it into the man’s chest. Bram ‘Stormeye’ Vane, the scourge of the Dilah Sea, former second in command of Red’s fleet ship, The Bloodstained Horizon, let out a piercing wail and clutched his red-streaked face. 

“Why ain’t anyone beating on her?” Asher moaned.

“She’s yer friend, ain’t she?” the scallywag, who’d been ready to beat Asher for bumping him, balked. “You know how crazy she is.” 

“Your bloody pirates! And you’re scared of her?” 

The man—and so Asher too—glanced back at Red standing idly at the bar, drying a clean mug. Questions formed, but at the same time, Asher feared plausible deniability may be the better tactic should Admiral Minuit question him. “Tell Seren I’ll be outside when she’s done.” 

“Now,” Seren’s voice clearly carried across the whole bar. “Tell me, what you did to Miss Runa. Before I’m forced to jog your memory.” 

“What’s the worst that could happen, being friends with little Seren Minuit,” Asher mimicked his mother’s tone. “She’d never bloody believe me.”

[mysterious-prophetess]

TIL that Skyloft was potentially going to be in TotK.

Kind of wish it was. I'm not as fond of Skyward Sword as I am Twilight Princess or Ocarina of Time, but despite everything, I have a soft spot for it, and being up in the sky, I would have liked even to see the Lumpy Pumpkin Inn Island instead if it was a size thing.

Though, don't even get me started on how empty the Depths were.

[planet4546b]

i really like it when you start a book and immediately grab onto it with both hands

[karaloza]

Legend of Zelda Theme Park - Skyward Realm (UPDATED)

The Skyward Realm was a later addition to my theme park concept (much like how fully explorable airborne environments didn’t become a thing until relatively recently in the franchise). It obviously draws inspiration from Skyward Sword and the sky islands of Tears of the Kingdom, but you can also meet the Rito here, and elements from a few of the LoZ series’ sky-themed dungeons are used for flavor.

Strikingly, the area is built to a much higher elevation than the rest of the park–it sits atop a structure as much as 100 feet tall (which doubles as a show building for a few rides). The edges of the structure are covered in artificial clouds to emphasize the “skyborne” nature of the area, and the buildings are decorated with colorful pinwheels and flags to catch the breeze. (Some of the larger ones are marked on the map with asterisks.) Only a small strip of the area’s footprint is at ground level, to contain the entrances and/or exits of the escalators, elevators, and rides that make the Skyward Realm accessible. A peaceful music loop of tunes associated with aerial environments, the Rito, and flight scenarios plays throughout the area.

Attractions

Ancient Cannon: The queue and loading area for this ride are actually at ground level, because the point is to be a more exciting means of traveling to the Skyward Realm. A powerful magnetic launch sends guests shooting up a steep slope to the upper level, where they disembark; the car then reverses gently down the track for the next bunch.

Sailcloth Plunge: By the same token, those looking to return to ground level might take this ride, a simple parachute drop.

Flight Range: One of the most technologically sophisticated rides in the park, this one combines arm-mounted vehicles with 3D screen effects and “virtual” bows and arrows so guests can test their archery skills at Revali’s own target-shooting range!

Landing Platform: A meet-and-greet for Rito characters (Revali, Kass, Medli, Tulin), who actually “soar” in from a nearby tower (via zipline) when they’re ready for the guests!

Wing Ceremony: Echoing Universal’s Dueling Dragons, this relatively gentle suspended coaster features two interweaving tracks and red and blue cars with a Loftwing motif.The track actually extends over the edge of the Skyward Realm for a sensation of true flight!

Astral Observatory: Officially the highest point in Hyrule, this mysterious tower contains many beautiful star charts, astronomical instruments, and other details to peruse while enjoying a mystical music playlist and waiting your turn to peer through one of the telescopes for an unparalleled (and AR-enhanced) view of the kingdom.

Eagus’s Sword Academy: Kids 12 and under receive foam swords and instruction in a variety of sword moves from none other than Eagus, the swordmaster of the Skyloft Knights Academy! Up to four “lessons” (shows) a day.

Shops

8. Oocca Pod Shop: Named for the odd little shop in the City in the Sky in Twilight Princess, this shop offers a variety of kites, gliders, and other airborne toys (but please don’t throw them off the edge of the Realm).

9. Brazen Beak Plumage Boutique: Named after the Rito Village clothing store in Breath of the Wild and providing much the same function here—souvenir clothing and feathered accessories such as headbands, hair clips, cockades, and costume wings.

Eateries

10. The Lumpy Pumpkin: Based on the inn of the same name from Skyward Sword, this buffet restaurant serves home-style food with pumpkin specialties.

11. Light Lunches: Heavy meals won't do for flying creatures, so this counter service restaurant offers a variety of prepackaged salads, fruit bowls, flaky pastries, and fluffy mousse desserts, for adventurers who don't want to be weighed down.

12. Luv & Bertie's Enhanced Elixirs: Another beverage location in the vein of the Potion Hut, this one themed to the potion-making couple from Skyward Sword.

Miscellaneous

Like Epona Ranch, the Skyward Realm has no Spirit Train station of its own. It is readily accessed from the one attached to Zora’s Domain (pictured, but not labeled).

The three pearl-like icons indicate the locations of Zonai Device Dispensers as described in this post.

[mxdotpng]

i saw someone argue the other day that majoras mask isnt one of zeldas strongest stories entirely because the meat of the game lies in side quests. and its like. i dont know what to tell you. the side quests ARE the main story. to fully enjoy majoras mask you have to play the side quests. ironically enough, majoras mask wants you to take your time with it. it isnt meant to be rushed through like ocarina of time or skyward sword. its the one title in the series where the entire game has meaning. every single quest and dialogue and character has meaning. on the night of the third day, cremia tells you that she'll see you tomorrow. she gave romani something to sleep peacefully through the night, so she may not feel fear. she knows neither of them will wake the next day. anju waits alone in her bedroom in her wedding dress, on the night before her wedding, in hopes her missing fiance will find her before its too late. she does not flee, because this is the only place kafei will know to find her. there is a baby goron who is so hungry, he can't stop crying. sing him a lullaby, and all will be well. the deku butler aids you not only because he believes in your story, but because you look like his dead son, and he cannot imagine leaving you to fight without any help. the guards beg for you to flee the town, but they themselves stay, because if they can save you, then what are the odds someone else needs a guide, too? deep in the canyon, there is a little girl desperately trying to save her father, even though she is alone, because he is all she has. the old lady at the inn wishes to tell you a story, wont you sit and listen? and though the worlds end is wrought by his own hands, the skull kid did not want this. you saw the drawing in that tree stump, didnt you? hes so alone. everyone in this town is so alone. you're meant to give them company, and to know their sorrows. the world resets in three days, and only you will remember what it is you saw, but trying to spare them their grief matters, anyway. the world may have lost its proof that you were there, but you have not. its stuck with you, forever.

[figkeele]

during the last two days, I finished reading 3 books.* my eyeballs feel like jelly, but my brain is so refreshed.

now maybe I can start editing this long-ass fic again. 😭😭😭

(*The Hobbit, Skyward Inn, and What Lies in the Woods if anyone's interested)