#soaring cartographer

[aurelion-solar]

Legends of Runeterra: Dreamlit Paths Brynhir Thundersong - Eager Dedicant - Kharox - Empire Reconstructor - Soaring Cartographer - Yeti Handler - Dragonsong Dreamer - Ultrasoft Poro - Stormcarved Spire

[queers-gambit]

The Battle Above the God’s Eye

part one: Sands of Time

prompt: decades after the Stepstones, it's his turn to be rescued.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 6.3k+

note: i'm not the happiest with this piece, so i'll most definitely (probably) write an alternative when the time comes and the show does the Battle. y'all know me by now, you know i love me a good ol' reader-insert and i didn't want to wait years to publish some kind of sequel so here we are.

warnings: reader isn't explicitly a Targaryen but we had to make this work and i'm burnt the fuck out. so fuck it, dragon rider reader. cursing, books spoilers, violence, imagination required, maybe Red Priestess reader, mention of more Little Birds (let author live), toxic family (duh), heavily encouraged imagination, depictions of death, angst, some hurt and comfort i think ? missing warnings 'cause wonky brain goin' wonky.

"There's rumor, Mistress, of a dragon the color of night," the hooded figure informed. "It nests in the Ruins of Ancient Valyria, seen by farmers and countryfolk; they say his wings beat like thunder. It's a colossal shadow they fear to engage, but after hearing your ransom, they reported it."

You hummed as you took a sip of scalding tea, finding comfort in the heat, musing, "I've been to the Ruins myself on two seperate excursions, I promise you, friend, there is no dragon that nests there."

"It's come from the East, a new beast in the sky."

"I require proof if I am to pay the ransom."

The man with a hood over his head reached for his rucksack and rummaged, a moment later, placing two items on the polished mahogany table between you both. One was unmistakably a dragon's tooth, and when you examined it, there was still clotted blood on the root - assuring it was a fresh pull. The second was a large black scale that weighed at least a dagger's worth.

You smirked, "This is promising. Where in the Ruins has it been seen? Who procured these artifacts?"

You discussed specifics with the man for an hour, offering him a hefty finder's fee after getting the name of the village the man had gathered his own information from. It was a messy journey from there; leaving the home you had made in the decades since the Stepstones to head for what was probably another dead end in Ancient Valyria. You were something akin to a magistrate, the people saw you as a figurehead, a leader; their person of authority who they were all too happy to follow.

Your village flourished, growing in size, number, popularity, and strength by the passing day. The people seemed happy, wealth flowing from exports and trade, and apparently, a few cartographers have begun the process of updating a few maps to add your village's name to history.

Much had changed in your time away from your Rogue Dragon Prince, but you knew that was all coming to an end soon. Your Lord of Light had shown you much in your flames, one of which was a repeating image of you, mounted atop a dragon all your own, soaring over the Narrow Sea with distinct purpose. You weren't a Targaryen, but your religious devotion seemingly gave you the ability to walk amongst beasts and their flames.

Exploring Ancient Valyria took over a year on foot.

You had plenty of encounters with the Stone Men, but all met their merciful demise - those left after that steered clear of you and your Valyrian Steel sword. Around the ruins of the ancient volcano that hadn't erupted since The Doom, you found a graveyard of goat, sheep, and cattle bones. There were bigger skeletons of aquatic creatures, something you found incredibly fascinating - what fully grown dragon went deep diving?

Soon, you found scat. For those who don't spend time in the wilderness or who are simply unfamiliar with the term, "scat" refers to waste produced by wild animals. Yeah, you're reading correctly, after you found the plethora of skeletons, you found dragon shit.

So, you knew you were closer than before. But the fucker still alluded you to the point you felt insane circling the Ruins.

You located about three different potential caverns, investigating them all with caution, but finding them all empty. Feeling exhausted from the months of searching, you claimed one of the caves as your own; hunting for a meal after gathering adequate fire wood. You listened to the untamed wilds of Valyria as you ate whatever you roasted, trying to distinguish familiar sounds of an approaching dragon.

Or perhaps even a distant one!

You'd take any sign!

It'd been weeks since you found the dragon droppings, no other signs appearing. You would search new areas for days, then return to your cave for rest; feeling disconnected from reality the longer you lingered in the ruined empire. You wondering what your village was doing, you were curious if the young woman, Ferona, had a baby boy or girl, if they had erected the new buildings you left blueprints for in an effort to create opportunist housing and houses of worship - as your people had requested.

How did the krill and shrimp season fair? What weddings happened this past spring? How was the irrigation system holding up?

Weeks drug by slowly. Weeks turned to longer months. Two years, you spent in that Gods forsaken ruin of a city - but couldn't find it in you to abandon your search.

Your Lord of Light had yet to send word, yet set your heart ablaze every time you "decided" to go home. You stared into the flames every night, desperate for any indication you were on the right path, but nothing was seen - nothing was said - nothing was shown to you. Until one night, during a torrential downpour and thunderous storm, you were shivering, drenched to your core, fighting the wind to let you keep your flames alive.

And there, in the dying, flickering warmth, you saw it. With wide, unblinking eyes, you stared into the flames harder; unsure how long you remained in the tranquil state before a particularly strong gust of wind nearly pushed you face-first into the embers. You gasped, looking around as the smoke nearly choked you as it filled the cave; stumbling out into the rain as you coughed and patted your chest. Stumbling slightly from malnourishment and delirium, you leaned on the outer shell of your "home", panting with relief before there came a screech so fearsome, you were then cowering into the wall with fear.

You dropped to your knees, huddled into the rock formation; the ground trembling as something enormous touched down. You gasped when through the haze of sideways rain, two nostrils flared and heaved thick plumes of smoke; reddened from the ignited flames deep within an invisible chest. You flattened against the wall, four taloned paws striking the ground and causing it to crack, quake, and tremble. With the fleeting clouds, you used the moon's light to distinguish the beast that loomed closer to you; over you; and then, in your face.

A long, blackened snout nearly pressed into your chest; fabric of your tunic caught in the razor sharp teeth. You had faced death, you had faced beasts, you had faced hacking axes and swinging swords. You had faced the wrath of the Queen Alysanne's court, the rumors of the common folk, and judgment from both man and God. But nothing was like this moment: a wild dragon staring you down, sniffing your chest and stomach, debating if it should just open it's mouth and eat you whole yet or not.

Thankfully, it chose an alternative route.

You're not fully sure how it happened, but you dedicated two years to finding this terrible beasty, and yet, it only took about 6 weeks to bond with the (obviously) young thing. Time with your Dragon Prince proved most useful, creating a bond so secure, you were beginning to wonder if someone deep in your bloodline had mated with a Targaryen. It was natural, the way you both became accustomed to one another; living together on a carbon-dated land long doomed.

The lessons from Daemon came flying back to you. You practiced your High Valyrian, laughing when you obviously got a word or two wrong because the dragon would snort at you. In the light, she was still the color of the night, but her scales were dusted the same gold as her eyes. She was impressive, she was huge in size but nowhere near Vhagar. In fact, you'd wager she had outgrew Caraxes - the only dragon you had true experience with.

Speaking of Caraxes, you were on the shores of Old Valyria, debating how you were going to convince your new companion to join you back "home" in the village, when suddenly, your beast gave a defensive growl.

Looking to the skyline, you spotted the distant dragon and frowned. This dragon wasn't the color of flames like Caraxes was, no, instead, it was a murky blob in the sky with two wings. You offered calming words to your dragon in her native language, not sensing danger, but your beast was unhappy leaving you in the open. Her tail curled around you to corral you back into her body as the muddy brown dragon landed with a thunderous shake a respectable distance away.

Your name was begged by the rider descending from who you recognized as a wild dragon by the name of Sheepstealer.

"Nettles? That you, love?" You asked in skepticism, managing out of your dragon's grasp. "What're you doing here? You all right?"

"I needed to find you," she panted. "I-I need you help - it's all - it's all gone wrong! Please!"

"What's wrong? The fuck's happened?"

"Do you know nothing, Auntie!? Do you know nothing of the war!?"

Your eyes rolled, "Watch that tone with me, girl. The Dance of Dragons is of no concern of mine, it had barely started when I came here."

"Well - it's your concern now," she insisted. "You took me under your wing - you helped raise me in a village you built from the ground, despite not ever needing to - "

"Your mother was a dear friend of mine," you cut her off sharply. "She was kind to me when I came back to Essos, let me stay with her and your father. When I set out on my own, she was always a friendly face, and when my settlement was established..."

"She came to you for help after getting pregnant with me," Nettles nodded. "You've told me this before."

"Then you should know better by now that I owed your mother more than my life, so, raising you was the least I could've done. A life for a life."

"And as such, you let me go into the world with stories filling my head of a handsome Dragon Prince that saved you from the Crabfeeder!" You scoffed at her words, ready to argue, but she rushed, "He's in trouble, Auntie."

You paused, finding no lie in the girl's eye. Slowly, you asked, "Come again?"

"I found him, Mistress," she nodded. "After I got back to Westeros, I found your Prince Daemon - the ones from the stories! He's... He's brutish and harsh, they call him Rogue, but he was kind to me when I told him I knew you. When he heard your name, Lady, he just - he insisted on keeping me close. He protected me, even against his wife - Princess Rhaenyra."

Your head cocked, "Hmm... He usually did have a taste for younger flesh. I'm not surprised he took to you - "

"No, no, no, Mistress, not like that," she insisted desperately. "He was kind, educational - similar to a mentor."

"I see."

"He needs your help."

"Prince Daemon does not need rescuing, he is no damsel."

"He searches for Prince Aemond," she informed, making you lift your chin slightly. Though lost in the wild of Valyria the past two years, you were still well versed in the affairs of King's Landing; staying updated, curtesy of your Lord, the Lord of Light: R'hllor. In your village, you were known to pay for any accurate information - eventually hiring your own spies to relay trustworthy information from around surrounding cities and villages. Nettles was one of your Little Birds.

You sighed, "And? What of it - Aemond killed Lucerys, did he not? Since he married his niece, her children are now his step-children, right? Daemon is within his rights to want some form of vengeance - it's war, Nettie, it's never fair to anybody.

"He will not survive this, you don't understand! It's horrible, Mistress, please, he-he-he's deranged. Mad with grief, lost to his wife's useless fucking war. It'll be the death of him, Auntie, please!" She paused, seeing you just stare back at her; so she begged again, "Please!"

You nodded, "What do you want me to do, Nettie? Hmm?"

"You've told me those stories! I remember them well! You always said he came back for you, saved you from The Crabfeeder," she reminded, making you stiffen. "Does he not deserve the same? Or at least a chance? Rhaenyra will not help, she'll kill him herself I fear, but you can - you can help!"

You nodded, "I will consult the flames - "

"I am telling you - "

"I have heard you, girl!" You snapped, glaring at your Little Bird. "But there are greater forces at work than what you know, I cannot just so willfully trust the word of a child before flying off across the Narrow Sea. Allow me my time with my Lord, I will have an answer for you." Turning from her, you gathered whatever materials you could; setting it up in a small teepee before stepping back.

In High Valyrian, you gave your command. From over your shoulder, your beasty opened her mouth and shot a single flame at the structure.

On your knees, you muttered repeatedly; chanting, summoning your Lord of Light to come to you now in a great hour of need. And He did. Through the flames, you saw what R'hllor wanted to show you: the two Princes engaged in a brutally epic fight that would claim them both in the end...

Unless you left right that moment, as your Lord commanded.

"Make yourself safe, Nettles, go back home," you told her in a rush, catching the pouch of Gold Dragons she tossed you when you sprung into action - and for the first time, mounted your dragon. Like your minds were connected, the Great Shadow took to the sky - leaving Nettles and Sheepstealer behind, and you'd never see either again.

You remained high in the sky, being a blob to the naked eye should any dare to stare at the sun.

You only paused to let the Great Shadow dive into the Narrow Sea for a meal; surfacing with creatures in her jaws as you swam an exhausting broad stroke. Was it terrifying to swim in the open water? Absolutely, but your dragon seemingly kept any threats at bay. When she was satisfied with her meal, the Great Shadow scooped you onto her back and relaunched into the air again to continue your flight for Westeros. You both dried in the air.

The trip was draining.

It was grueling on you both.

Yet when you saw the distant shore, you couldn't help the spike of relief in your heart and veins.

Once in Westeros, you were forced to ground yourselves in the open area of the Stormlands because you needed to know where to go since Nettles hadn't been sure where to send you specifically. Using the usual thunderstorm as cover, you had to separate from the Great Shadow; leaving her in the dark as you ventured to the closest village.

With the pouch of Gold Dragons Nettles gave you, you paid for information that you needed. You were told all the nitty gritty details about the Dance of the Dragons that you've missed, understanding what (Nettles and) the Lord of Light had been trying to tell you for years: the Black Queen would be Prince Daemon's death.

The time had come for you to return his favor from the Stepstones. If this worked the way you wanted it to, you wouldn't be his first, second, nor third wife, but his fourth and final. You knew what you had to do.

"What do you know of their whereabouts?" You asked the innkeeper who wiped down the bar you leaned on.

"The Princes?" She asked, tisking right after. "The One Eyed Prince has been burning the Riverlands for almost two weeks now. The Rogue Prince was in Maidenpool but he's called his nephew to meet him at, uh, oh... Oh, bullocks, what's that haunted castle? The one that was torched?"

"Harrenhal?"

She snapped her fingers at you, "That's the one!"

"Fuckin' Hell," you muttered, wiping your eyes. "What's your thinking, love? 'Bout this war?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, "Stupidest thing I've endured so far. How silly, the House of the Dragon does not know who rules it, or so says our liege lord. So we must all pay their price in Fire and Blood."

You nodded slowly, "Who do you think holds the better claim t'the Throne?"

"Depends on your views," she muttered, "but in truth, it doesn't matter to me - so long as this all comes to an end. But between us?" She leaned in, glancing around before muttering, "The Bitch Queen would burn us all. Can't say if King Aegon would be much better, but at least we'd know what we were dealing with."

"And if he was another Maegor?"

"Can't be worse than the Black Queen. Hear they call her Maegor with Tits."

You smirked, chuckling lightly, "Thank you, ma'am, for your words." You offered her a few Gold Dragons, repeating, "Harrenhal?"

"Harrenhal," she nodded, accepting the payment. "I do not know if the One Eyed Prince will answer the Rogue Prince's challenge, but that is where he lures Prince Aemond - Harrenhal. Now, how's about a nice bowl of stew? You look drenched, love, and a bit skinny - you been eatin'?"

"Your kindness is refreshing in this shit-for-a-kingdom."

You winked at her and tapped the bar in parting before turning for the door, and into the rain you ventured once more. You didn't notice the cold, your Lord kept you warm and moving; finding the Great Shadow, mounting, and shooting off into the unknown sky again.

It wasn't easy directing a dragon without a saddle nor any stabilizing reins, yet your beast was something of a decently smooth fly. You minimally directed her as you went, but in truth, her instincts directed you both more than anything. When the storm broke, you were soon flying over charred scores of land; homes smoldering and burning, the wind spreading the embers and never letting the fire fully die out.

"The fuck..." You muttered, sitting up straight as you flew through the carnage. "Seven Hells, he burnt it all, didn't he?" You whispered, needing to hold onto the spinal ridges of your dragon to keep balanced. "Gods be good," you gaped at the damage beneath you.

The sun moved into position, getting ready to set when you heard the horrible screams of feuding dragons. You couldn't see Harrenhal yet, but you heard the fight, and then, as the sun began to set, there came flashes of bright firelight that lit the sky to a new level.

It was nearly the shade of daylight with the way the flames danced against the setting sun. You were desperate to get closer, and after directing the Great Shadow over a set of charred rolling hills, you finally had Harrenhal in sight. "Go! Go, please! That's them - we need t'get there!" You begged through a small sob of panic, and if possible, your dragon flew all the faster.

You were so close, yet felt so far.

The air trembled when the pair of dragons, Vhagar and Caraxes, collided in the sky once more. They grappled and snarled and shrieked and blew flames and gnashed their teeth and slashed their talons. You paid no mind to the pregnant woman standing on the shoreline of the lake they fought over, and instead, focused on your task; feeling as if you were moving on pure instinct and adrenaline.

The Great Shadow dove low to the lake's surface as Caraxes and Vhagar came barreling to the ground. It all happened too fast. As the two dragons fell, you saw one man - in black armor - leap from his crimson beast with his Valyrian sword winking in the dying light. Just as his arm extended to pierce Dark Sister into Aemond's blind eye, the dragons were tussling enough to turn over and forced Daemon off their hide.

You gasped as you reacted - no fucking thought to your actions.

As the Great Shadow glided over the surface of the Gods Eye lake, you were leaping off her back to launch into the air; tackling the Rogue Prince hard enough to disrupt his impact on the water's surface. You hit the water all the same, but instead of it being like hitting fresh pavement, it was a softer landing due to the Great Shadow's expert and quick maneuvering.

Two dragons hit the water, three human bodies; sending a wave of water higher than the towers of Harrenhal's fortress. It was a shock to land in something so wet and cold, but your adrenaline was stronger than any feeling of freezing water. Your arms kept an iron-clad lock around Daemon's unconscious waist, surfacing as the lake rippled and churned from impact; turning a seeping red from the open wounds on the dragon sinking into the depths.

Prince Aemond never surfaced, and years from now, he'd be found still chained to Vhagar's saddle with Dark Sister still stabbed through his skull. His Red Witch standing on shore couldn't save him, it appearing that your Lord preferred the Rogue Prince to the One Eyed.

Keeping Daemon afloat was difficult, but to your shock, you were being gently propelled forward to the shore by a fatally injured Caraxes. You encouraged him best you could, trying not to choke on the water splashing around your frantic forms. When you were able, you started heaving and dragging Daemon up the lake's embankment; the crimson dragon crawling out of the lake behind you, slowly, heading towards Harrenhal. You wanted to offer the loyal beast aid or comfort, but you were much too preoccupied with his master that was dead weight in the water's surf.

You trembled as you swiftly hoisted his dragon winged helmet off to leave bobbing in the surf; unhooked his armor, shucking it off him and compressing his chest rapidly - just like a fisherman taught you to do.

"C'mon," you grunted. "C'mon, Daemon, breathe - fucking breathe, damnit! Please, come back to me - don't do this. I just found you again, c'mon, my Prince, breathe. Breathe, Daemon, don't give up - not now, not on us! Don't give up on us, c'mon, my Prince, breathe, w-we finally have our time." Sobs wracked your form. "Breathe, Daemon, please! Please! I'm back - I finally found you, please, my love, breathe!"

You shoved harder into his breast bone with increased ferocity until water came suddenly spewing from his lungs. You heard the Great Shadow land in the near distance, turning Daemon on his side to help him breathe better; choking the water out. You spoke in relief, "There, there you go, c'mon, love, breathe! Thank fucking Gods, you're all right, you're okay, get it out - you're okay, just breathe, my love."

Daemon choked your name in pure disbelief, holding one of your wrists in a vice grip that only briefly concerned you. He panted and relaxed into the embankment, loosening his grip as he turned over to look up at you in shock and wonder. "How is this possible?" He wheezed.

"It's a bit of a long story," you teased softly, caressing his cheek. "Bit of a boring tale, 'M afraid."

"How? How is - how can this be?"

"You needed me," you explained, "thought I'd return the favor since you saved me all those years ago, huh? You got me out of the sea, I got you out of the lake - we're even, yeah?"

He still panted, only staring at you as if he couldn't believe himself. "You've not aged a day," he whispered.

You smiled, petting his cheekbone with your thumb daintly. "You need rest, reprieve, aid," you whispered.

"No, no," he gulped, "not when I just got you back. T-Tell me 's done. Tell me we're done being apart."

"You have a wife still, Daemon. She won't let you go, she wouldn't let us be together."

"Tell me what your flames say."

"Now you trust my flames?"

"When they bring you back to me, yes - oh, fuck yes, I'll believe whatever those fucking flames say. Please, love, for us - consult your flames, tell me what they've said."

You frowned, petting a soaking wet lock of hair from his forehead. Quietly, you whispered, "My Lord showed me what was to pass if I did not come for you... This war, this Dance of Dragons, would claim your life, Daemon. Your wife, your niece... She'll be the end of you, my Prince. You will not survive if you go back to her. Neither of you will survive this... My Lord has shown me that Rhaenyra will meet her end in flames, but following her will cost you your life in water," you glanced at the lake. "Not a death befitting of a Targaryen Prince."

"And now?"

"Now, she will fight her own battles for the first time," you whispered, "and I will return home, and you will make a choice."

He smirked, "We've gone lifetimes apart, like you said before."

"We have."

"I would not go another day," he coughed, wincing in pain. "I do not think I can fight anymore anyways, love. Please... Please."

Daemon never begged. You swallowed harshly, asking him, "No? No more fighting?"

"No," he agreed. "'M so tired, my sweet. I-I can't do this forever," he half-slurred, making you perk up slightly in attention. "Retirement sounds all too appealing now. Rumor will spread that neither Aemond or I lived, it'll be the perfect escape."

You nodded in agreement, flinching when a new voice screeched, "YOU BITCH!"

The pregnant woman you saw on shore stormed towards you, making you chuckle dryly as you had already foreseen this Alys Rivers - pregnant concubine of the One Eyed Prince Aemond and fellow Follower of R'hllor. Alys was unique in the sense that her training was decent enough to ensnare Aemond (it seemed), but not so decent that the Lord yet favored her.

She wasn't more than ten feet from you when the Great Shadow opened her mouth and showered the Red Witch in holy flames; an end she surely did not see coming - not that R'hllor would've showed her. This all caught Daemon's attention, who flinched slightly when he had to turn and look; not expecting the flames nor the beast.

Then his eyes drifted over the land, breathing hitching, and he sat up with a painful groan. "Daemon," you worried, but instead of trying to get him down, you helped him up.

You knew what he saw.

When at Caraxes' side, you helped Daemon lower to his knees at his dragon's head. He whimpered and moaned, belly slashed open, wing torn apart; bleeding out into the cold soil he rested on. The Great Shadow moaned gently in sympathy, lowering herself around you three to let you grieve in peaceful, protective privacy and ease Caraxes to his next life.

The moon was fully in the sky when the crimson bloodwyrm took his final breath with the ebony giant's flames to warm you all. You weren't sure what could be done, but Daemon was pressing a tender kiss to his dragon's head before turning to face you - a lost, confused, vulnerable look coating his features. "Come on, love," you eased gently, helping him to his feet; knowing a few ribs were shattered and probably his clavicle, too.

"Where will we go now?"

"Well, I have somewhere safe for us t'live," you grunted in assurance, wobbling a little under his weight. "But we need rest for tonight. Any ideas?"

"I doubt anyone will venture to Harrenhal this night, should be safe..."

You agreed, and together, you and Daemon settled in the empty castle with the Great Shadow resting on the outskirts of the Keep. She was too big for the interior of the courtyard, so, she was left outside with Caraxes' corpse as you and Daemon settled in the room he had commandeered.

"How is this possible? How can you be here?" He asked, holding your hips as you worked between his spread legs. Daemon had minimal supplies at the ready; hopping up on a work bench to let you care for his injuries and wounds. He watched your every move with a softening look. "I thought I wouldn't ever see you again, that I'd be cursed to only remember you in my dreams. Rhaenyra said I say your name a lot at night, when I sleep."

"I'm really here, Daemon, ease yourself," you offered an assuring grin, tending to the head wounds he obtained from the fight.

"How?"

"Nettles."

"What?"

"Nettles," you repeated with a smirk. "She's one of my Little Birds, Daemon. It was not entirely coincidence she found you..."

"So she said," he frowned. "But how - "

"She told me you needed me," you smiled softly. "And when I consulted the flames, I was shown what could be. I made a decision, I just wanted you safe, no matter what that meant."

"I just want you. Fuck," he seethed, squeezing your hips, "'s been fucking decades since I've even touched you."

"You're delirious," you teased. "Sleep deprived, maybe concussed."

"Perhaps all at once, but I finally have all I've dreamt of. Please," he whispered, "do not deny us longer. I've endured lifetimes - "

"Daemon, being here and now, you know I can't walk away. But we've time t'talk it all out, I need you to let me help your wounds - so sit still."

He nodded, "One thing I do not understand, though - the dragon? How did you...?"

"Spent two years in Valyria, looking for her."

"Why were you there?"

"Searching for a dragon, of course," you smirked. "She's impressive, isn't she? And from her size, I wager she can easily support us both back across the Narrow Sea."

He grit his teeth when you cleaned his open cuts and wounds, wrapping whatever clean cloth you had around the larger wounds; easing him out of his tunic to have better access to the blackened ribs he sported. "Would you tell me?" Daemon whispered some time later.

"Of what?"

"Your life since the Stepstones?"

"Oh," you chuckled, "sweet love, you know it was dreadfully boring without you."

"Doesn't seem it, you being in Valyria two years? That's not heard of, what was it like? How'd you survive? Why go looking for a dragon?"

This lead to you both laying in bed, hands held together, resting, but not sleeping. You just spoke quietly, fingertips tracing idly over each other's faces; sharing in each others lives that the other missed, reminiscing together in fond memories.

When morning broke, you had to move swiftly. Caraxes was left where he laid and after a final parting to the loyal beast and commandeering his saddle, together, you and Daemon mounted the Great Shadow. She wasn't a fan of the restraints, but once you and Daemon were mounted, she did not fuss as it was evident you humans had an easier time with the leather contraption.

"I must confess," Daemon whispered in your ear, using you as an anchor and leaning into your back, "I fear I might feel something akin to guilt for fleeing home."

"That's natural," you assured, "you're leaving family behind, 's never easy."

"There was no winning this war," he admitted, sighing. "I lead so many to their death... Destroyed my family - "

"From what I have heard, this is not your doing," you argued sharply. "That night, when Aemond attacked Lucerys, what were you to do? Leave that kind of atrocity without consequence? No, that is not in the Targaryen's nature. You did not start this war, Daemon."

"But I knew..."

"You knew what?"

"I knew Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were Harwin Strong's, not Laenor Velaryon's. We thought if we married her sons to my daughters, nobody would care much else about lineage - but we were wrong."

"It's okay to be wrong," you promised, leaning your head back to let your forehead rest against his temple. "It's okay to make mistakes or have regret. Tell me, do you wish to return to your wife? I will take you now, no quest - "

"No. No, I do not wish to leave you. This is... This is Rhaenyra's war, I've done my part. I'm free and finally with whom I belong."

"Now it's time to heal," you told him.

"Time to rest," he agreed, squeezing your waist and placing a few kisses to your neck. "This is where I should've been all this time... After the Stepstones, I should've stayed with you, none of this would've come to pass. I regret leaving you everyday - "

"I told you, for us to get here, to this point, now, we had to separate. But look where we are," you smiled back at him, the Great Shadow soaring higher in the sky to keep Westeros at a distance, "we will not be apart again. 'S you and me, love... Until our end, which we will greet together."

Daemon's lips found yours at long last, whispering, "Together," against them before sweeping his tongue against yours.

The port was lovely this time of day, sun high in the sky to give light to the fishermen and vendors hard at work. Sailors made port, calms were being shucked, different Aristocats trying to barter and trade on their journeys abroad. You smiled at the people you passed, grateful to be home after a prolonged absence; arm looped tight with Daemon's as you both strolled the pier.

"It's hard to imagine you've done all this in a lifetime or less," he mused, a hand folded over yours, dressed in the best clothes you could find. "It's s marvel, my sweet," his compliment was sincere.

"Thank you," you whispered, hugging his arm as your skirts swished around your ankles, just tickling your bare feet. "This season's expected to be bountiful," you told him, pointing to the various teams bringing crustaceans, fish, and other sea life in different crates and traps. "I expect there won't be much of an off-season."

He glanced around, "And you don't collect taxes?"

"Why would I?" You scoffed. "We're more dynamic than that. Everyone works for their place, if you wanted to think of it that way. They are not expected to contribute, but the village seems happier that way. Being close knit, helping one another, sharing wealth. No one person has complained, so, I figure it's working so far. Even if it didn't work, I still wouldn't charge them taxes - it'd be like charging them to live. Always seemed silly t'me."

"Morning, Mistress!"

"Morning, Don," you beamed, leading Daemon towards the dock. "How are you, kind sir? Looks as if you've been working all day already."

"Aye, up before the sun," he nodded, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Wanted t'thank yah, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, yeah, with that dragon? We're hauling in more ships," he chuckled, and just overhead, the Great Shadow glided over them all to head out to sea to fetch another round of ships. "Gets us out there quick, brings us back when done, 's like a wee bit of an assembly line, ain't it?"

You chuckled, "Sounds like it, friend. Uh, Don, have I introduced you to my husband?"

"Husband?" Don grinned, cocking his head, "No, Mistress, I wasn't aware you even had a suitor. Mariam don't tell me much gossip these days," he snickered, referring to his wife. "It's nice t'meet you," he told Daemon, "name's Don, just Don - no, it ain't short for nothin'."

Daemon smirked some, shaking the man's fishy hand boldly, "A pleasure, Don, Just Don."

"Oh, this one's got a bit uh humor, don't he?" Don laughed lightly. "What's your name, lad?"

"Daemon?" A voice answered for you all, and just above you, a little further on the pier, stood an aged Laenor Velaryon.

"Excuse us, Don," you spoke swiftly, confusion marring your features. He understood or sensed the slight tension, backing off to let you approach the "dead" knight.

"Oh, my - Y/N," Laenor breathed, another aged man at his side with what you assume to be his children. No question could be asked yet as your old friend launched himself into your arms, laughing merrily, giving you a tight squeeze with his still-toned arms. "Oh, the Gods are good for this!" He laughed, rocking you slightly, "Oh, how the Seven bless us."

"You're so dramatic," you laughed back, patting him happily until he pulled back. "But I must confess, I am so fucking confused - what is this? How are you here? I thought you died, Laenor, that's what ever spy reported."

"They should've," he nodded, glancing at Daemon, "but perhaps, the explanation will be better received after some wine?" He caressed your cheek in affection before looking at your husband, nodding, "It's good to see you again, my Prince. Or is it King Consort?"

"Neither, just Daemon," he corrected, your heart soaring a little at the idea that he would abandon his title so easily. Yet you knew, there was nothing to go back to for him.

"Well, how about I introduce my family?"

"Family?" You grinned, seeing him present the others.

"My husband," he gestured, giving his name. "And our kids," he introduced the other three.

"How?" You asked simply.

"We found a Red Priest who was willing to officiate the ceremony," Laenor explained, "and the kids were sired by different mothers, too."

"Whores," the husband smiled.

"Huh," you nodded in impression. "Well, perhaps wine is best to hear that tale, as well?"

"Perhaps," Laenor grinned. "Uh, but first, we should find accommodations - "

"Oh, come off it, you're staying with us," you waved. "Your belongings?"

"This is it," he half-shrugged, you eyeing the few rucksacks around their feet, neck, shoulders... "We heard of the prosperity here, thought it was worth the move."

"How right you are," Daemon answered. "Come, old friend." He picked up a few sacks for the kids and you looped your arm with Laenor's to lead the way. How good it was to have your friend back, your husband at your side, and a functioning, happy village with your placement amongst them most important... Everything you could've wished for, it seemed, came true.

And in your womb, a Dragon Seed was planted; soon to make its announcement known. Truly, a happier ending than you thought deserved - but R'hollr worked mysteriously, blessing those deemed worthy to spread his flames.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

note: i'm not the happiest with this piece, so i'll most definitely (probably) write an alternative when the time comes and the show does the Battle. y'all know me by now, you know i love me a good ol' reader-insert and i didn't want to wait years to publish some kind of sequel so here we are.

[cubicdesignzdm]

Future-Proofing Your Business: Why Investing in a Digital Marketing and SEO Agency is Crucial in 2024

1. The Ever-Evolving Landscape:

The digital realm isn’t static; it’s a living, breathing entity. Algorithms shift, user behavior morphs, and trends emerge like mythical creatures. In this dynamic dance, having a skilled guide—a digital agency—is like having a seasoned cartographer in uncharted territory. They decipher the maps, spot the hidden trails, and lead you toward the treasure troves of visibility and growth.

2. The SEO Alchemy:

Ah, SEO—the mystical art of appeasing search engines and summoning organic traffic. But here’s the twist: SEO isn’t a one-time incantation; it’s an ongoing ritual. Google tweaks its algorithms more often than a wizard adjusts their spellbook. An agency keeps pace with these changes, ensuring your website doesn’t vanish into the digital mist. They optimize your content, build backlinks, and whisper sweet nothings to search bots.

3. The AI Enchantment:

In 2024, AI isn’t just a buzzword; it’s a magical wand. AI-driven tools analyze data faster than a dragon’s breath. They uncover hidden keywords, personalize content, and predict trends. Imagine an AI assistant saying, “Fear not, noble marketer! I’ve found the perfect long-tail keyword for your enchanted shoe store!”

4. The Social Media Spellbook:

Social platforms aren’t mere taverns; they’re bustling marketplaces. An agency crafts social spells—engaging posts, targeted ads, and community interactions. They know where the villagers gather (Facebook, Instagram, TikTok), and they beckon them toward your digital inn. Social media isn’t just about likes; it’s about forging alliances and amplifying your brand’s song across the digital minstrel’s campfire.

5. The ROI Cauldron:

Investing in a digital agency isn’t an expense; it’s an investment. Picture this: You toss coins into a cauldron, and it bubbles with returns. Improved website performance naturally leads to a higher return on investment, making it essential to hire an SEO agency. The long-term benefits and cost-effectiveness of SEO are attractive for businesses aiming to maximize their marketing budgets.

6. The Quest for Growth:

Remember, you’re not just hiring an agency; you’re forging a partnership. They’ll study your runes (data), consult their grimoires (industry insights), and brew potions (strategies) tailored to your quest. Whether you seek more leads, higher conversions, or a magical brand presence, they’ll be your companions on this epic journey.

So, noble business owner, consider this: Investing in a digital marketing and SEO agency isn’t just about today; it’s about securing your tomorrows. May your website rankings soar like a phoenix, and your ROI multiply like a well-fed dragon!

If you’re looking for a partner to elevate your brand online, Cubic Designz might be a great fit!

Is there anything else you’d like to explore or any other scrolls you wish to unroll?  Learn more about the magic of digital marketing agencies!

[thelorehold]

The Cartographer's Compass

In the bustling city of Emberfall, nestled amidst soaring spires and bustling marketplaces, lived a young cartographer named Anya. Unlike her peers, who meticulously mapped the known lands, Anya yearned to chart the uncharted, to discover the hidden wonders that lay beyond the edges of their maps.

One day, while exploring a dusty antique shop, Anya stumbled upon a peculiar compass. Its needle spun erratically, seemingly drawn to an unseen force. Intrigued, Anya purchased the compass and set off on a journey into the unknown.

The compass led her through treacherous mountain passes, across vast deserts, and into the depths of ancient forests. Along the way, she encountered fantastical creatures, both friend and foe. There were mischievous sprites who whispered riddles in her ear, wise old dragons who shared tales of forgotten realms, and fearsome beasts that guarded hidden treasures.

Each step of her journey was fraught with danger, but Anya pressed on, her heart filled with a burning desire to uncover the secrets that lay beyond the horizon. The compass, her trusty guide, never wavered, always pointing towards her next destination.

After weeks of travel, Anya found herself standing at the edge of a vast, shimmering lake. The compass needle spun wildly, then settled, pointing towards a small island in the center of the lake. Anya, filled with anticipation, summoned a small boat and set sail towards the island.

As she approached the island, Anya noticed a strange glow emanating from its center. She disembarked and followed the light, her heart pounding in her chest. The glow led her to a hidden cave, where she discovered a magnificent crystal formation that pulsed with an otherworldly energy.

Anya reached out and touched the crystal, a surge of power coursing through her veins. In that moment, she realized the true purpose of her journey. The compass had not led her to a mere destination, but to a source of magic that would forever change her life.

With newfound purpose, Anya returned to Emberfall, her map filled with the wonders she had discovered. The cartographer's compass had guided her to her destiny, and she would forever be grateful for the adventure it had bestowed upon her.

[xasha777]

In the year 2350, humanity had long outgrown its cradle. The stars had become highways, and planets were pit stops in a vast cosmic journey. Among the explorers, scientists, and adventurers, there were the cartographers—the silent heroes who mapped the uncharted territories of the galaxy.

Lyra Starwind was one of the most renowned planetary cartographers in the Galactic Federation. With her striking red hair and piercing blue eyes, she was a figure of intrigue and mystery. Her dedication to the craft had taken her to the furthest reaches of the known universe and beyond.

Lyra stood on the observation deck of her starship, the Astral Nomad, staring out into the infinite expanse of space. Her latest mission was to chart a newly discovered star system in the Andromeda galaxy, rumored to contain planets rich in resources and potential for colonization. The journey had been long, but Lyra was used to the solitude of space.

The first planet she surveyed was Andros V, a world with a crimson sky and oceans of liquid crystal. Lyra's fingers danced over the holographic controls, capturing every detail of the planet's surface. She noted the peculiar grid-like patterns etched into the landscape, reminiscent of ancient Earth's geoglyphs but on a planetary scale.

"Fascinating," she murmured to herself. The patterns were too precise to be natural. Could they be the remnants of an ancient civilization, or perhaps a natural phenomenon yet to be understood?

As Lyra delved deeper into the cartographic analysis, she detected faint energy signatures emanating from the planet's northern hemisphere. Curiosity piqued, she decided to investigate further. The Astral Nomad descended through the planet's atmosphere, gliding smoothly towards the source of the signals.

Lyra suited up and stepped onto the planet's surface. The air was thin but breathable, and the ground shimmered under her feet. Following her scanner's readings, she trekked towards a massive structure embedded in the side of a mountain—a monolithic edifice of unknown origin.

Inside, the air was cool and still, undisturbed for eons. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, similar to the patterns seen from orbit. Lyra activated her wrist-mounted scanner, which projected a 3D map of the interior. As she moved deeper into the structure, she came upon a vast chamber filled with holographic star maps.

"Unbelievable," Lyra whispered. The maps detailed not just Andros V but the entire Andromeda galaxy, with annotations and coordinates unknown to the Galactic Federation. This was a treasure trove of knowledge, a legacy left behind by an ancient race of starfarers.

In the center of the chamber, a pedestal held a crystalline device, pulsing with a soft blue light. Lyra reached out and touched it, feeling a surge of energy coursing through her. Instantly, her mind was flooded with visions—memories of the planet's builders, their rise and fall, and their desperate attempt to preserve their knowledge for future generations.

Lyra knew she had discovered something monumental. The information contained within these ancient maps could revolutionize human understanding of the galaxy and expedite the exploration and colonization of new worlds. But with this knowledge came responsibility.

As she made her way back to the Astral Nomad, Lyra couldn't help but feel a profound connection to the ancient cartographers who had come before her. They, too, had sought to understand the cosmos and chart a course through the unknown.

With the crystalline device safely stored aboard her ship, Lyra set a course for the Galactic Federation headquarters. She couldn't wait to share her findings, knowing that the journey to map the stars had only just begun.

As the Astral Nomad soared through the cosmos, Lyra glanced at the star maps once more. She felt a sense of purpose and destiny. The galaxy was vast, and there was so much more to discover. With a determined smile, she whispered, "For the stars and beyond."

[universaladventures1]

Are you ready for a spiritual journey to the Brahmatal trek?

The Path Less Traveled: Unraveling the Brahmatal TrekVenture forth on the awe-inspiring Brahmatal trek, a transcendental expedition that weaves through the breathtaking expanse of the Indian Himalayas. As you step onto this sacred trail, be prepared to embark on a journey of self-discovery and spiritual awakening.

Amidst snow-kissed peaks, your soul finds solace, as nature whispers its ancient secrets.

Navigating the Divine Route: A Glimpse of the Brahmatal Trek RouteTraversing the heart of Uttarakhand, the Brahmatal trek route guides you through dense forests, quaint villages, and open meadows, leading you to the celestial Brahmatal Lake. Each step taken on this path rejuvenates your spirit, connecting you with the elements and echoing the footprints of countless pilgrims before you.

Charting the Spiritual Cartography: Brahmatal Trek MapEnvision your ascent on the Brahmatal trek map, an intricate labyrinth that unveils the sacred geography of this transcendental voyage. The map is not merely a guide; it's a portal to the profound. Every contour, every elevation gain, tells a tale of dedication and devotion.

Follow the cartographic whispers, where lines on paper become the road to enlightenment.

Closer to the Divine: Reaching the Summit of Spiritual ElevationAscending to an elevation of 12,250 feet, the Brahmatal trek height transcends mere physical accomplishment. It's a stairway to the heavens, where your spirit soars amidst the majestic panorama of snow-crowned peaks. The air is thin, but your soul breathes freely, basking in the embrace of the cosmos.

Embracing Stillness: Finding Inner Peace on Brahmatal TrekAs you journey deeper, you realize the true purpose of your endeavor - to find serenity within. The tranquil beauty of Brahmatal Lake reflects your own inner calm. Meditate by its shores, letting the ripples of your thoughts settle into the stillness of the water.

Echoes of silence guide the way, as you merge with the tranquil heartbeat of the universe. The Alchemy of Nature: Elemental Encounters Along Brahmatal TrekAs you ascend the mystical heights of Brahmatal, nature's alchemy unfolds before your eyes. Enveloped in the fragrance of pine and rhododendron forests, you'll traverse across landscapes that shift from emerald green to pristine white. Each twist and turn of the trail reveals a new facet of the Earth's timeless elegance.

Leaves rustle like ancient scrolls, whispering tales of the cosmos in a language only the heart can comprehend.

Nourishment for the Soul: Culinary Delights and Community BondsBeyond physical exertion, the Brahmatal trek nourishes not only your body but also your spirit. Savour local delicacies prepared by warm-hearted villagers, a testament to their bond with the land. Gather around campfires, sharing stories and laughter with fellow trekkers, forging connections that transcend the mundane.  

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs) - Nurturing Your Curiosity

Q1: What is the best time to embark on the Brahmatal trek? The best time is during the winter months of December to February when the trek reveals its true enchantment amidst snow-covered landscapes.

Q2: Are there any prerequisites for undertaking the Brahmatal trek? While physical fitness is essential, a receptive spirit and a yearning for spiritual exploration are the true prerequisites.

Q3: How can I prepare myself for the trek's spiritual aspect? Carry a journal to document your thoughts and emotions along the journey. Embrace mindfulness practices to deepen your spiritual experience.

Q4: Are there any local legends or myths associated with Brahmatal? Indeed, legends speak of Brahmatal as a sacred place where Lord Brahma meditated, infusing the area with divine energy.

Q5: Can beginners undertake the Brahmatal trek? The trek is moderately challenging, making it suitable for beginners with some level of physical fitness and a thirst for spiritual growth.

Embark on this transcendent odyssey, where the path you tread is not just a trail but a transformative experience. The Brahmatal trek is a pilgrimage of the soul, an opportunity to align with nature's rhythms and find harmony in the vast expanse of existence.

[craigofinspiration]

How to Award and Track Inspiration the Easy Way

Learn the easiest way to award and track inspiration points with this practical technique. Use Inspiration cards, engage your players, and see their rolls soar! Check out the article for all the details. #dnd

I have personally tried a few different methods of using Inspiration at the table. Out of all of them, this technique is the easiest way to award and track inspiration during your D&D sessions. https://www.cryptocartographer.net/blog/inspiration-cards This post from Crypto Cartographer has a great set of Inspiration cards that you can print up and hand out to your players when you award them an…

[snarp]

"This map was compiled by Koyano Ishun, a Neo-Confucian scholar with a keen interest in the still esoteric fields of geography and cartography. He produced a series of well-known maps, made famous by their mass production as woodblock prints for educational and administrative purposes. One of Koyano’s most famous maps was a world map printed in Osaka in 1809, which was widely used as a didactic tool for Neo-Confucian scholars. Our map offered here constitutes the hand-drawn prototype for that 1809 map and is as such both unique and seminal.

The map in its current configuration consists of a joined folding-screen in two panels. It was painted in polychrome ink on paper, which was then joined before being applied to the screen and equipped with a brocade silk border. The reverse of the screen has been papered with Japanese accounting sheets from the 1920s, a clue that provides us with the likely decade in which the map was mounted in this particular form. Additionally, the conversion of the map to a form of decorative art aligns well with the modalities of Japonisme: a high trend of the early 20th century.

In 1852, American president Millard Fillmore ordered the U.S. Navy to force Japan to open her ports to American trade. A fleet spearheaded by Commodore Matthew Perry arrived in Japan with orders of using ‘gunboat diplomacy’ if necessary to achieve their goal. After Japan had been closed to the outside world for more than two centuries, the country was opened under American pressure in 1854, and as a consequence Japanese society underwent a rapid and dramatic change from feudal society to industrialized nation. Following the opening of Japan there was an intense global interest in all things Japanese. This trend also manifested itself in the arts, where Japanese arts and crafts were celebrated, collected, and emulated by Westerners.

It was the French art critic Philippe Burty who in 1872 first coined the term ‘Japonisme’ to describe the trend. The impact of and interest in Japanese art exploded in the following decades, and famous European artists such as Van Gogh began emulating the traditional ukiyo-e woodblock prints. In time, the interest transcended into the sphere of collecting and interior design as well, creating intense demand for Japanese antiques among European and American dealers at the beginning of the 20th century.

In this light, and following our analysis below, we believe that the story of our map can be summed up as follows: It was conceived and compiled in the latter part of the 18th century, probably during the 1790s, constituting Koyano Ishun’s response to the perceived inadequacies of available cartographic materials at that point. Considering the artistic qualities of the map, its execution presumably took several years. Once finished, around the year 1800, Koyano probably used this map for his own teaching purposes. Demand for Japanese world maps was nevertheless on the rise and during the first decade of the 19th-century arrangements were made to have the manuscript map transferred to a woodblock for printing. With the printed version being issued in 1809, the original manuscript was probably archived or eventually stashed somewhere. A century or so later, during the height of Japonisme and with the demand for Japanese antiques soaring, our hypothesis is that this map was ‘rediscovered,’ sold to an antiquities dealer, and then mounted on the present folding screen to become one of the iconic Japanese items that were being incorporated into the decor of ateliers and homes across Europe and America.

In this way, the creation of the map and the subsequent object it became represent two processes that are complete opposites: closing and opening. In other words, the two great developments that shaped Early Modern Japan — its isolationism and its subsequent re-entry onto the world stage — are encapsulated in this one single work."

(snarp editorial: Despite its inescapability in the modern conception of Japanese history, many historians take issue with the narrative of sakoku - the alleged "intentionally closed Japan" of the Edo era - for the reason that, for most of the period, at least one of those three words did not actually apply to the political/cultural/economic situation.)

[mysteriesmuse]

Like 👀

And you shall be cursed to be apart - until you cross paths at the spot dearest to your hearts . . .

that was what that shitty witch had said right before he’d been bewitched right out of the throne room. One second he’s standing before the King of the Realm in the Grande Hall in front of the most powerful royals and most notorious hero’s from all the combined kingdoms; and the next moment he’s flung out here. Wherever the hell here is.

Katsuki is pissed. He runs a hand through his spiky hair the last image of you seared behind his eyes. It’s you — only 12 paces away — standing bowed before the King in a gown commissioned for the ceremony. Probably the most gorgeous ensemble he’s seen you in; as you have a golden medallion looped around your neck.. The sight of your hair all pressed up on the back of your head from the ribbon — pressed up the same way it does as his grips the nape of your neck to draw you in for a kiss — has his chest swollen with pride. And then Katsuki opens his eyes to this giant-ass fucking-tree with the horrified expression on your face juxtaposed overtop of it as this witch delivers her declaration and you’re whisked away somewhere else. “Godsdammit!” Suddenly there’s smoke up in the air. Katsuki blisters as he frantically scorches everything his path. ————

Katsuki has been busy blazing his path having already figured out he’s been dropped off in the fucking eastern mountains at the edge of the Realm. It didn’t take him more than a few minutes to do quick recognizance and gather where he was. Every waking moment since then he’s been carefully charting his movements from the moss on trees and the sun and stars in the sky. If one could view his movements from up above, like when soaring high above on a dragon, then they could see that they’d need a perfectly straight carmine line to chart his path. It would be a testament to a cartographers craft with how determinedly set Katsuki’s path was . . . and the speed of which he tramped through the kingdoms. Katsuki knows exactly where he’s going, “cant believe what a crappy witch. this ain’t even a stinkin’ riddle or something,” and he’s damn sure you know exactly where you’re supposed to be going. The problem is — Katsuki’s concerned whether or not you can get there . . . There’s absolutely no question whether or not you can handle yourself underneath the witches curse or in the wilderness alone — for fucks sake you were getting recognized for saving half the kingdom from a villainous scourge! but Katsuki’s uncertain whether or not your directional skills, or lack thereof, can help propel you in the right direction. And his question is answered for him as he blazes through the forest magma igniting in his hands as he claws his way up to the peak of the mountain on the outskirts of his childhood town. When he reaches the crest dogged and out of breath he cast his eyes about frantically only to find that you’re not there. Despite the seriousness of the curse or the lack of your presence Katsuki can’t help but find it in himself to shake his head and smile with reassurance, “Fuck. I knew she wasn’t gonna be here when I arrived. She’s still on her way, probably getting lost somewhere on the way. That’s all.” ———— And Katsuki waits, for an entire moon, for you. Alone on top of the mountain. All his childhood memories floating about like phantoms of his imagination. And spring melts into summer with this sense of anticipation lingering in his bones. The curse the witch has placed on him preventing him from leaving the mountain to find you, try as he might. He’s almost certain that would be faster, but if someone wants to test his devotion so be it. And it’s aggravatingly still, a younger Katsuki would never be able to muster the patience needed for you to arrive. But it’s all worth it when he sees your form arrive in the golden waxy afternoon. ———

Immediately following in frantic touches and whispers and shouts . . . it’d been so long since he’d seen you he was starting to dream up horrible circumstances for your delay. All of which you sheepishly shook your head to as he looked you over. Katsuki hands nestled on either side of your head — palms warm against your ears as his fingers subconsciously curled and uncurled at every debunked injury uttered from his lips.

“Thank fucking god.” Katsuki exclaimed. He kissed you fiercely, “but — shit. You look normal. What took ya’ so long?” that kiss sent a combined shiver down your spines as the curse rolled off of you in one huge shockwave. you flinched and grabbed onto his collar pulling him back and back and back until you bumped into the post of his lean-to hut and hissed at the welt on your shoulder. Your lover let out a gruff chuckle and you grinned as he leaned against the pole ushering you in. The two of you could hardly keep your hands off each other. Katsuki unable to wait. “That stupid witch — been thinking about this right after the ceremony with you geting acknowledged in front of the kingdom for your heroic deeds.” you snorted, “are you telling me I was supposed to receive a present after the party?” Your hands managed to lightly tug on his ear, to which he paused in his wet ministrations and looked at you in this playfully drunken daze. Drunk off your skin.

“Are you more interested in doing this,” you paused pointing between the two of you on the floor, “or in me explaining?” Katsuki chuckled leaning his forehead against yours. “You can tell me all about it while I do this. I’m dying,” he elaborated by curling his palm under the small of your back to pick against the knot on your corset, “to hear both.” your lovers smile only grew as you frantically joined him in unlacing your corset Katsuki rolled his eyes before setting the enormity of his loving gaze back onto you — meeting your eyes. “I’ll make it up to you — your reward — as soon as you start explaining yourself. Because I know you’re practically bursting at the seams to tell me your story, so go ahead,” he grinned, reconnecting with your neck. He gently squeezed your calf, “— I’m listening.” you could do nothing but shove his lips onto yours as he grumbled in surprise before you released him and began relishing in the feeling of his hands on your body the enormity of his precise attention all fixated upon you. Katsuki overwhelmed in his fervor — tremendously proud of you and undeniably smitten for you. And as he continued his love making punctuating exclamations marks in your story with a stilted thrust as he barked out his own commentary and confusion; only for you to grab his bicep in excitement exclaiming “right!” Before he continued slowly half-heartedly into the sex as he quirked his brow at a particular plot development. And when it was all said and done. The two of you wrapped up in his signature red cape all sweaty and glowing, you beamed. Your hands absentmindedly tracing circles onto his chest as he held you in his arms. “Now hold on—“ he grinned throwing your leg over his torso, “— you left off on the part where you were about to try that guys new flying device.” Katsuki chuckled as he watched you sit up. At that point in the story you’d given yourself in to the sex — although there would be more of that later; much more. He wanted you to finish this story you were telling. Because after two full moons there was nothing more that he wanted to hear than your voice.

that — and Katsuki had been curiously awaiting what trouble you’d come across as the two of you knew you didn’t have even the slightest sense of direction.

been thinking about how people in fairytales get split apart or smt and they have to find their way back together again and they go to their special place in hopes of finding one another again, but like what if one of them has an extremely poor sense of direction??!

[mightbewriting]

y o u  s h o u l d  s e e  m e  i n  a  c r o w n

another day, another wheel of doom with @ambpersand. today’s prompt was regency/royalty x ron/pansy. i had fun subverting this trope a bit and somehow ended up with something both filthy and kind of sweet? one hour/one thousand words. enjoy the end result!

“That’s it, Your Highness, you can take it.” A sharp crack against her arse punctuates his encouragement, or maybe it’s an order. Either way, he’s terribly out of line. 

“I could have your head for that,” she hisses as he sinks fully to the hilt. Pansy grips the downy comforter beneath her; she’s already out of breath, shuddering as he begins a slow pace thrusting into her from behind. 

Her body betrays her like this every time. One glance at his bright blue eyes, smattering of freckles, and ginger hair bold enough to rival and autumn sunset has a lifetime of decorum, of prestigious breeding and careful rules for engagement with those of lesser stock soaring out the nearest window. It’s a shame his strong arms and lopsided smile and peasant-bred cock make her feel so fucking good.

“Oh could you?” he asks with a laugh. Ronald Weasley, with no titles or lands to his name, has absolutely no right sounding unimpressed with her threats.

His fingers wrap around her upper arms, pulling her vertical. Her back meets his chest in time with the deepest part of a thrust; they moan together. She couldn’t have held it in if she tried. 

“I don’t think you will, Your Highness.” He whispers rough words in her ear before settling his teeth against her neck. 

His hands wander, palms navigating her body with the determination of a thorough cartographer, learning her curves and planes, marking points of interest at her breasts, plucking her nipples to stiff, aching peaks. His dips lower, destination of choice between her thighs; she is a map and X marks the spot. She nearly buckles when his index and middle finger slide along either side of her clit, but he holds her steady, one arm banded around her ribs.

“You’d have to tell someone, then, wouldn’t you? If you wanted to punish me.” It’s a harsh question that has her gasping. He cuts off her outrage with a swift swirl around her clit, diverting every indignant thought she might have had. She’s powerless against the skillful way he plays her. And she lets him. Keeps letting him. Time and time again.

After a long day.

Or a hard day.

When she’s stressed.

When she’s exhausted.

She seeks him out, delicate crown perched atop her head. 

And when he sees her, sees it, he smiles. Eyes fixed on her crown, he knows exactly the prize she’s offering. 

She nearly cries when he abandons her clit, hand gliding back up her stomach, over her breasts, dragging up her throat, and to her lips.

She obeys the silent order and sucks his fingers into her mouth. He’s not gentle, but she never asks him to be, not like this. A satisfied grunt against her neck is her reward as she takes his long fingers all the way to the back of her throat.

“That’s it,” he says, encouragement zipping up her spine. “Back on your hands and knees, Your Highness.”

He removes his fingers from her mouth and folds her over, elbows to her soft mattress. His next thrust, long and indulgent, rocks her forward, nearly pressing her face into the blankets. She clenches around him in the only form of retaliation she has left. His hiss brings a smile to her face. 

She has but a moment to revel before one of his drenched fingers presses into a part of her she’s only ever let him explore, only like this. His other hand finds her clit again, and between his hands and his cock she loses grasp on every last thought inside her head.

She’s nothing.

No one.

She feels. She knows pleasure. Consuming, burning, all encompassing pleasure.

And nothing else.

Distantly, she hears him encouraging her. Enough repetitions of Your Highness to get her drunk on the title, stuffed full of him. 

It’s on what must be his tenth “Come for me, Your Highness,” that her body finally relents, giving into his proletariate demand. The audacity that he demand anything from her is what sends her over, that and the way he has her stung to tight it’s a miracle she’s survive snapping for this long. 

He keeps thrusting into her as she comes, waves of pleasure undulating from her cheeks to her toes. She thinks she might be crying. Or at least, there are tears on her face. She can’t unclench her fist, stuck gripping the corner of her pillow as if her life depends on it. 

He finishes with an unrefined grunt, ripped from what sounds like the depths of his working-class soul. Her cunt is still fluttering when he pulls his fingers and his cock from her, gently grasping her hips and bringing her to lay beside him. 

These moments, this moment, is the best she’s ever felt. Freed from her body. From her own mind. Gently, Ron cancels the sticking charm on her crown and lifts it from her head, returning it to her bedside table.

“Pansy?” he asks, a frisson of worry threaded into her name. “Why are you crying? I thought it was a good scene? Did I do something wrong?” He pulls her into him. She doesn’t require much aftercare, not apart from closeness. She needs skin on skin, listening to his heartbeat, feeling his chest rise and fall as he catches his breath. She needs to feel cherished after allowing herself to be used. 

“I’ll tell them,” she whispers into his collarbones. “Our friends. I don’t want you to be a secret anymore.”

“That’s not what I meant, Pans. It was just for the—”

“I know,” she cuts him off with a kiss to his throat. His pulse hammers beneath her lips. “But I’m not ashamed of you, of this, you know. Only when I’m Queen Pansy. And that’s—different. Just between us.”

His chuckle rumbles from his chest, reverberating against her mouth. “And maybe we keep that bit just between us, yeah? The rest, though. I think I’d like them to know you’re mine.”

[bandiera--rossa]

Ukraine signed the Memorandum of Understanding on Raw Materials promoted by the EU in July 2021, and to which it was invited to participate in the alliance on batteries and raw materials.

***

Ukraine hopes the deal means significant investments in its raw materials, bringing wealth and jobs to the country, which is rich in many rare minerals unused underground, such as lithium used for batteries. With the soaring prices of rare minerals in recent years, several countries have expressed interest in Ukrainian wealth and the European Union seems to be in the lead, as essential in electronics, renewable energy, defense, automotive and aerospace.

The EU receives 98% of its rare raw materials such as bauxite, lithium, titanium and strontium from China. The EU expects the EU's lithium needs to increase 18 times by 2030 and 60 times by 2050. Ukraine's underground resources include a concentration of about a hundred types of minerals, the market value of which is estimated by experts at $ 7.5 trillion dollars. In total, Ukraine's mineral resource base consists of 20,000 mineral deposits and manifestations, of which 7,800 are being explored and only 3,300 are under development, "writes Mining World," Ukraine hosts significant reserves of non-ferrous metals. and rare earths, including deposits of beryllium, zirconium, tantalum and a complex of phosphoric rare earth and rare metal minerals.

They are the largest in Europe. The country also has a real opportunity to enter the global market with pure and ultra pure metals such as gallium, indium, thallium, lead and tin. The problem is that Ukraine is doing nothing to extract them, and to do so it needs foreign investment.

https://ukrainenu.com

***

1943 Soviet Ukraine map by R.M. Chapin Jr., Time Magazine cartographer on World War II and the Cold War, showing the Ukrainian resources that the Nazis had and that the Soviets were preparing to regain with the Kiev offensive (November 1943).

[binsofchaos]

Joni Mitchell | On “Amelia,” she becomes the sky...

was running away. From what or where to have never been as vital in Mitchell’s songs as her in-betweens—between relationships and cities, between heartbreak and repair, between chords and tenses. From her early song “Urge for Going” through her travelogue classic Blue and beyond, Mitchell typified the woman wanderer, rarely represented in music. Hejira, her sprawling eighth album, embodies this quintessence. The road rolls out of her like a surrealist painting on the cover, combining bold realism and abstraction. Mitchell interprets the Arabic title meaning “departure” as “escape with honor.” She was returning to herself. “I suppose a lot of people could have written a lot of my other songs,” Mitchell once said, “but I feel the songs on Hejira could only have come from me.” ...

Thirty-two years old with no license, Mitchell drove this band of outsiders east before looping back solo, down the coast of Florida and then along the Gulf of Mexico, “staying at old ’50s motels and eating at health food stores.” She adopted fake names like “Charlene Latimer.” She was often disguised in a red wig. She wrote most of Hejira on the guitar she kept in her white Mercedes. “I was getting away from romance, I was getting away from craziness,” Mitchell said, “and I was searching for something to make sense of everything.”

Hejira exalts the art of being a woman alone. It is restless music of road and sky, of interior and exterior weather suspended, epic and elemental. Her narratives unfurl with driving forward motion, telling stories of black crows and coyotes, of cafes and motel rooms; a bluesman and a pilot; psychics, hitchhikers, mothers, a guru. She contemplates eternity in a cemetery. She sees Michelangelo in the clouds. She hears jazz in the trees. Blue’s optimistic “traveling, traveling, traveling” gives way to an insatiable “travel fever,” each cartographic song extending the road further from Savannah to Staten Island to Canadian prairies, from Beale to Bleecker Streets. Her solitude distills the details into ascetic elegance...

Hejira’s tenor is one of personal reconstitution, but Mitchell populates the lyrics with characters she met along the way, some literal, some symbolic, each representing a fundamental component of her character. “Furry Sings the Blues” describes her actual visit with the bluesman Furry Lewis near Memphis’ crumbling Beale Street, one birthplace of the blues, and could be an allegory for the corruption of a music business that left its pioneers behind, another parking lot paved over paradise. (That’s Neil Young on harmonica.) “A Strange Boy” recounts her disappointing tryst with her travel companion and his confounding immaturity, standing in for the overall inadequacy of men that Mitchell had contended with so often. It’s attuned to mystery, representing this guy she couldn’t crack in amazing dialogue, like, “He asked me to be patient/Well I failed/‘Grow up!’ I cried/And as the smoke was clearing, he said/‘Give me one good reason why.’” On the discordant “Black Crow,” Mitchell likens herself to the bird overhead, brooding, searching, diving. But the most powerful of these itinerant encounters occurs solely in her imagination.

On “Amelia,” she becomes the sky. Her ode to Amelia Earhart is soaring and celestial. “Like me,” Mitchell sings of the disappeared aviator, “she had a dream to fly.” This austere six-minute ballad takes the form of a conversation “from one solo pilot to another,” Mitchell has said, “reflecting on the cost of being a woman and having something you must do.” Ambition must often go it alone, and Mitchell accordingly subtracts bass and drums entirely. What sounds like sweeping pedal steel is really Larry Carlton’s electric lead guitar and vibraphone. The song’s harmonic character is an arresting question mark, both unsettled and at ease, just like solo travel, knowing there might be something, someone missing yet savoring the space created by absence. Mitchell spoke of Hejira’s “sweet loneliness,” to which “Amelia”’s major chords and resilience attest. “Amelia, it was just a false alarm,” goes Mitchell’s refrain ending each verse, ending every romance, too. As she sings of “driving across the burning desert,” likening six vapor trails to “the hexagram of the heavens [...] the strings of my guitar,” and how Earhart was “swallowed by the sky,” the whole forlorn song seems to go that way. Stars glint in its upper edges.

Clouds and flight, metaphors for freedom and what tempers it, had long been two of Mitchell’s central obsessions. She called descendants of the Canadian prairies, like herself, “sky-oriented people,” and writing on a plane in 1967, she had looked down on clouds to contemplate life, arriving at her standard, the timeless “Both Sides, Now.” But nine years on, in “Amelia,” she equates her living in “clouds at icy altitudes” with her long-standing depression that left her admitting she’s “never really loved.” When she pulls into “the Cactus Tree Motel” to sleep on the “strange pillows of my wanderlust,” the inn’s name is an allusion to her 1968 song about a woman “so busy being free.” Her life’s motifs knock the door in Georgia, too, on the winking torch song “Blue Motel Room,” where rain turns the ground to “cellophane,” a word Mitchell famously used to describe her defenseless Blue era; “Will you still love me?” she yearns coolly, echoing a formative influence.

Of all the land Mitchell traveled, though, the space and otherworldly plantlife of the arid Sonoran Desert seem to have made the greatest impact, as evidenced on “Amelia.” The desert is an isolated landscape pitched to infinity, a place to confront yourself and your insignificance in the scheme of things. On her song named for a desert creature, “Coyote,” she voices her desire “to run away” and “wrestle with my ego.”

Her ego-erasing quest comes to a head on “Hejira.” The title track is a sprawling monument to her decade of turning personal catastrophe into philosophy, laying bare her cardinal themes. “Possessive coupling.” “The breadth of extremities.” “Comfort in melancholy.” Unlike Hejira’s other songs, it contains few proper nouns: it specifically confronts the existential expanses of muted despair instead, illumination eclipsed with pain in the music's depths. She’s “traveling in some vehicle.” She’s “sitting in some cafe.” She’s “a defector from the petty wars that shell shock love away.” If heartbreak redeems itself by creating knowledge, then “Hejira” locates the precise coordinates where that shift occurs. Nowhere in her catalog does she create a richer or more rigorous self-portrait.

I know no one’s going to show me everything We all come and go unknown Each so deep and superficial Between the forceps and the stone

On “Hejira,” Mitchell interrogates her 32 years. She had made profound sacrifices for the sake of her art, which perhaps accounts for the music’s intensity: When you feel you’ve sacrificed everything for your work, you bring everything to it. She looked for answers in every corner of the country her car could reach. She poured in every reserve and inexhaustible query. What are the uses of solitude? How close to nerves and bone can you get? Is art worth the sacrifice? Could she ever fully be seen? Her music stretches into a dissolving horizon suggesting the questions are unanswerable. Its unresolved charge suggests that life will be a cycle of finding meaning in the questions. In the spartan space, Mitchell invites us to complete the picture.

Staring at headstones on “Hejira,” “those tributes to finality,” pondering death, she considered her life. “I looked at myself here,” she sings, “Chicken scratching for my immortality.” Even Joni Mitchell must sometimes feel meaningless, at the top of the mountain, wondering what everything is worth. She always said she embraced granular details in her autobiographical art songs because it made a better story, and people should “know who they’re worshiping.” Here she offers a metaphysical magnification of her most atomic truths.

We’re only particles of change Orbiting around the sun But how can I have that point of view When I’m always bound and tied to someone

Two other of Hejira’s songs illustrate as much. “Song for Sharon” is Mitchell’s reckoning with her position as single and childfree in her 30s, subverting the status quo in subject and in form. She’d addressed this reality before, like on For the Roses’ “Woman of Heart and Mind.” But in this nine-minute letter to her long-lost friend back home, Sharon Bell—who took a conventional path, “a husband and a farm”—she went further, surveying the advice she’d received from other women about how to give her life meaning: “have children,” “find yourself a charity.” With unbothered resolve and an even-handed tone—not innate for Mitchell—she situates herself between these two pathways of womanhood, seeking the common ground between herself and Sharon, or maybe between herself and all women, like her mother and grandmother who suppressed their dreams. “Song for Sharon” blows up the myth of the pop renegade with no direction home. Staring the past in the eye, Mitchell admits (in a call back to Blue’s “All I Want”), “All I really want to do right now is find another lover,” the last word drifting like smoke...

Hejira built a new sound to match the feminist paradigm it presented for being a woman in the world, with autonomy, adventure, and pleasure all as virtues. In the mid-’70s, the trope of the solo male traveler seeking enlightenment in meandering solitude was well-defined by tales like Walden and On the Road, even Siddhartha. Women travelers were unknown. Mitchell’s position “made most people nervous,” she sings on the beautiful, gently loping album closer, “Refuge of the Roads,” which describes her meeting with Tibetan Buddhist spiritual teacher Chögyam Trungpa. But her role brought others to life. In 1959, Simone de Beauvoir had posited, in The Second Sex, that “the free woman is just being born,” and when she arrived so would her poetry. Hejira is evidence, a shapeshifting aesthetic to voice a still-emerging mode of being female.

[dailycharacteroption]

Cartographer (Investigator Archetype)

 The role of the cartographer is one that is often overlooked in history, filled with it’s own difficulties in a world where satellite imaging is millenia away and magic that could help is not always available. To be able to look at the lay of an unknown land from the ground level and interpolate that into a map is quite the skill, and even if they never get to map a truly uncharted land, the changing of borders and terrain, as well as specific relevant information makes map-making a constantly relevant skill to have.

It is no wonder, then, that there would be adventurers, particularly with a love of exploration that would learn this skill.

An excellent example of an investigator that isn’t an investigator at all, today’s subject represents someone with a keen, observant mind capable of reading into anything they come across, be it foes in combat, the situation around them, or of course the lay of the land, or the layout of a city or building.

A particular advantage that cartographers have when it comes to maps, one that ties them closer to investigators, is how their keen sense of spatial awareness can lead them to notice inconsistencies, like an area where a secret door might be, or where a street hidden from the public eye is located, and so on.

In any case, these individuals lend their vast talents to keeping track of where they have been and where they are going to any expedition or exploration they are a part of.

 By taking time to read the area, be it a landscape, a dungeon complex, or a city, and sketch out a map, these investigators can become exceptionally adept at navigating the terrain and hazards of that area, moving and acting with inspired grace while within. However, they can only benefit from this in areas they are aware of when they drew the map. A hidden room, cave, grove, or the like may still vex them. Of course, such inspiration can only last as long as they maintain it, and over time, things will change, forcing them to update their map should they choose to focus on that area again.

Cunning geographers, these cartographers can not only make a decent living off of their maps, but also use their knowledge to help get their bearings, finding North with ease by reading their environment.

While in a studied and mapped landscape, they can also guide others to travel swiftly no matter how rough the trail is, finding the best routes and striding with confidence.

Interested in a character that benefits from many classic investigator abilities, but it more geared towards the wilds? This archetype can be quite useful in that regards. You won’t be handling poisons that much, and your knowledge checks aren’t quite as reliable, but you do get a lot of utility in a region or dungeon with only 10 minutes of preparation. Of course, this is less useful in dungeons since your map only applies to areas you have explored, making them mostly for backtracking around before or after finishing off the boss or other encounters.

 Being a cartographer by necessity means travelling around a lot to get a better understanding of the lay of the land. As such, one might expect one of these mapmakers to be more worldly and open because of this, in contrast to more bookish characters. Also worth noting is that the extracts of these cartographers are likely less themed as alchemical concoctions as they are useful brews for the road, being quasi-magical medicine and stimulants in most cases rather than having a mad science vibe.

  Nothing is more thrilling to Sevara than using magical flight to soar over the landscape, looking down on the world from above. It’s no wonder then that the sylph became a cartographer when she came of age. Enlisting her help might be useful in finding the lost wealth of the Miro Empire.

 A frozen, trackless waste, the icy polar regions have only incomplete maps, though explorers have tried to chart the region before. Succeeding will require perserverance, planning, and actually having the humility to ask the locals for help. Also avoiding getting eaten by glacier toads and other icy threats.

 They say that legendary cartographer Malphin Morias took his most prized chart, a map of the Lost Continent, with him to his grave. Plenty have plundered the tomb before, but some suggest that somewhere within lies the clue as to where the chart was hidden. Of course, few think to ask why Malphin chose to conceal the map in the first place.

[lesmond-sycamore]

Scavenger Hunts

Words: 1971

ao3 link Summary:  Ivor, Harper, Jack, and Nurm have been given scavenger hunt lists by Petra and Jesse, but why? Notes: LOOK I KNOW IT'S PAST 12 AM BUT IT'S TECHNICALLY 10 PM PACIFIC TIME. I HAD WORK. Anyways, enjoy!

“You know, I’m starting to get tired of this wild fox chase.” Jack groaned as he fumbled with the piece of paper that would lead him to a “secret prize, in three weeks (which was, of course, today) only” as stated by Petra in her correspondence a few weeks prior. Nurm hummed lazily in response as he continued to mark locations on his map, unaffected by the stress of figuring out the answers to the clues to the scavenger hunt Petra had created for the two. Jack sighed, “I know, I know, but it’s been months since the last time we’ve seen her, Nurmie. I’m just- I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t be worried about her, but you how I am. I miss her, we haven’t gotten to see her all day because of this stupid scavenger hunt, and I have no clue when’s the next time she’ll be in town, an-” Nurm grumbled at Jack, indicating that he needed to just calm down for a second. Jack sighed once again to calm down his nerves. He might’ve been overreacting a bit.

Jack glanced at the pumpkin and enderpearl he had already gathered. “I just don’t see the point of this. Petra’s never done anything like this before. Why today? Do you think they found something while they were out adventuring and wanted to create hype to impress us?” Jack paused, then smiled fondly at the thought. “Doesn’t she know we’re already proud of her?”

Nurm hummed in agreement, Of course she does. She might just want to shake things up, although I will say that today-, Nurm trailed off. Jack stared at his husband for a moment, waiting for him to continue, but when he went back to studying his map of Beacontown, Jack realized he had no intention of picking up where he left off. Was today special?

=========================================================================

“Ivor, seriously? You haven’t seen Jesse in months and you’re going to go dressed like you robbed a zombie villager?” Haper asked a very, very frantic Ivor who was currently wearing nothing but a (well-loved) bathrobe and hopping on one leg as he struggled to put on his shoe.

Ivor finished putting on his shoe and glanced down to his attire. “What? Both of you have already seen me in my underwear! I don’t think my bathrobe’s going to kill them considering how everything… and everyone… that’s already tried has failed. Including me. Twice.”

“Still. We have to go into town to do this… scavenger hunt? What’s that all about?” Harper asked, pulling a quill out from behind her ear in preparation, studying the list in front of her. “What the heck is a ‘block of a cheated deal?’ Does that mean anything to you?” she asked as she scrunched her face in confusion.

Ivor hummed in concentration as he collected his potions (you could never be too careful) as he mulled over the question. He planted a quick peck on Harper’s cheek as he began to walk towards the door. “I think I have an idea of what that means,” he stated with a wink as he made his way out the door, ready to solve the puzzle he had been presented.

“But you apparently still have no idea how to dress. Change into something decent if you’re going to been perceived by strangers, love,” Harper punctuated with a face palm, failing to hide the smile creeping on her lips.

=========================================================================

“Looks like we’ve got most of the items, Nurmie. I hate to say it, but I think I’m actually pretty good at this. Looks like my adventurer’s intuition still runs in my veins. That or I’m still plain awesome,” Jack boasted as they made their back to Jack and Nurm’s Adventure Emporium to have a quick break and focus on the last item on the list, items in hand. “Although… I still don’t know what we’re supposed to do with all of these things.” Jack glanced over each item: an enderpearl, a stack of snowballs, a few baked potatoes, a sponge, a couple of pieces of zombie flesh, and a pumpkin. He hoped the quantities didn’t matter too much, because he lost all of his enderpearls when his shop was ransacked during Romeo’s reign in Beacontown and the price of a stack was not cheap.

Nurm rolled his eyes at his husband’s gloating. Jack playfully nudged the cartographer in the arm and scoffed in fake offense. Jack continued to walk and study the items he was currently carrying until he realized that the villager’s footsteps had ceased. Jack turned his head to look at Nurm with confusion at the random stop, until Nurm spoke. Jack, is that…? The villager gestured in front of them and tilted his head. Jack followed his gaze to find… Ivor and Harper outside the Adventure Emporium. What were they doing here?

=========================================================================

“Ivor! Harper! Hey!” someone shouted to the couple. The two spun around to find… Jack and Nurm! Perfect timing! The retired adventurer jogged up to the two and shook their hands in greeting.

“Jack, it’s been forever!” Ivor exclaimed. “How’s Petra? I know she and Jesse are supposed to be in town today.”

Jack sighed and shook his head. “We haven’t seen her at all today. She gave us this list of items that we’ve had to find, but we’re confused on what the last one means. How’s Jesse?” “I’m afraid we’re in a similar situation ourselves,” Harper stated plainly. “We’re almost done, though. It’s weird, all of these items are so… seemingly unrelated. Do you think they have any connection?” She nodded down at her own items: a block of redstone, an assortment of stained glass, an iron axe, a block of lapis, a few fireworks, and some soul sand. “We had to solve a bunch of crazy riddles to find the items we were looking for.”

“Sounds exactly like we were doing,” Jack stated as he showed the other couple his own items. “Did Jesse put you up to this?”

Ivor studied the items in Jack’s hands for a moment and then flicked his eyes up to meet Jack’s. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m assuming Petra did the same to you?”

“Correct you are, my friend.” Jack answered. He put the items back in his inventory before gesturing to the two of them and then to the building. “I see that you’re standing outside our shop. Is there something you need?” he inquired.

Harper spoke up. “There is, actually. I’m not well-versed in anything non-mesa related, and Ivor thinks the final clue has something to do with adventuring. Do you know what item the clue ‘the big finale let you soar’ is hinting at?”

Jack grinned. “I think I have an idea.”

=========================================================================

“I appreciate your help very much, Jack,” Harper thanked the retired adventurer as he handed her the second-to-last item on her and Ivor’s list: the elytra Jesse used to fly to the tower from the Admin episode.

“It's no problem. Now if only Petra could tell us what our last clue means. Nurm and I have been trying for the past few hours to crack it, to no avail,” Jack admitted with a defeated tone.

“What is it? We might be able to help. Actually, we've been scratching our darn heads at our own final clue. I don't have the slightest idea what ‘where it all began’ could be in reference to.”

“Ours is similar. ‘The first unhelping hand?’”

Ivor crossed his arms and closed his eyes in thought, lightly tapping his foot and humming. Nurm did the same, and slightly bit his lip. Harper chose to unconsciously chew on her quill, resulting in her gagging slightly when she got a mouthful of feather instead of the wood of her normal pencil and blushing, hoping no one else saw her do it. Jack opted to spread both lists and all items out on a nearby table and study them intently.

After a few minutes of silence, Nurm chirped and all eyes fell on him. Jack listened intently to what he had to say. Jack, think about our adventure all those months ago and look at the items we've gotten so far. Do you see a coincidence?

Jack glanced at the items and the lists. “Yeah... yeah! The sponge for the Sea Temple, the snowballs for the Icy Palace of Doom, the zombie flesh for the Sunshine institute, I think the pumpkin is for the golems everywhere, the enderpearl for the giant enderman, and the potatoes for that stupid password! Ugh, I cannot believe it took me this long to realize what they had in common. Harper, Ivor, are your items similar?”

Ivor dashed over to the table “Why yes! Of course! How could I have been so blind? These items line up perfectly with the many adventure I had with Jesse! Could this mean...?” Everyone watches Ivor study he and Harper’s list in anticipation. “I think I know what ‘where it all began’ is! The ender dragon egg! Without that, I would have never created the Witherstorm, and Jesse would've never saved the world and I would’ve never gone on those many adventures!”

“And I would still be in Crown Mesa, trying to avoid being chipped,” Harper commented with a sad tone in her voice.

Ivor nodded. “And I would’ve never…” he trailed off, eyes finding the floor the most interesting place to look at at the moment.

Jack gave an acknowledging grunt and closed his eyes “In that case, do you think that ‘unhelping hand’ could be the Ad- Romeo’s gauntlet Jesse found that made them and Petra seek us out in the first place?” Nurm nodded in agreement. Jack opened his eyes and grinned. “Well, I think we all know where those two items are.”

Everyone looked between each other and then spoke in unison. “The Order Hall.”

=========================================================================

“What happened to all the darn lights in this place? I thought this place was supposed to be ninety-percent windows? I’m not going crazy, right?... right?” Harper asked as the group walked inside the Order Hall, treading carefully in the unusual darkness that was only broken by the light cast through the open door.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been here, Harper. Radar was left in charge after Jesse took off too seek out adventure with Petra and that llama. Maybe the man just has… peculiar taste. I did build my lab inside the Farlands myself, you know,” Ivor commented.

The group continued to trudge quietly through the Order Hall, careful not to trip over anything or anyone. After a few steps, the group heard a click, and Ivor, Harper, and Jack each drew their swords they carried for protection. Jack spoke up in a whisper “Quickly, get behind me” and the rest followed the instruction as best they could.

Everyone tensed, their breaths held, frantically glancing around the room, searching for any signs of life. It felt like an eternity, but only a few seconds after the click, the sounds of retracting pistons could be heard all around the four. Jack shuffled, preparing himself for any potential attacks, survival instincts kicking in action, ready to do what it took to protect his friends and husband, he-

The pistons finished retracting, leaving the Order Hall basked in the evening sky’s light. All four members of the group blinked at the brightness, adjusting their eyes. Once they could see again, their sight was filled with a few things: Jesse holding the ender dragon’s egg, Petra holding the Sea Temple gauntlet, a giant table full of food between the two New Order members, and Lluna in an (admittedly adorable) chef hat behind the table. Ivor, Harper, Jack, and Nurm stood in stunned confusion, until Petra and Jesse broke the silence with giant grins on their faces.

“Happy Father’s Day!”

[needtherapy]

soaring, carried aloft on the wind...continued 9

A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.

The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.

In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.

He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.

Part 1: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 … HOME

It’s on AO3 here if that’s easier to read.

NOTES: This story starts out G but will eventually be E for Explicit. (warning in this chapter for reference to prior attempted assault)

For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!

Chapter 9

Qingyang doesn’t come to Xichen’s tent in the morning for lessons, and Xichen only waits for the time it takes to play Tranquility once before he goes to find her.

If it was Huaisang, he wouldn’t be concerned, but Qingyang is always prompt. He considers the possibilities. Even though she spends so much of her day with him, she is still a cartographer, so it’s possible she merely forgot to tell him she would be working on something else. But this is a war. This is an army. He can’t help but worry.

His first thought is to check the command center, where he assumes Huaisang and Mingjue are. But he’s never been, and it’s next to Mingjue’s tent. If he has to ask directions....

No, it makes more sense to go to the tent Qingyang’s shares with some of the other single women in the area of the camp designated for non-military officials. He has, at least, been there once, and if she isn’t there, then he can consider looking for her somewhere else. The commissary perhaps?

He isn’t nervous to see Mingjue, he tells himself, walking through the organized city of tents. He is being logical.

Xichen hesitates on the threshold of the tent he knows is Qingyang’s from the yellow and white peonies painted around the door. It seems intrusive to barge in, but he hears a noise from inside, something close to a sob, and he peeks in, noting the sparse accommodations in this tent. Each woman has a bedroll—thick, but still directly on the ground—and a small trunk, presumably with personal belongings. It makes sense for an army to live lightly, but it makes him wish his own space was a little less ostentatious. What must Qingyang think of him?

He sees her immediately, the source of the sound that had caught his attention. He has grown so accustomed to Qingyang’s cheerful resilience, it is a shock to see her hunched on the edge of her bed, face in her hands, crying.

“Qingyang?” he asks, and she jolts, shooting to her feet and wiping away the tears.

“Xichen, I’m sorry, I’m late. I...I’m fine. Just homesick, I guess,” she stammers, forcing a smile onto her face.

He accepts the lie. If she doesn’t want to tell him, he’s not going to ask. He has already overstepped more than he should have.

“No apology necessary. I was worried for you. Will you come with me and have breakfast? Perhaps we can even track down something more palatable than Beifeng tea,” he tries to joke, and she laughs, thin and wispy, but since she’s making the effort, he chuckles too.

She nods and grabs a long cotton shawl, woven in a bright stripes as the Beifeng women wear. They walk through the rows quietly. Qingyang seems lost in thought, and Xichen doesn’t want to interrupt. Instead, he tucks an arm behind his back and observes the tents they pass.

The encampment is organized into companies, and each company is arranged around a small common area that has at least a fire pit, but many of them have logs to sit on, cooking pots, huge wash tubs, even the occasional tethered horse. The tents are identical, but some of them have personal touches: lanterns over entryways, strings of bells tinkling in the breeze, drawings of horses and birds, mountains and trees around the tent flaps. The army has been here nearly a year, he thinks. Long enough to yearn for home.

Qingyang stiffens and stops, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her body.

“Not that way,” she hisses, and Xichen turns in the direction she is staring.

There is a tall man standing at the end of a row of tents watching them. Watching Qingyang. Xichen knows very few of the Beifeng soldiers by sight—only the guards at his door and a few he’s seen at the hospital. He knows some of the healers, some of the kitchen staff, and the woman who cleans his tent. He has never seen this man. He’s sure he’d remember him. His face looks sculpted by a rough chisel and a hurried artist, distinct and somewhat disquieting. When the man catches sight of Xichen, his expression turns flat and cold.

A warning prickles the back of his neck, and he doesn’t blame Qingyang for wanting to avoid this person. They turn down another row, both hurrying their pace.

“Hewnta!” the man’s deep voice calls from behind him. “Etan Hewnta, iko om touha?

Xichen turns. The man is right on their heels. Xichen doesn’t know the word “Hewnta,” but the man warps it into something spiteful, and he doesn’t need the exact translation to know it’s an insult.

“Dei. Em ereda anha outam,” he says firmly, putting himself between the approaching threat and Qingyang.

Xichen expects the tall man to back down. In only a few scant weeks, he’s grown accustomed to the Beifeng treating him with deference, sometimes even fear. He disliked the implication at first, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.

He doesn’t expect the man to argue. He definitely doesn’t expect three other people, a woman and two men, to step into the row with the tall man.

Roka ta em ereda kei dikas,” the tall man snarls. “Roka eko em ereda kei dikas hako, egadi.”

It’s easy enough for Xichen to recognize that he’s being cursed without knowing exactly how, but the man looks past him, pointing, aiming his cruelty at Qingyang. She bites her lip and looks away from Xichen, as though hiding the injury means it doesn’t hurt, and there’s too much it reminds him of, too much reflection of his brother in her eyes for Xichen to walk away.

Xichen narrows his eyes and holds up his hand. “Dei,” he repeats. “Ereda irumaka.”

The man roars with laughter, and Xichen is done placating. He grasps the hand still raised toward Qingyang and pushes just enough of his power into the tall man to force him to one knee. The man’s laughter breaks off, replaced with rage, but he stays down.

“Xichen, stop. I don’t care. Damias is always an ass.”

Qingyang tugs his sleeve, and Xichen reluctantly pulls back. A part of him would very much like to hurt this Damias a little more for the tears on Qingyang’s face, but Qingyang is right. It’s better to go.

As soon as he turns away, he hears it. There’s no mistaking the sound of a sword being drawn. Xichen has just enough time to meet Qingyang’s eyes and wordlessly apologize. She didn’t want a confrontation and now there will be one.

Xichen opens his awareness to feel the sword moving through the air, and he ducks in time for it to easily sail over his head. The man is a skilled warrior, though, and recovers almost immediately, pivoting in the narrow space between two tents and sweeping back at Xichen. This time, Damias doesn’t make the same mistake and swings low, twisting at the waist and planting his feet to put more power behind his strike. Xichen sidesteps and kicks his wrist.

It should have sent the blade flying, or at the very least, driven the man’s arm up into the air. It should have ended this stupid, useless fight.

But the man is stronger than Xichen anticipated, and he controls the sword just enough to keep it in his hand.

But Xichen didn’t realize Qingyang had stepped behind him, maybe to stop him, maybe to get out of the way.

But he sees Qingyang too late, only in time to see the sword slash into her, and she falls.

His first instinct is terror for his friend. Slowly, the memory of what he saw solidifies in his mind. He realizes that the sword missed her torso entirely, and the staining blood is from a slice across her leg. Even more slowly, as though the world has paused to give him a chance to perceive the entire scene at once, he sees Damias grin and cock his right arm back, the fingers of his other hand crooking to grasp the Beifeng magic, and Xichen knows he can not let him continue.

He grabs the man’s neck, the only exposed part of his body, and pours all the magic he can muster into him. Xichen has only felt this once, for the merest fraction of a second when his father was teaching him how to use the gift that lives inside him, but he knows it feels like burning alive from the inside out. Damias screams as the full inferno of Xichen’s power tears through him. Xichen lets go almost immediately—he only wants to stop Damias, not kill him—and the man drops to his hands and knees retching, the sword finally falling from his hand.

Xichen looks at the man’s friends running toward him and holds up a hand. The woman skids to a stop, her face a mask of fright and she drops to the ground in supplication, but the other two—

The other two don’t have time to stop.

A black wave of Beifeng magic flows over them, thicker than Xichen has ever seen, the curling smoke arresting their movements like ants drowning in a drop of tree sap. They both scrabble desperate hands at their throats and Xichen realizes the magic is inside them, choking the air from their lungs.

He whirls.

This is the Mingjue he expected when he came to the Beifeng. This Mingjue striding toward him is the pitiless warlord, his eyes too dark to read, his fingers curled around the cloud of magic still holding the soldiers tightly. This Mingjue’s sword is drawn and raised, and he looks fully intent on using it. This Mingjue looks like the demon everyone fears, who came from the mountains and cut a bloody path through Xichen’s country.

Xichen’s gut lurches sideways, and an errant thought—what would he look like with his hair down—wanders through his mind.

But when Mingjue reaches Xichen, his expression shifts from tight-lipped outrage to something that almost looks like fear, and his eyes search Xichen’s face and form, as if looking for something. Xichen realizes that it must have looked like he was being attacked by the soldiers, and a terrible, disgraceful shard of his heart exults in being the one who is defended, the one someone else protects.

Damias groans, and Mingjue’s attention shifts, a predator to prey. His arm raises slightly and Xichen is suddenly afraid for these people. They did a foolish thing, but they don’t deserve to die for it. He wants to stop Mingjue, but he doesn’t have the words to explain, and he needs to help Qingyang.

“Anakau, peimi!”

Xichen has never been so relieved to see Huaisang.

“Ahora’ipa, ka marai ota eko?” Mingjue growls, ignoring Huaisang.

“Ekos, Ipira’orhew Ikira,” Xichen answers. Luckily, “no” is one of the first words he learned.

Mingjue frowns, but he lowers his sword. He doesn’t release the magic, but it seems to ease, the nearly opaque cloud fading to smoke. The woman doesn’t get up, but she starts speaking in rapid Orera, obviously pleading. Pleading for her life, Xichen suspects.

“What happened?” Huaisang asks Xichen urgently, but Xichen pushes past him to get to Qingyang.

“Qingyang, I am so sorry. This is my fault,” Xichen says, kneeling next to her. She’s wearing wide-legged pants, and he shoves them up to her thigh, heedless of propriety. He moves her hand and touches her bloody leg. The injury is a long crease cut across the top of her leg. He wants to cry. He keeps making mistakes, and he doesn’t want to get anyone else hurt.

She smiles wanly at him. “I’m fine.”

He disagrees. The flow of blood has slowed, but she’s still bleeding. He draws a healing line across the wound, trying to make it painless but shaken at how deeply it goes into her muscle. It could have been so much worse. There are life-sustaining vessels in the legs. If the sword had pierced one…

“Xichen, truly, I’m fine,” she repeats, and Xichen realizes he is crying, dripping tears onto her knee. “You can leave the scar if you want,” she tells him. “Girls love scars.”

His laughter is hoarse and shaky, but it’s laughter. She grins at him.

“You need to tell me what happened,” Huaisang repeats, the urgency in his voice catching Xichen’s attention. “Did they attack you?”

It is Qingyang who answers. “Yes. Earlier, Damias tried...well, it doesn’t matter, because he wasn’t successful. He was angry because I’m only half Beifeng. It was just a mistake that we ran into them here, but Damias drew his sword and tried to attack Xichen. The others…” She pauses and frowns. “I don’t know. They didn’t do anything. Maybe they would have tried to stop him.”

“And this?” Huaisang asks, gesturing to her leg.

“This was my fault,” Xichen repeats gloomily.

“This was an accident, Xichen,” Qingyang sighs, sounding irritated.

“Take Qingyang back to your tent now,” Huaisang tells him quietly, not as calm as he appears. “We’ll deal with this.”

Mingjue releases the magic suddenly, and Xichen can feel the relief in the air, like a sudden rain that breaks the humidity of summer or the biting wind of winter giving way to spring. Mingjue shouts something furious, and the woman somehow shrinks further into the ground. The two men are now gasping to breathe, and one of them sags to the ground with the woman, but the other is apparently too slow. Without warning, Mingjue punches him in the jaw, and the man drops like a bucket into a well. Mingjue gestures at the other two people, making it clear that the man should have thought of this himself. He seems angry, yes, but Xichen thinks he also looks profoundly disappointed, and he pauses, wanting—what? To say something soothing? What can he say?

“Xichen, go,” Huaisang says, the tension in his voice prodding Xichen to obey. “I’ll come talk to you later.”

He’s worn out from the healing and from stopping Damias, but Xichen lifts Qingyang and carries her back to his tent, where he insists that she sleep on his bed. She looks like she plans to be stubborn about it, so he brushes a hand across her forehead to push a little bit more warmth into her and make the sleep a little bit more imperative, then sits on a cushion to wait for Huaisang.

Xichen wakes without ever having realized he’d fallen asleep to the sound of raised voices outside his tent. It sends a spike of fear through him before he recognizes them. They get louder, and he’s afraid they’ll wake Qingyang. He pads to the tent flap.

As he expected, Huaisang is yelling, and Mingjue is glowering, arms crossed.

“Huaisang, shhhh. Qingyang is sleeping,” Xichen says, and they both jump.

Huaisang looks instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, I was just saying that.” He glares at Mingjue, the I told you so obvious. “We should be going.”

He pulls Mingjue’s arm, but Mingjue shakes him off and takes a step toward Xichen before he seems to catch himself, hands clenching into fists. Instead of moving closer, he says Xichen’s name like it’s a question, searching Xichen’s expression for an answer.

The answer, Xichen thinks, depends on the exact question, but he thinks Mingjue might be surprised. Xichen isn’t shocked to see the kind of power and violence Mingjue is capable of. This is an army. This is war. It was no more than Xichen had done. Less, even. He looks into Mingjue’s eyes, eyes that look red and bloodshot from unshed or maybe even shed tears, and he thinks Mingjue must have believed he had no choice but to harm his own people for Xichen and Qingyang. And Xichen thinks perhaps he is the more ruthless man, because he would shed no tears to hurt Damias again for whatever he did to make Qingyang cry.

He wishes he had the right words to explain.

Mingjue reaches for Xichen as though he can’t stop himself, but Huaisang interrupts.

“Xichen, tell Qingyang that Damias has been demoted, branded, and sent home without a horse. He won’t bother her again. The others have only been demoted, but they have been strictly ordered to leave you both alone. I’m sorry this happened. It’s not...it’s not how most people think.”

Xichen nods and hesitates before going back inside. Why, he asks himself, is he hesitating?

But he knows why.

Stepping forward, he slips one arm around Mingjue’s waist and rests the other on his chest, above the steady beat of his heart. Stretching, he kisses Mingjue on the cheek. Tiny sparks flit over his chin, his lips, his nose—all the places that graze Mingjue’s skin. The world doesn’t stop spinning, but a breathless part of him wishes it would give him just a little longer to stay here.

“Thank you for being there. Tiras mau,” Xichen says softly, for only Mingjue to hear.

Mingjue closes his eyes and inhales as though it is the answer he was looking for, the only answer he needs. He covers Xichen’s hand on his chest and squeezes, touching his forehead to Xichen’s, a simple gesture that has no right to feel as shockingly intimate as it does. It puts words in Xichen’s mouth that he has to bite back—will you stay, will you come inside, will you kiss me again? Qingyang is still sleeping on his bed. Perhaps it’s for the best. He steps away, and Mingjue’s fingers trail over Xichen’s palm as he finally lets Huaisang pull him away.

Xichen watches them go as something loudly and firmly locks inside his heart.

Notes:

Hewnta! Etan Hewnta, iko om touha? = [Insulting word for person who speaks Yuyan]! Hewnta woman, back for more?

Dei. Em ereda anha outam. = Stop. We’re leaving.

Roka ta em ereda kei dikas. Roka eko em ereda kei dikas hako, egadi. = She doesn’t belong here. You don’t belong here either, [insult for weak man].

Dei. Ereda irumaka. = Stop. Go away.

Anakau, peimi! = Elder brother, wait!

Ahora’ipa, ka marai ota eko? = Ahora’ipa, have they hurt you?

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 34 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 34 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 11: Selection

Captain Mord, Kurin and a delegation of the Longin’s Craft Masters set out for the Council Pavilion several hours after sunrise.  Their large gig was overtaken by Captain Sula and Captain Huld in a long, narrow, very fast rowing boat.  Sula was pulling her own oars, and Huld was steering.

In a disgustingly cheerful voice, she called out to them, “What ho, Longin!  Have you decided what to do?  Is there aught that I can do for you?”

“Be with us as a voice of reason,” replied Captain Mord.  “At least you have been able to talk the Council into sanity.”

“Will do!” she answered cheerily, and bent her back to the oars.  Her boat quickly disappeared into the throng about the market platforms.

Shortly, the Longin’s delegation was standing before a packed Council, Sula and Huld at their side.  The news that the Longin might be opening up Ship’s Business had spread.  There was a loud babble of voices that slowly settled down, when Captain Mord raised his hand for attention.

“Yesterday, I said that I would counsel my crew to open up some of our Ship’s Business.  They have agreed to do so.”

There was a loud murmur of delight among the assembled Captains.

Mord held up his hands for silence again.  “We find the fish by means of special charts, prepared by the Dragon’s Daughter, in connection with our past fishing catch records.  She will make charts for your waters, too.”  He was interrupted by a loud rumble of approval. Once again he sought silence so that he could proceed.  “Her skilled services are not instant, nor are they free.  You may inquire of the Craft Masters with me about the cost.”  This was met with outright hostility.

“Your charts didn’t cost you anything!  Why should we pay?” was about the gentlest reaction.  Some were much ruder.

Captain Sula raised her hands for silence, and when she didn’t get it, she picked up a Council bench, dumping Captain Barad unceremoniously to the floor.  She ripped a leg off the stool and smashed it against the seat with a loud report.  Seeing what she had done, and knowing that few of them had the strength to do it, the rambunctious Captains quieted.  

“Their charts were most certainly not free!” she exclaimed.  “What would you charge for the completely dedicated use of any of your ships, from one full Wohan to the next?  Come, come, give me a reasonable figure.  Assume that your ship does nothing in all those weeks but sail under the direction of the cartographer?”

That put a different light on things, and gave them something actual to work with.  They began figuring.  Discussion ran rampant, and Sula let it.  This was constructive work going on.

They answered at last, through Sarfin, Captain of the Dorton, and present leader of the Council, “We are agreed on the value of such a voyage.  It comes to 2,600 Strong Skins.”

“Now,” smiled Sula, “you yourselves have set the value of such charts for three home waters.  That is how long it took the Longin to make her charts.  Expensive?  Yes.  Paid off?  In the Longin’s case, nearly, and in only half a Gathering.  Some may take longer, some may be quicker.  It will depend on what the charts reveal.  I would call it a good risk.  Talk to the Longin’s Masters.  They have more to say.”

Mord took over again, with a serious face.  “We intend to reveal the next part, which is connected to the charts and the exploiting of them.  It is a skill of accurate dead reckoning navigation that works in fog or cloudy weather, day or night.  This will require an act of the Council.  We mean to set up a school for such navigation and certify the navigators through the Council.

“Before any Captain offers debate, we will give a demonstration.  Take Bron, one of our cabin boys, and a good pupil, by Kurin’s account, one day’s sail in a small boat, in any direction from here.  Let him be blindfolded from before he leaves here, until he gets back.  To be sure, follow him in another boat and observe him at all times.”

The demonstration was agreed to.  Bron was taken out and put adrift in a small boat, with rations and water, and followed by another small boat, also under sail.  At some points, Bron took turnings that mystified his followers until they got caught in the tidal currents that he was avoiding or taking advantage of.  He brought both boats unerringly back to the Gathering.

Kurin spent that night and all of the free time that she could staying with Captain Sula aboard the Dark Dragon.  Together they visited and talked with many of the Dark Dragon’s Craft Masters in their shops. Everywhere that Kurin looked she saw the vertical lines of what she now realized were a form of writing.  Aboard the ship, almost no person went unhooded and those few were all newly recruited and being educated in the Dark Dragon’s ways.  Everyone communicated with a sign language unless they had both hands full or there was some other reason.

She even saw the ship’s children, all hooded like their parents carrying daggers and axes.  When they sat, using big cushions instead of chairs, they often read from books with the same odd writing in them. Many of the children’s books also had pictures.

The Dark Dragon’s many shops held Kurin spellbound.

The next morning, Barad descended the gang-way to the temporary floating dock beside the Grandalor.  He smiled to Tanlin and said, “First Officer Tanlin, on the shelf in our quarters is a sail-sewing kit. We have done with assessing the changes to it.  Would you take care of it, please?”

“At once, Ca’tain,” she replied, glad of the duty to destroy the noxious thing.

Barad went to the Captain’s Council.  Now I can begin to splice the cables between Grandalor and Longin, he thought as he was rowed to the rafts of the Gathering.

Tanlin descended the companion-ladder near the cabin that she shared with Barad.  In the passageway, she met Silor.

“‘Ello, Lad.  Oi ‘ope t’at ye donnae mind t’ muckle t’at ye are an errand boy, for now,” she said pleasantly.

“No Ma’am, I don’t mind doing errands,” he answered seriously.  “It gives me the chance to meet the Masters and officers as well as learn the layout of the Grandalor.  Also, I know that I have to be kept out of sight for the present.”

“T’at’s good.  Ca’tain Barad wa’ right about ye bein’ quick.  Many wad chafe at t’e necessity.  W’at errand are ye about, now?”  Silor visibly stood straighter at her praise.

“Mister Morgu sent for me.  I’ve an errand for his office.  It’s just down here, isn’t it?”  He pointed further down the passage.

“Tis, t’ird door t’ t’e left.  Oi’ll nae hold ye, t’en.  Good morning t’ ye.”

“And to you, Lady Tanlin.”

She slid aside her door and went into the Captain’s cabin.  As she got the kit, she noticed, Barad must ‘ave been lookin’ at ‘t. Tis nae square on t’e shelf.  Tucking it under her arm, she went the familiar way to the sickbay.

Doctor Corin was busy at the apothecary cabinet when she arrived.  The sickbay was otherwise empty, so Tanlin raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

The Doctor gestured at the dozen parchment packages that he was preparing and explained, “Stomach cures for the crew who over do it at the food booths.”

“Oi see.  Just bein’ prepared.  Wise.  Take care o’ t’is for us, will ye?”  She handed him the kit.

“Is the spine that the Captain mentioned in the Standing Orders in here?” he asked.

“We t’ink t'is, Doctor.  We just found ‘t,” she said easily.

“I’ll dispose of it properly as soon as I have these powders done,” he said, relieved to see the kit unused.  “That thing is a danger to us all, so long as it exists.”

“Oi leave ‘t t’ ye, Doctor.  M’ t’anks — — for evert’ing. Oi’ll be in t’e mess.  ‘Elmsmon’s meeting.  Let m’ know w’en tis dune.”

“I’ll do that,” he replied, turning back to his powders.

In the mess, Tanlin handed out tallow-slates and copies of a small book to the assembled helmsmen.  It appeared to have been hastily produced.

“What’s this?” asked Kreul.

“Ye’re ‘elmsmon, Secund Day Wotch, Kreul, aren’t ye?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well, Kreul,” she said in the tone of a lecturer, “yer quest’n’s a valid ane.  Tis an intellectual exercise.  T’e Forst Officers are going t’ study t’is manual as well.  Ye all know t’at t’e Ca’tain ‘as an interest in t’e Boren Current Wars.  We got t’is manual from t’e Soaring Bird’s boot’.  T’ey an’ t’e Dark Dragon fought in t’ose wars.  T'is knowledge t’at naebody else in t’e Naral fleet ‘as ever studied.  Wit’ luck, nane will ever need ‘t ‘ere.  So, wye study ‘t?  T’e Ca’tain wants us t’. Good enow?”

It was.  The four helmsmen and two helmswomen bent over the book and read the title page.

The Strategy and Tactics of War

by

Sula Corin Dark Dragon

Commissioned by order of the Combined

Councils of Captains and Masters of the Corliss fleet.

“Ma’am, I’m Darkistry, Third Night Watch.  We’ll study this if the Captain wants us to but Dragons grant that we never need something like this.”

“Darkistry, ye are curiously close t’ t’e opening paragraph o’ t’is book.”  Tanlin picked it up and opened it, reading aloud.

“T’e necessity o’ t’e knowledge t’at t’e Councils ‘ave ordered m’ t’ write ‘as been proven by t’e attacks o’ t’e Boren fleet upon us.  Dragons grant t’at t’is, o’ all knowledge, be left on dry land for lack o’ necessity in t’e future.”  

She laid the book aside and said seriously, “T’e date places t’is book at t’e end o’ t’e Forst Boren Current War.  T’e knowledge ‘ere,” she laid her hand on the book, “preserved t’e Corliss fleet in t’e next twa wars.”

“Did ye know,” her eyes swept the six, “t’at t’ere are times wen t’e ‘elmsmon’s orders override anybody but t’e Ca’tain ‘imsel’?  We’ll skip t’e strategy section.  Read ‘t on yer ane, i’ ye find ‘t interesting.

“Macoul, read t’ us from t’e start o’ part twa, Tactical Considerations.”

Macoul picked up his copy and leafed through to the place indicated.  He began, “The helmsman’s duty is defined by the Maximum/Minimum Rule.  Cause Maximum damage to enemy craft while allowing Minimum damage to his own ship.  This may be accomplished by …”

Doctor Corin interrupted, “I’m sorry, Lady Tanlin.  I must speak to you privately.”

“O’ course, Doctor.”  Turning to her left, she handed her underlined copy of Strategy and Tactics of War and her tallow-slates of notes to the startled woman there.  “Darkistry, will ye take over t’e meeting for m’?  Somet’ing ‘as come up t’at demands m’ attention elsew’ere.”

After her initial surprise, Darkistry simply said, “Continue, Macoul.”

Macoul’s soft voice followed the Doctor and Tanlin into the passage way.  As soon as they were private, she asked urgently, “W’at’s t’e alarm, Doctor?” though she had a sinking feeling that she knew.

Wordless, he held out the awl from the kit that she had given him.  The red test paste on its shaft reveled that it was not Ord.

“T’e case?” she asked quietly.

“Also uncontaminated,” he replied grimly.

“T’ey’ve been switched!”  She exclaimed in outrage.  Putting her hand to her forehead, she thought, Silor in t’e passage by t’e Ca’tain’s door.  Morgu … She looked up, terrible in her rage.  “Tis mutiny!  Bot’ Standin’ an’ General Orders’re bein’ violated!

TO BE CONTINUED

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