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the-kr8tor · 5 months ago

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On These Metal Tracks I Lay Myself Bare

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 6.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, CW guns, TW violence, CW injury, Cowboy AU, wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

The train station is packed with people, all finely dressed, waiting along the tracks, their luggages weighing heavy in their hands. The place smells of iron and steel, sweat soaked wood and rough leather. Your eyes wander around the station, domed ceilings loom above, carvings of horses and birds decorate the chestnut wood. Sunlight filters through the cracks, rays of light acting as a spotlight to the ornate building. It's a busier train station than the town you were in, the city you've stopped in is huge in comparison to the little towns you've passed by. The station is full of ticketing booths, lines stretching a few feet away that are full of impatient passengers. You look across the train tracks, seeing parents chastising their children, hearing hurried murmurs from husbands, holding their wives’ hands even though the luggage in their hand slows them down. You look at Hobie's gloved hand that's resting upon the ticket booth, you stare at it longingly, eyes getting glossy by the minute.

He's taking you home, and just like back home, you have no say in it.

A train whistle echoes, a signal of its metallic arrival. Its steel body creaks as it stops, its copper inlay is slowly turning green, and there's rust around the wheels. Soon, the station fills with smoke, dark tar belching smoke that sticks to your lungs as you cough. You feel a warm hand on your back, in a second you look back, the warmth is gone.

“You alright?” Hobie asks, lighting up a cigarette in-between his lips.

“It's the smoke,” you say, scratching at your throat that he cannot keep looking at for the scar in his neck throbs at the memory from the mundane act.

“Alright,” without a second thought, he takes his freshly lit cigarette from his mouth and then flicks it away from you, embers fly off in the distance just before it lands on the dirt outside.

You feel like the golden light in the summer. “I was talking about the coal smoke from the train. But that works too, thank you.”

He scoffs, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “Right, didn't do it for you, I did it for myself. Heard it kills people y'know.” Nudging you, he doesn't expect for you to shuffle away. Blinking, he avoids your eyes, “that's our train, it's an overnight one so we can rest in our cabin.” He tugs you in by the sleeve of your coat that's tucked in between his middle and forefinger, guiding you towards the waiting doors.

“That's good.” You follow, eyes trained on his back lest you get lost.

As much as you don't want to go home, you still don't want to leave him despite your mind telling you to forget about him and just leave on Cherry and wander around the west like a tumbleweed caught in the wind. You'd probably last a week.

Hobie stops by the doors, waiting in line with the other passengers. You flick your eyes downwards, his fingers wrapped around your sleeve, not taut, just holding you close to him as the crowd grows. So close to your own hands, yet so far from your heart.

“Tickets?” The man clad in a blue uniform asks, Hobie shows the pink papers and the man nods.

You enter the train car, it's a cute little thing filled with blue velvet curtains with golden tassels, and carpeted floors that run towards the end of the car. On your left are filled with little cabins, with clear windows that you can see through inside. It's big enough for at least four people, five if possible, though it would be a tight fit. The hallway is already small enough that only two people could walk side by side, you'd like to walk side by side with him, unlike now that you walk behind him, behind his shadow that gathers around you like dandelions in the spring.

“This is us,” he stops at cabin number three, opening the door with a creak, he leans away to let you enter first. Closing the door behind him, he pulls down all the curtains so that wandering eyes can't watch your every move. It's bad enough that there's a bounty on both of your heads, you don't want gossiping passengers peering inside.

There are four collapsible beds on each wall, all held by golden ropes, bed sheets in rich red cloth, pillows fluffed to perfection and blankets neatly folded. Hobie scooches in between you and the beds to close the top bunks so that there's more space for his tall frame. He has taken his hat off not for politeness but if he wore it inside it'll be squished by the low ceiling. Then there's the large window that sits across the door, before you could take note of the people outside, Hobie shuts the curtains close.

“What do you think?” He asks, taking his jacket off with a flourish. “It's not even close to the ones back home but it'll do for now. We'll be train hopping to get our scents off the lawmen.”

“It's nice— wait, train hopping?” You sit down on one of the beds, the mattress is surprisingly soft under you. “Please don't tell me we'll be jumping from train roof to train roof.”

Hobie chuckles, copying your actions, sitting across from you. Back resting against the wall, comfortably slouching. “Think you can handle it?”

“God, no.” You can't help but rest your tired head upon the goose feather pillow.

“Good, because we're not doin' that, love.” Again, he copies you. Arms tucked under his head, eyes above the ornate ceiling. “We’re not gettin' off at the last station, so we'll be ridin’ with Buck and Cherry for a bit and then to another train station. Confuse the wankers with our brilliant wiles.”

You lift your head off the pillow, and in turn, Hobie turns his head to look at you. “Wait, what about the horses?”

“They'll follow the train.” He smiles.

“Follow? Like they have our scents?” Hobie laughs, not teasingly, no, it's full of endearment, chuckling softly, but it flies over your head.

“Don't laugh. It's a genuine question.” You roll your eyes with slight amusement.

“They're in the back carriage,” he tamps down his laugh but his smile stays.

After that silence prevails in your cabin as the train slowly chugs on, sharp whistles piercing your eardrums, and the hum of machinery bringing you back home. You want to speak to him, to finally tell him of all your concerns about going home, going back to them. But most of all, you want him to speak to you about everything, to tell you how he was faring for the last five years, and how he became such a terrifying figure to outlaws. You want him to just…talk, and make up for lost time. You gather the courage, but just as you were about to speak, he no longer lies across from you. Hobie is sitting on the bed, body facing the door, hands busy with oiling his guns.

“Hobie…I—”

“What is it?” He flicks his eyes briefly to you, his tone was sharp, but he didn't mean it, blaming it for his own worries and fatigue. He'd say something about it but you're already facing away from him. Back turned, blanket shielding you from him.

“Nevermind,” you mumble into the covers, falling into a deep slumber where the conversation happened in your dreams.

This goes on for three days, hopping from train to train, from busy cities to dead empty towns. You barely speak, talking only when Hobie asks you something. It's like you're back at that empty mansion, with only the plants to talk to.

Hobie silently hates it, he doesn't know what to make out any of it. You seem hungry so he gives you a can of strawberries, you look tired so he lets you sleep without him saying a word. When goosebumps appear on your arms he gives you a blanket, when you're nervous, lips bitten until it's bleeding, he leaves you alone to calm yourself down. None of it works, he misses your chatter that has kept him sane the entire journey. The silence gives him time to think though, a situation that he despises since nothing good has come out of all the thinking.

—

The rest of the journey goes without a hitch, except for that one bit where Bucky was stolen by an outlaw while you and Hobie were buying train tickets. You panic while he sits and waits. People look at you like you were a mad woman pacing back and forth, hand petting Cherry, voice whispering your thoughts to the poor hitched horse. And Hobie just…stares. After what seemed like forever, or fifteen minutes, Bucky returns, riderless, still has his saddle on his back, and seemingly chipper. Turns out, Hobie trained Buckeye to throw off would-be thieves, and this time, Bucky found a convenient ledge to throw this particular man off. You and Hobie quickly ushered both horses into the back just in case a sheriff comes looking for a murderous horse.

You've been seeing a few familiar faces in the crowd of travelers, the same children that's tugging at their father's coat, the same old couple that helps each other up on the platforms. Some have taken notice of you too, to which you smile politely at them while they wave kindly at you.

—

It's another warm humid day, another train to ride in. You don't bother to look at the interior this time, only deciding to sit on the cushy seat you were assigned to, sliding inside the booth, eyes already staring longingly at the outside world. Hobie once again tries to speak about something— anything to try to get you to finally speak your mind, but his rapid pulse tells him otherwise. So he clamps his mouth shut, deciding to sit across from you instead of sitting next to you like he wanted to.

He feels eyes on his form as he picks mud off his spurs, raising his head, he comes face to face with a freckled child staring at him curiously with her big blue eyes. Her tiny hands are curled around a teddy bear, her fiery red hair is tied into a neat ponytail. You notice her a second later, smiling softly at the child.

“Hello,” you greet kindly, and the girl scampers back to her family's seat, hiding her blushing face behind her mother's skirt.

“Sorry about that.” Her mother apologizes, round pregnant belly prominent as she tries to coax her daughter out. “This is Clementine, she's a bit shy.”

“That's alright,” you speak on behalf of Hobie. “Hi, Clementine, my name's Y/N, and this is my companion, Hobie.” The second your eyes meet his own, Hobie's breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Say hello, Clem, be polite.” The girl's father playfully pokes her side. Blue eyes hidden behind rounded glasses.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice, giggling when she looks back at Hobie.

“I think she has a crush on your husband.” Clementine's mother chuckles, patting her daughter's back for a job well done.

“My husband?” Panic sets in your chest until you see her gesturing towards Hobie. “Oh,” you chuckle shakily, fists bunched around your trousers.

Hobie notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He takes your reaction as something else, so to keep your embarrassment at bay, he tells the couple otherwise. “Not her husband. Just escortin’ her.”

The air becomes awkward. “Oh,” the mother rubs her belly, smiling gently. “Sorry, you two just look like a good pair.”

Her husband taps her shoe with his. “Just like us, eh, sweetheart?” The wife shakes her head with a bashful smile, bringing a grin to the man's lips. You start to think that this is what marriage is supposed to be. Caring, loving, clinging onto each other in the best way that doesn't stifle or choke, just love in its most natural form. It's unlike any marriages you've seen and experienced back home. “So where are you folks off to? I'm guessing south? We've been seeing you two around since Valentine, it's nice to have some company during the journey don't you think?”

Hobie doesn't sense malicious intent from the parents. “Sure, whatever you say, mate.”

“You're not from around here aren't you?” The little girl listens to the conversation, head moving from side to side whenever someone speaks. “That's alright,” she laughs softly, rummaging for something in her bag. Hobie has his thumb pressed along the side of his gun. “I can tell you'll be good neighbors,” she hands you a small jar of honey, it's bright yellow and clear, you wish you had some tea to go with it. Hobie breathes a sigh of relief. “Here you go!”

“Oh no thank you, we can't possibly take it.”

“Please do.” The husband says, “we used to have a colony of bees, but we had to sell them all before we moved.”

“We have dozens of unsold honey, we're honestly just looking to get rid of it before we get to our destination. They're heavy, y'know.” His wife finishes for him. “Clem, can you give it to sweet Y/N for me?”

“That's so kind of you.” You smile, nodding. “You're moving to the south?”

“Okay.” She happily takes it, walking across the aisle to you and Hobie. Unsurprisingly, she gives it to Hobie instead of you. “Here you go.” She copies her mother.

Hobie takes the jar with trepidation. “Thank you?”

You quiet down a laugh while Clementine’s parents guffaw across you.

“Oh she's in love.” The mother says, arms raised to embrace her daughter who welcomes her touch. You can't help but feel a pang in your heart at her love for her child. “And yes we're going to be living there with my in-laws. Rent has gone too high in the west, y'know.” You nod along, making friendly conversation.

“Wish I had tea,” you hear Hobie mumble. You smile softly at his words.

—

It's been a couple of more trains, and more smoke in your lungs, you start to feel like your hands are starting to smell like the steel that you now know as your temporary home. The scenery outside your window has changed. From grassy dusty plains of tumbleweeds and windmills to rolling mountains that rise up high with large looming trees that shield you from the sun. Soon your view will be full of the southern charm, but you don't look forward to it, being there means that you're closer to getting back to the place you dread.

You've grown quite close to Clementine and her little family, even the other familiar passengers that are heading the same way as you are quite fond of you as well. You eat breakfast with them, have afternoon tea, and have even introduced Cherry and Bucky to the children. They've lovingly named them both ‘horsies,’ to which you'd always giggle at.

Clementine has latched onto you, you teach her about plants and flowers, and have her draw them for you just like you've sweetly described it to her. But when Hobie's near, she opts to be his shadow for the time being, following him everywhere until her mother calls her back. Hobie is half annoyed that he can't find the time to speak to you, but he's glad that there's someone as a mediator between the two of you or he'll start vomiting out words that may or may not make the situation worse.

Your back aches at the lumpy mattress that you've unfortunately landed into. You can't help but give up the assigned cabin for you and Hobie to Clementine and her family since the beds are much more comfortable in that cabin. So you offered to exchange it, citing that the mother, Florence, you've come to know, needs it more because of the growing baby in her. She gratefully gave you another jar of honey for your sacrifice.

Hobie enters the booth, heavy boots thumping against darkened wood, spurs clicking, footsteps rolling along like a thick heavy fog of loneliness.

“Where were you?” He asks even though he's afraid that he'd be overbearing. His worries win over him.

You grip the spine of the borrowed book, knuckles tightening, eyes drawn downwards to the written word that spells out ‘grief.’ “I visited Cherry, I don't want her to be lonely.” You barely look at him.

Hobie flexes his hands not out of anger, no, out of fear of losing you, this time, just like the last time he did, he doesn't know why or how he could even lose you. He sits down across from you, bed creaking from his weight. He tries to play as the nonchalant cowboy like he always had for the past five years.

“Clementine was lookin' for you.” *I was looking for you. “Cherry won't be lonely, she has Bucky with her.”

“Bucky hasn't been much help when all he does is look at her. Not much of a conversationalist.” You flick your eyes over to him, flashes of anger and hopelessness are melted into your irises.

“Maybe Bucky just doesn't have the words.”

“And maybe Cherry just wants to talk to him.”

“That fuckin’ horse,” he laughs, you don't find the humour in his words. But he clearly does. Your anger flies over his head. “that horse is already worth half of your bounty.” His words are a sharp sting in your arteries. “If she actually speaks she'll be worth it.”

“And what if she doesn't? That she's not worth your damned money?” You toss the book aside. Anger seeping out of your pores. “You'll sell her after you bring me in to my aunt?” Your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it. “Am I just that to you? A bounty?” The dam breaks, and everything you've kept to yourself bursts open.

“That's not—” The heart that he has sewn together breaks at the seams.

You abruptly stand up, tears pricking your eyes. Inhaling, you stare down the man you love. The only man you've ever loved. “You are not what I hoped to find when I escaped on that ship.”

Before he could say something, anything, you disappeared into another train car, and amidst the metallic halls.

—

Another grueling day, another steel cage to get into. The train whistles as it comes to a stop, you've grown acclimated to the smell of burning coal, you let it coat your lungs as you enter the train with Hobie silently trailing after you.

Your eyes are glossed over, red and swollen from the sobs you've let out over the course of the last sixteen hours. Hobie hasn't talked to you since then, always looking at your back, face unreadable. You pass by familiar faces, you don't acknowledge them. You're tired, bones aching, muscles twitching from lack of sleep and water. Head thrumming, you enter your designated cabin like a doe who has lost its way.

There's a sinkhole underneath your feet, slowly it eats at you, up to your shins and up your thighs, coating your flesh in mud and dirt. You don't tug at him anymore, the small ember of hope in your chest has diminished, instead, you let the ground swallow you whole— letting it suffocate you, letting it drown your lungs in soil.

Just like he did on the first train ride, there's four beds on each wall, but instead of an empty space in the middle, there's a little foldable table. You close the top bunks and lay down on one of the bottom ones, head heavy against the soft pillow. You feel his presence behind you, and then a cool steel atop your bicep. You flinch away, thinking it was a barrel of a gun.

“I figured you're thirsty.” He says, hand hovering above your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down. The train whistle rings out, and the engine whirrs and starts up as more smoke bellows outside your window.

You take the flask, sitting up to take a drink. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Hobie sees the glow of your ring, he instinctively brings his hand up to his own that has made its home around his neck; hidden behind his clothes, finding comfort in its gilded form, the closest thing he can get to you.

“Why do you still hold on to me? After all these years?” He asks, eyes swirling with unknown emotion.

“Why did you let me go?” You answer, and that was the end of the conversation. Then it hits you, he truly doesn't love you anymore.

—

Night comes, and with it your sadness comes flooding through you, getting in the corners, slithering around every crevice— it has memorized your form and made it its home.

Weirdly enough, Hobie hasn't left the cabin, his lingering presence doesn't stifle you, unlike the man back at home who watches you with piercing glares. Even with your fury, your mind still finds comfort in Hobie.

He hears your almost silent cry, he wants to hold on to you, to brush his palms on your cheeks, to wipe away the tears and press his lips against your own. But he can't, or you'll think that he didn't mean it, that he only did it to make you calm down. It would be a cheap satisfaction for the both of you.

“I didn't let you go, I had to go.” He suddenly says above the quiet cutting of an apple in his hand, leaving pieces of it on your side just in case you want it. His voice doesn't waver, perhaps he has been saying the exact words to you in his mind for the past five years. You still have your back turned facing him as the deep rumble of the train goes on. “I was young and stupid. I was forced—”

You suddenly turn towards him, sitting up on the lumpy mattress. “And I was young and stupid too, yet I knew in my heart that running away with you wasn't foolish. Was it stupid to you? Escaping with me? That you'd rather run away, alone, to another country than be with me?” The memory of a young you waiting for him with your luggage in your grip has you seething.

Hobie matches your anger, hunting knife pausing on the red apple. “Did you hear what I said?” He angrily skins the fruit, slicing and dicing at its flesh. “You have no idea what I've done to survive. I have endured a lot to be where I am now—”

“And what of what I endured?!” You stand up, taking your bag, rummaging through it. “I'm truly sorry for whatever happened to you— but how could I apologize for something that I don't even know?” You toss the letters on the desk after struggling to take it out of the bag. “There! The letters that were sent back to me because I had no idea where you would be! Read them, and you'll know of the things I've endured. Unlike you who would rather look at me with contempt than tell me why I deserve that horrid gaze.” You gasp for air, he lets you speak, his own anger dissipating, fear once again encompasses him. “I thought you were dead, everyone kept telling me you were, but I didn't believe them. It's been years, my hands are raw from— I mourned you.” You pause, watching your golden ring glow in the lampshade. “Do you know how much that hurt? To start to believe their words? To lose hope? I didn't know where you were but you knew where I was and yet, not a single fucking letter went my way.”

Hobie stares at the letters spilled all over the table, apple juice seeping into the yellowed paper. He takes one, the oldest looking one that has its edges burned. Breaking the wax seal, he reads as he listens to your words coated in venom and grief.

“One letter, Hobie, and I would've understood. Then I wouldn't have come after you if you just told me you didn't want to be with me anymore.” You nod, “and now you're bringing me home, to the same people who would rather keep me locked up and tell me lies. I don't know how your letter got in my possession, but now I know that you didn't mean anything you wrote in it.” For five years you've asked yourself, ‘was it me?’ ‘Was I the reason you left?’ you never got the answer to your question, so now you ask him finally. “Was it me?”

Hobie raises his head to look upon your sorrow, his hand shakes at the act they've done to you the second he escaped. He had thought they'd leave you alone, that they'd finally let you go once he was gone and forgotten; but he never thought it would get worse, the hurtful words and slaps on the wrists were nothing compared to what they've done after that night he was almost buried alive— the night you tried to escape with him. His mind draws the scene, blood coating your knees, your pained cry as your aunt jabs your hands with the tip of a fountain pen. And then her words of hollow apologies as she heals your wounds so that it wouldn't scar. You're filled with them, invisible to the eye, but not to you, the only person who has felt every single torturous wound.

‘It's terrible,’ you wrote, ‘not ever seeing you again.’ And he agonizingly read it. No, it wasn't you, it was them, them who would rather commit murder just to mimic what he had. Hobie can't form coherent words at what he just read, anger and sadness piercing his veins like a poisoned arrow of guilt.

You sniff, wiping the tears in your eyes as he just stares back at you. His hands shakes, paper crumpling under his tight grip, he needs to bring you home. But not there, not at the gilded cage he left you in.

The cruelty of memory has plagued you, you try to remember, you reminisce, but did it actually happen? Did all his love for you even happen?

“You don't have to keep reading,” you say solemnly, “it doesn't matter now, we're nearly there.” With a slide of the door, you leave.

—

After the twelfth tear stained letter, with his own tears flowing down and leaving moistened webs on the paper, he has had enough. His eyes always seem to see the same words now, ‘was it me?’ ‘Are you alive?’ and ‘When will you come back?’ Hobie hasn't even made a dent on the letters, barely reading half of the pile of longing you've left. Hobie's mind swirls into different emotions, going through every scenario where he didn't run away, where he came back for you while clutching his still bleeding throat and body covered in moist soil.

He was foolish to try and push you away, to hold you at arm's length, to only look at you like he has let the poisonous words thrown at him by the very same man that gave him the scar curl around him like blackened smoke that stains his clothes. He thought that wanting you back would bring nothing but hurt, especially that he thought that he didn't deserve it. To want is his demise, to have you again in his arms is his folly, but what a wonderful folly it would be.

How could he do all of that to you when his scarred flesh is in the shape of your name.

He pockets the letters, tucking it inside his waist coat, right above his heart just to feel your words through them. The door opens with a click, and he walks towards your direction like a compass built inside him that always points towards you. His fingers glide along the scar on his neck, raised skin felt through his gloves as he walks from carriage to carriage. Where there's open air in between, cool breeze stinging his moistened cheeks. Then he stops at the edge of a crowd, a jaunty tune plays from a traveling musician, playing for a scrap of coins in the corner. People gather around the brightly lit bar, alive and happy, and there you are standing as if you're frozen in time. As if he's seeing you just how he left you.

Amidst the familiar faces within the crowd that gathers in the small bar to converse, he stares at you, and by some miracle, you stare back at him, meeting his jade eyes that are surrounded by a sickened red. There's a soft, ghost of a smile on your lips, even after what you've told him— eyes full of love for the same man who has your heart in the palm of his hands; gentle, caring and yet unknowingly the only person that could truly hurt you the most without the painful slap of a wooden board against your back. It brings him back in time, under the cloudy gas light and the whir of the metal machines whose maw opens and closes to reveal heated metal— His mouth opens and he says the exact same thing that he has been saying every single time his eyes meet yours in secret— ‘meet you back at home.’ He utters, a promise kept under the smell of unlit gunpowder and cheap champagne that your aunt always buys to placate the workers. And you say the same words back without a bated breath— ‘wait for me.’ You almost cry out into the crowd, you'd scream it if it weren't for the forbidden relationship. It has been like that through every cheap congratulatory milestone the factory and your aunt has thrown. You don't speak to him, but your longing eyes do. He doesn't come near you, but his hand would always gravitate towards your velvet clad hand. ‘No one else knows.’ ‘No one else knows,’ those words echo in your mind like a root taking its place. Yet, someone saw, it only takes one good pair of eyes to see the growing love between you— ‘no one knows,’ he mirrors, but one does. It only takes one to set off a domino effect, an effect that would lead to his attempted murder, and to your demise that he isn't fully privy to. ‘No one knows,’ ‘no one knows,’ you whisper to yourself as you pack your bags to escape the life you haven't got a say in. No one knows, and yet, one did, and that one got your love's neck slashed and buried alive in the same soil you once kissed above on, under the same tree that you were supposed to meet in.

He wondered why you didn't show up, but the one that knew did. No one knows, and the one that did lived in your house, ate your food, shared a bed with your aunt— a story told through a letter from a man he once worked with, a man who now has one eye, a man that helped dig him out of the shallow grave they've put him in, waiting to bleed out in the earthbound soil. A dangerous letter that he had burned in the fire from anger. He wanted revenge, but you would be the cost. So he survived and killed, and survived again, always seeing you in the corner of his eye, always hearing your almost forgotten voice when he's on the edge of sleep. He survived and now he's here, meeting with your eyes amidst the crowd once again— with the evidence of his survival curling around him like a heavy rope, and your own hovering above you like a grey cloud that threatens to spill, yet he still utters the same words above the murmuring happier crowd, “meet you back at home.” His throat closes in around the words, almost screaming it to the crowd.

A tear slips from your eyes that are full of woe, and you say the words back, quieter, unsure, yet, the love is still there— “wait for me.”

Hobie breathes for the first time, his feet carrying him around the crowd, weaving through bodies to get to you while you stand still, waiting for him, watching as he desperately trudges to get to you.

You look just like how he remembered, standing by the oak tree, waiting for him even if his hands are stained black from grease— you'd still hold his hand. Now his hands are soiled in crimson that drips onto the floorboards, and yet you still hold your hand out towards him. He would atone for his sins if that's what you'd ask of him, but no one would grant him his penance, he has accepted that fact long ago. Only your touch could mimic it.

Hobie finally makes it to you, now he stands in front of your form, now he notices your hand grasping his own. Featherlight, unsure, if he'd reciprocate, giving him enough time to shake you off. But he doesn't, instead, he holds on to you tighter as he leads you outside of the noisy carriage and away from prying eyes, what he should've done all those years ago.

Hobie tugs you out of the hole that has consumed you.

Silently, you follow him, squeezing his hand twice to let him know that you're right behind him without him looking over his shoulder to inspect. You feel his fingers run along the ring on your finger.

The sound of the metal wheels are loud in your ears, steam rolling off in waves as it warms your back. It's dark out, the moon above guiding his path while he opens the other door leading towards the last carriage that carries horses and baggage.

The moon has always been a comfort to you. You thought in those years without him that he'd be staring at the same moon as you, that at least you've still got a connection with him. Even if you weren't sure he'd be alive to look up at the sky. Arms suddenly envelopes you, hands cradling the back of your head to keep you close to him, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

You're the first one to speak while you tentatively raise your arms to embrace him back. He's warm, warmer than you remember. “Do you mean it?”

Hobie sniffs, diamonds rolling off his cheeks, a promise falling from his lips, “yes, I'll bring you home, my home.” He molds himself to the shape of you once again. An act that you've been trying to attain since the beginning of the journey, now you're both perfectly aligned with each other, heartbeats synching and full. “I'll tell you everything, everything you need to know.”

“Just the ones you're willing to tell, Hobie. I'm so sorry for yelling those words at you.” You hold his head in your hands, gentle, caring, cradling him like you're holding the moon. Guiding it upwards so you could stare at his viridescent eyes that's full of hope for the first time in years. But the gnawing in your mind draws too close to you. “They'll never stop, they will keep hunting us down.” A sob breaks through your throat, “You have to bring me to them.” Tears flow out of you, “or we'll never be at peace. You'll never be at peace.”

The horses neigh behind you, Cherry huffs while Buckeye just stares at the scene. The carriage rattles for a moment before Hobie leans, laying his forehead atop yours, squeezing the soft skin on your nape. He closes his eyes, inhaling you in, you almost crumble in his arms. You've dreamt of this day, dreamt of holding him like this once again.

“You're my peace.” he whispers, “They can try to ruin that peace, but I'll stop them. I'll kill them if I had to.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes, just as he opens his own. “Take me home.”

“‘m sorry,” he kisses your forehead, lips lingering, a heavy kiss that brings you back to life, mending all your doubts. “Let's go home, yeah?” Leaning away, his eyes dart over to a man coming your way, he doesn't find it suspicious, but then the stranger brandishes a gun, raising it over your head. “Y/N—!”

Your body flings off to the side, hip hitting harshly on the corner of a crate. Then a loud cackle of a gun goes off, the sound bouncing off the walls, gunpowder flying over head, hiding Hobie from your vision. You yell his name, but you can't hear your own voice from the ringing in your ears.

Everything happens slowly in your eyes. Smoke spreads as you see Hobie still standing and unscathed, gun raised, barrel aimed at the man's head. Said man runs towards him like a bull, making Hobie miss his shots. Yet the man still shoots at him, slower than Hobie but just as deadly. Hobie leans his head slightly to the side, effectively dodging a bullet. You scamper towards Cherry, lifting yourself up, waiting for the right moment. And then you slap your precious horse, making her kick before he could reach Hobie. Cherry's deadly kick hits the perpetrator right on his back, where a sickening crunch can be heard. The sheer force of the kick has dust flying off his body, and now he lays motionless on the wooden floor.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie gawps at you, smile spreading across his lips. “You alright?” He walks over to you, or tries to while Cherry gives one last kick towards the dead man.

“Yeah,” you nod, patting Cherry, Keeping her calm. “It's okay, girl. I'm so sorry.” You coo at her, Hobie goes around the horse to hold you. “Are you—?”

His arms wrap around your waist, lips smashing on yours. You inhale and it's already over. Even if it was quick, it wasn't a cheap satisfaction, it's everything. He pats your cheek affectionately, beaming at you, holding you close. “You're brilliant.” His thumb rubs softly where you hit your hip on the crate, a silent apology.

You smile, heart thumping loudly like an engine. “It was all Cherry.”

“Should I snog the horse now too?” Hobie says smugly, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“No, preferably just me, for now at least.” You tap his chest, bashfulness encompassing you.

“Nah, it's you until the end, love.” He clicks his forehead against yours, making you chuckle.

A scream rings out from the other carriage, hurried footsteps bounding away. “Do you think—?”

Hobie reloads his gun effortlessly, giving the spare one to you. “You're a better shot than me anyway.” He takes one last look at you, as if this is the last time he'd ever set his eyes on you. “Whoever they are, I'll cut through them. Cover my back?”

“Always,” You nod, taking the silver six-shooter, “then we'll go home after this.”

He grins, hope in his eyes. “Home, you'll love it there.”

“Let's cut through all of them then.”

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the-mortuary-witch · 5 months ago

Text

PLANETARY MAGICK

SUN

Zodiac: Leo

Metal: gold

Day: Sunday

Colours: orange, yellow, and amber

Stones: amber, topaz, ruby, and diamond

Tarot: The Sun

Herbs: angelica, poppy, sunflower, marigold, hibiscus, and mistletoe

Symbols: lion, hexagram, sparrow hawk, dragon, head, heart, and swan

Influences: renown, potency, fortune, tyranny, pride, ambition, masculinity, arrogance, bigotry, vitality, and health

MOON

Zodiac: Cancer

Metal: sliver

Day: Monday

Colours: blue and sliver

Stones: moonstone and pearl

Tarot: The High Priestess and The Chariot

Herbs: eucalyptus, coconut, jasmine, lotus, myrrh, and sandalwood

Symbols: bow and arrow, crab, cat, turtle, Sphinx, and owl

Influences: gratitude, friendliness, safe, travel, physical health, wealth, protection for enemies, deception, illusion, women, emotions, healing, and dreams.

MERCURY

Zodiacs: Virgo and Gemini

Metal: aluminum and mercury

Day: Wednesday

Colours: violet, grey, purple, indigo, and yellow

Stones: opal and agate

Tarot: The Lovers

Herbs: hyssop, juniper, betony, carrot, and chickweed

Symbols: wand, octagram, and the mind

Influences: good fortune, gratitude, gain, memory, understanding, divination, dreams, forgetfulness, communication, business, cleverness, creativity, information, intellect, memory, perception, science, wisdom, gambling, writing, root of dishonesty, and deception

VENUS

Zodiacs: Taurus and Libra

Metal: copper

Day: Friday

Colours: green and pink

Stones: turquoise, emerald, sapphire, and jade

Tarot: The Empress

Herbs: jimsonweed, violet, rose, alder, apple, angelica, olive, and sesame

Symbols: sparrow, dove, swan, and pentagram

Influences: peace, agreements, cooperation, fertility, joy, love, good fortune, jealousy, strife, and promiscuity

MARS

Zodiacs: Aries and Scorpio

Metal: iron, red brass, and steel

Day: Tuesday

Colour: red

Stones: ruby, garnet, bloodstone, and diamond

Tarot: The Tower

Herbs: ginger and mustard

Symbols: sword, pentagram, horse, bear, wolf, and vulture

Influences: war, victory, judgements, submission of enemies, bleeding, stripping one of rank, harness, discord, conflict, aggression, lust, power, courage, goals, protection, motivation, ambition, and strength

JUPITER

Zodiacs: Pisces and Sagittarius

Metal: tin

Day: Thursday

Colour: blue

Stone: sapphire

Tarot: The Wheel of Fortune

Herbs: balm, hyssop, maple leaf and bark, oak, sage, and dandelion root

Symbols: eagle and dolphin

Influences: gains, riches, favour, peace, cooperation, appeasing enemies, and dissolving

SATURN

Zodiac: Capricorn

Metal: lead

Day: Saturday

Colour: black

Stone: onyx

Tarot: The World

Herbs: alder, apple, ash, asparagus, baneberry, belladonna, distort, hellebore, blackthorn, corm, and cypress

Symbols: cuttlefish and mole

Influences: safety, power, success, positive response to requests, intellect, causes discord, strips honour, and melancholy

URANUS

Zodiac: Aquarius

Day: Thursday

Colours: blue-green and electric blue

Stones: quartz, labradorite, blue topaz, amber, amethyst, garnet, and diamond

Tarot: The Fool

Herbs: clover, pokeweed, snowdrop, foxglove, love, rosemary, trees of heaven, hellebore, morning glory, sage, wintergreen, orchids, and sweet woodruff

Symbols: dragonfly and butterfly

Influences: breaking connection, sudden and unexpected change, freedom, originality, radical and revolutionary ideas, enlightenment, equality, individuality, rebellion, instability, loneliness, boredom, and mistrust of self

NEPTUNE

Zodiac: Pisces

Day: Friday

Minerals: coral, aquamarine, platinum, and neptunium

Colours: green, blue, and lavender

Tarot: The Hanged Man

Herbs: morning glory, night-blooming jasmine, pine, and water lily

Symbols: the sea, trident, and the spine

Influences: dissolving boundaries, expanding upon ideas, changing established rules, intuition, idealism, sacrifice, glamour, illusion, evolution, decay, visions, art, healing, inspiration, dreams, creativity, compassion, drifting from reality, carelessness, stubbornness, and absent mind

PLUTO

Zodiac: Scorpio

Metal: plutonium, tin chrome, and steel

Day: Tuesday

Colours: maroon, dark red, purple, white, and black

Stones: snowflake obsidian and clack tourmaline

Tarot: Judgement

Herbs: pomegranate, rosemary, vanilla, basil, poppies, belladonna, and foxglove

Symbols: phoenix, snake, scorpion, fox, and eagle

Influences: destruction making way for renewal, rebirth, knowledge, spirituality, transformation, destiny, the subconscious, desire, arrogance, death, obsession, and destruction

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witches-dream · 1 month ago

Text

Polychampions if they were based

(aka if they played Minecraft)

Capsaicin

(credits: IVIgoggles, jordanpyke on PMC)

His favorite blocks are deepslate, blackstone, nether bricks (red ones too), magma, lava, chains and iron bars.

he's REALLY adamant about living in the nether even tho nobody ever visits him and he dies constantly and burns all his things. they considered KeepInventory but everyone voted no (incl. Caps) so he still suffers.

he's currently begging for a dragon riding mod to be added. who needs elytas, horses, striders and shit when you can have RIDEABLE DRAGONS???

he has trouble following tutorials, so he wings every farm he does.

he's the kind of person to forget to look at his health and casually jump over ravines on 2 hearts

hits zombie piglins on purpose

fan of Parkour Civilization

MCYTs he would watch: TommyInnit, InTheLittleWood. What he enjoys most is a unique sense of humor and doing something fun in-game, "building? fighting? i can do all that myself! show me something new!"

rushes to trial chambers cuz HE NEEDS THAT MACE

Mobs he would've voted for: Wildfire, Moobloom, Copper Golem, Sniffer, Armadillo

favorite mobs: ENDER DRAGON, also blazes look pretty cool

he's constantly trying to do tricks, like landing on a water bucket/powder snow/hay bale/ whatever, or riptiding around, using a mace, parkouring everywhere, etc

breaks into the nether roof, but bedrock breaking is off and he does have obsidian but no way to light a portal so he just kills himself which puts him on a 5 minute timer to get obby, a flint n steel and ender pearls to get his stuff back and get out. NOBODY WILL FIND OUT

Kouign-Amann

(credit: Overtales Studio on YT)

she exclusively builds stuff like this, overly detailed cute houses, then entire villages out of them.

help this girl is obssessed with cherry blossoms! her other favorite blocks include quartz, calcite, prismarine, froglights, and decors like pots, candles and flowers

she has automatic farms for blocks that she uses frequently. she's quite proud of her makeshift sugar cane and bamboo farms, but mostly uses tutorials for everything else.

her storage situation is FUCKED. it may seem fine on the outside, but for every build she has a chest monster in the basement full of materials. whenever she is running low on something, it's just her running from basement to basement trying to scrape up resources ("why don't you just build tunnels between the chest monsters atp" "i'm gonna clean it up! i promise!" "this is the 18th time you've said that in the last month. believe me, i counted")

pvp sweat.

uses a ton of client-side mods, shaders and resource packs to make her game pretty.

DO NOT tell her about Chisels & Bits, she WILL crash the entire server

MCYTs that she would watch: ShubbleYT, LDShadowLady, GeminiTay. She enjoys watching chill people who pay attention to detail, and Lizzie. She models her builds after their styles.

after not finding a good elytra texturepack she wants, she starts making her own. it's not long until she gets into 3d modeling as well and makes stuff like a hat for Prune and horns for Caps.

collects music discs

huge fan of armor trims. "can we add tool trims pretty pretty pleeeaaase"

rushes to trial chambers cuz SHE NEEDS THOSE DISCS AND TRIMS AND BANNER PATTERNS

Mobs she would've voted for: Phantom, Moobloom, Allay, Sniffer, Crab

favorite mobs: cats, axolotls, pandas, bees

likes building zoos, museums and libraries

Prune Juice

(credit: elyas360 on YT)

his bases look like little inconspicuous houses on the surface (just well built enough to not suspect anything), but are sprawling interconnected, redstone-powered underground bases full of secret doors, farms and traps. And, of course, secret tunnels to his friends' bases.

he's insulted by Minecraft's potion brewing system and refuses to touch it out of principle.

he's not particularly good at fighting, or building, so he would've quit if he didn't decide to give redstone a try on one normal sunny day. his friends' days have not been normal and sunny since then

favorite blocks: redstone redstone redstone redstone. as for building, he doesn't have preferences, but probably builds out of non-expensive stuff that makes sense for a normal house, e.g. panks, stones, bricks, etc.

out of the three of them, has the most organized storage system.

he definitely builds nukes when playing modded.

MCYTs that he would watch: ianxofour, Gneiss Name. Ianxofour's farms are just too satisfying to watch even if you never build them, and Gneiss Name's videos are less about Minecraft itself, and more about using Minecraft for education. You don't know you care about geology or color theory until you watch his videos.

"Prune can you fix my farm" "Prune can i borrow froglights" ok pay me 8 diamond blocks and i'll see what i can do 😌

spends time on the Minecraft Discnontinued Features Wiki, then shows his friends floating liquids and doesn't elaborate. "Prune how did you do the floating lava trick it would be so so good for my base" "Magic 🥰"

Mobs he would've voted for (if he cared enough): The Great Hunger, Glow Squid, Allay, Tuff Golem, Crab

favorite mobs: iron golems cuz iron farms, guardians cuz xp farms, shulkers cuz shulker farms, etc. but aesthetically, probably likes freaks like endermen, wardens and creakings

DO NOT let this man into an ancient city, he WILL steal a warden and put it in your base

About all of them together

Kouign and Caps collaborate on a community spawn base because they die way too often. Prune spawn traps them from time to time (and then gets caught in his own trap bc hes not immune to dying)

they always find something to compete on. for all three of them competing is the same as breathing

Caps: "what if a parkour master a pvp master and a redstone master... were in love 👉👈" Kouign: wait who's the parkour master?" Prune: "who's the pvp master?" Kouign and Caps: "hey D:<"

Kouign wants to make a three-person bedroom but they keep arguing which colors the beds should be. pink or yellow for Kouign? Blue or purple for Prune? Red or orange for Caps? legends say they are still arguing...

One time, each of them built challenge mazes for each other to complete. Capsaicin's was mostly parkour and some riddles based on puns. Kouign's had mob traps, quizzes and hidden buttons. Prune's had elaborate puzzles where you have to make use of the very limited items you find.

That's all for now, i will keep adding onto this in reblogs or smth and please send me ideas as well ^_^

#cookie run #cookie run kindgdom #triple cone cup #prune juice cookie #kouign amann cookie #capsaicin cookie #polychampions #my stuff

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rom-e-o · 1 year ago

Text

Worthy (Constance/Ebenezer)

Trigger warning for mentions of s*xual abuse and physical abuse perpetrated by a third party (AKA Orin).

How does almost 20 years of marriage break? It shatters like bone.

Before Ebenezer came into her life with the speed and majesty of a summer storm, Constance DoGoode (specifically, Constance Spiegler) hadn't thought herself to be particularly ... affectionate.

She liked to flirt; a wink here, a flash of the ankle there. The best men got a swish of the skirt.

It was recreational for her; an exercise is the perfecting the persona of a stunning socialite. It was part of her job to maintain the image as a model and a soon-to be businessman's wife.

People noticed Constance, and they also noticed how others (especially men) treated her.

All the doormen at New York's ritziest apartments took turns on Friday evenings while gathered around shots of rye whiskey to brag about if she'd touched their shoulder or tossed her hair at them to throw the cent of her lily perfume. Bellhops would fight over who got the opportunity to handle her luggage or, heaven forbid, the opportunity to walk her to her room or bring room service. The jewelers at Tiffany's frequently invited her to their 259 Broadway storefront to solicit her opinion on the latest diamonds and jewelry styles.

When eager friends told Constance stories of her not-so-secret fanclubs, she'd laugh coyly, her smile bright as the stars. The unsuspecting onlooker might think the news overjoyed her.

Truthfully, she was indifferent. She liked attention in the way a horse liked sugar. It was a delightful treat, but it wasn't by any means necessary for survival or daily well-being. She felt the same way about the birds and bees.

While she'd had her first kiss at age 14 with a giggly classmate from her French lessons, she'd been a sterling little virgin on her wedding night. As for why she'd waited, it hadn't been an intentional decision. She'd simply never had the desire to go to bed with anyone before meeting her first husband. Others had definitely tried to persuade her, but the woman was nothing if not resolute, even when it came to her disinterest.

Her wedding night with Orin had been...nice. Delightful, even. Then, the next day, he'd 'shared' her with a group of other businessmen he'd met that morning in the Swiss ski lodge they'd opted to honeymoon in. She woke up bruised, bloodied, groggy from alcohol she didn't remember drinking, and most of all ... broken-hearted.

As the years passed, kisses were nonexistent and hugs were only initiated in the company of others to keep up the couple's images. Sex was more awkward than painful, thanks to Orin's below average endowment (which she became beyond thankful for). When he did want to hurt her, he used his fists, broken bottles, or the steel-toed tips of his boots if she was especially prone.

She tried to rekindle their romance if for no other reason than to save her life. It failed, and she turned to a razor blade and scalding bath tub for salvation. She was denied. Orin found her and delivered her from ethereal release to the painful confinement of a hospital. Even while in a half-sleep, her body reeking of copper from the blood coagulating in the lace trim of her nightgown, she swore he mother's screams shook the city.

That night was the only night Orin held her hand, stroking her wedding band. It seemed to be a means to comfort himself more than her.

Doctors gave her pain meds - morphine, codeine, and heroin. Opium as well, of course. It lessened her libido further, something Orin would stomp his foot about like a child whenever she tried to shove him away after a long day.

After he shoved her down the stairs, snapping both her femurs like toothpicks, the pain medication and grain alcohol cocktail she sloshed down daily numbed her to almost everything. Everything except the desire to escape.

The 30-day boat trip to London has been a miserable, rat-infested, shivering detox. Yet, as far as she was concerned, death would have been another form of release. Whether she reached the shore or not, she was free.

When she did reach the shore, what she lacked in money or prospects, she made up for in hope. The city was grimy, freezing cold and dark, but it was without him. For that reason, it was heaven.

Then, she met Ebenezer Scrooge.

He and Orin were physically similar, in many ways. Handsome. Tall. Dark-haired (well, past-tense for Ebenezer). Broad-shouldered. Their voices were even similar, striking her as a blend between velvety and smoky that she had never heard before. Orin's accent was distinctly Bronx, while Ebenezer's leaned more Welsh than the traditional London accent or cockney flair she'd heard so far.

Ebenezer rolled his 'rrr's easily, which separated him distinctly from the pronunciations of largely Dutch-settled populations of New York. Orin's family had hailed from the Netherlands and Germany, and he spoke fluent Dutch as a result. Constance spoke the language recreationally, and the two would often converse in Dutch at parties if they needed to speak privately.

"Tenzij je wilt dat je arm vanavond gebroken wordt, rond je gesprek af en laten we vertrekken," he growled. "Dat zal ik nu doen," she whispered, frantically waving to the acquatance she's started chatting with moments before. They stared back in confusion, but she kept smiling as to not alarm them. "Het spijt me." "Zorg dat je dat doet, slet!"

Both men were financial bigwigs, but Ebenezer's talent was sincere and founded on skill (skills that had come at a hefty price). Orin was ... well, a master of illusion. He talked an enthusiastic deal, cut shrewd deals, and adored parties and festivities. Yet, the management of money often fell to Constance because the man lacked any sense of self-restraint.

Where they widely differed, of course, was in personality.

"How would you pronounce your name in Dutch?" he asked, using his elbow to pop is head up. The angle allowed him to look down upon her lovingly while simultaneously providing space for their nude bodies to slot together easily. They laid side by side in bed, his blunt fingertips tracing hearts idly over the skin of her bare hip.

"Konstanz."

He hummed, testing the pronunciation on his tongue. "Beautiful, of course."

She smiled modestly. "I've always liked my name, I'll confess. My mother chose it for me, after all."

He paused. "So, Theresea gave you your name, not ..."

"No. If I had a name before they left me, I don't remember it."

"I can't imagine a more fitting name for you," he said softly, flattened his palm to give her hip an affectionate squeeze. "Steadiness. Resoluteness. Persistence. How fitting for a woman of such strength."

"My schoolmates teased me for it, though," she commented. "They said it was too prim and proper for a redhead with freckles."

"Too prim?" he repeated, genuinely confused.

"I like the way your name sounds much better," she said, rolling over in the bed to have a better angle at which to toy with his hair. "Even H'azer. Similar to Hebrew."

He chuckled, capturing her hand to kiss her knuckles. "It sounds pretty when you say it."

"You don't like your name?"

"I'm indifferent," he explained. "It's certainly a name that sets a high standard. One I'm uncertain a can stand up to."

"I adore your name," she said sincerely, twining their fingers. Her thumb stroked his palm, and she took great joy in watching a deep blush color his cheeks (and not for the first time that day). "It's a worthy name for a worthy man."

"W-Well, thank you," he chuckled, stuttering a bit in the process. She adored why boyish embarrassment came over him in small glimpses. It was rewarding to see him accept compliments.

"I mean it," she repeated. "If anyone deserves a name of such esteem, it's you."

His facial features, already soft with affection, became borderline mercurial. "You're serious?"

"You are one of two men I hold in the highest esteem possible," she said. She pressed a kiss to the tip of his owlish nose. "Sorry, but I'm afraid my father takes the tippy-top spot."

He laughed at this, not in mockery, but in joy.

"I'd expect nothing less," he beamed.

Her heart swelled at his response.

"Oh, he would have loved you..." she said softly. "He never liked Orin. My father rarely lost his temper, but the first time I ran home with a black eye, he grabbed a pistol and tried to march out the door. He said, 'I'll kill the bastard.'"

Agreed, Ebenezer thought secretly.

"He sounds like an amazing man," he said, "And he raised an amazing, wonderful, strong, and beautiful daughter. One I promise I'll fight every day to be worthy of. For the rest of my days."

It was her turn to blush as she lifted her arms to wrap them about his narrow waist. Her cheek fell against his furred chest, finding the steady thud of his heart without issue.

"I think you'll find that your fight is over," she said with a smile. "Both of ours are."

@quill-pen when writing a character's past hurts so much that you HAVE to throw in SOME fluff at the end to stay sane.

#scrooge 2022 #scrooge x oc #oc constance dogoode

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ultfan · 6 months ago

Text

aesthetic.

what are your muse’s aesthetics? BOLD any which apply to your muse! remember to REPOST! feel free to add to the list!

[ COLOURS ] ~ burgundy. red. crimson. scarlet. maroon. mahogany. copper. amber. chocolate. brown. tawny. tan. bronze. brass. orange. gold. saffron. yellow. chartreuse. spring green. lime. mint. green. olive. forest. turquoise. teal. cerulean. blue. navy. cobalt. periwinkle. indigo. pewter. plum. purple. magenta. fuchsia. lilac. lavender. pink. coral. peach. ivory. cream. white. silver. grey. smoke. charcoal. ebony. black. pastels. vibrant. matte. metallic. muted. dark. light.

[ BODY ] ~ mutations. claws. fangs. wings. tails. feathers. webs. spikes. scales. fur. stripes. spots. freckles. acne. bruises. scars. scratches. gashes. lashes. wounds. amputations. burns. brands. teeth. gums. tongues. lips. beards. mustaches. cheeks. noses. ears. eyes. eyelashes. eyebrows. hair. heads. neck. shoulders. collar bones. arms. elbows. wrists. hands. fingers. breast. back. ribs. abs. belly. hips. curves. butts. legs. thighs. knees. shins. ankles. feet. toes. nails. sweat. spit. tears. blood. heart. stomach. lungs. liver. veins. guts. bones. spine. muscle. skin. feline. canine. masculine. feminine.

[ WEAPONS ] ~ bites. fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. bow. crossbow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. bombs. missiles. boomerangs. lethal pets. lasers.

[ MATERIALS ] ~ metal. gold. silver. platinum. pewter. titanium. iron. steel. copper. bronze. brass. tin. bismuth. diamonds. pearls. rubies. garnets. sapphires. emeralds. jade. peridots. alexandrite. opal. topaz. jasper. quartz. rose quartz. smoky quartz. amethyst. citrine. fluorite. amber. malachite. turquoise. lapis lazuli. sodalite. pyrite. labradorite. moonstone. petrified wood. wood. paper. parchment. hemp. canvas. burlap. oils. skin. muslin. rayon. faux. wool. fur. lace. leather. skins. suede. corduroy. silk. satin. chiffon. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. rocks. flint. asphalt. brick. granite. marble. dust. rust. glitter. sand. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. nylon. polyester. plastic. glass. porcelain. bone. shells. coral.

[ NATURE ] ~ grass. leaves. trees. bark. flowers. roses. daisies. forget me nots. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. roots. ocean. pond. river. stream. waterfall. creek. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. tropical. jungle. marsh. moors. swamp. plains. hills. highlands. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. fire. lava. ice. frost. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. shadow. tornado. hurricane. water spout. thunder. hail. twisters. humidity. dryness.

[ ANIMALS ] ~ birds. penguins. eagles. owls. falcons. vultures. hawks. swans. parrots. parakeets. doves. pigeons. ducks. robins. cardinals. blue jays. bluebirds. blackbirds. crows. ravens. magpies. mockingbirds. flamingos. ostriches. seagulls. albatross. peacocks. condors. finches. pelicans. chickens. geese. quail. bats. sheep. cows. buffalo. deer. hedgehogs. elephants. horses. giraffes. cats. lions. tigers. pumas. cheetahs. jaguars. foxes. dogs. wolves. coyotes. bunnies. mice. rats. monkeys. apes. bears. pandas. polar bears. snakes. iguanas. chameleons. alligators. crocodiles. turtles. lizards. frogs. toads. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. stingrays. octopus. lobsters. crabs. bugs. spiders. ants. moths. butterflies. flies. maggots. roaches. ladybugs. beetles. cicadas. dragonflies. fleas. termites. leeches. worms. snails. mosquitoes. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. dinosaurs.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ] ~ pepper. salt. sugar. honey. syrup. caramel. candy. bubblegum. mints. candy canes. gumdrops. lollipops. chocolate. vanilla. cinnamon. ice cream. cake. cookies. brownies. biscuits. pie. tarts. lemonade. soda. champagne. wine. brandy. rum. whiskey. vodka. tequila. sake. beer. soju. gin. crema de cacao. cocoa. latte. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. fruit. apples. oranges. lemons. cherries. strawberries. blueberries. raspberries. cranberries. watermelons. cantaloupes. bananas. coconuts. grapes. kiwi. pomegranates. tomatoes. vegetables. potatoes. cucumbers. carrots. turnips. onions. leeks. celery. broccoli. cabbages. lettuces. roots. nuts. white meat. red meat. raw meat. veal. pork. chicken. beef. venison. fish. lobster. oysters. pizza. ambrosia. pasta. sandwiches. soup.

[ HOBBIES ] ~ music. piano. flute. woodwinds. whistles. drums. guitar. cello. synthesizer. violin. lute. harp. fiddle. harmonica. trumpet. brass. singing. composing. folk. classical. bluegrass. blues. jazz. big band. pop. country. rock. punk. metal. electronica. hip hop. reggae. ska. rap. vinyl records. cassettes. cds. soundcloud. itunes. spotify. art. sculpting. pottery. painting. watercolour. drawing. pastels. charcoal. sketching. graffiti. printing. inking. collecting. fighting. martial arts. self-defence. boxing. fencing. sumo. wrestling. jousting. paintball. lazer tag. duelling. hunting. fishing. climbing. weight lifting. training. sports. football. football (usa). rugby. baseball. cricket. lacrosse. volleyball. basketball. tennis. badminton. skating. cycling. sailing. rowing. hiking. running. gymnastics. dancing. ice skating. hockey. reading. writing. cooking. sewing. acting. photography. video games. horseback riding. gardening. smithing. shopping. traveling. movies. theatre. libraries. books. magazines. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. science.

[ STYLE ] ~ nudism. perfume. cologne. piercings. tattoos. henna. body paint. war paint. make up. lipstick. mascara. eyeliner. eye shadow. powder. beauty marks. blush. nail polish. lingerie. fishnet. pantie-hoes. socks. stockings. leggings. long johns. under armor. corsets. sports bras. bustles. camisoles. blouses. button ups. tunics. vests. waistcoats. leather jackets. ponchos. sweaters/jumpers. hoodies. skirts. jeans. kilts. breeches. scarfs. cravats. ascots. belts. sashes. gloves. heels. sandals. platforms. tennis shoes. penny loafers. jordans. slippers. boots. cowboy boots. rain boots. army boots. armor. justaucorps. trench coats. capes. cloaks. burqa. suits. tuxedos. kimonos. saris. sun dresses. gowns. jewelry. earrings. nose rings. lip rings. tongue piercings. belly rings. gauges. eyebrow rings. necklaces. pearl strings. leis. bracelets. bangles. cuffs. watches. friendship bracelets. rings. pendants. lockets. broaches. boutonnieres. pocket watches. cuff links. hats. crowns. circlets. flower crowns. helmets. hijabs. turbans. baseball caps. cowboy hats. brocade. doublet. gorget. bracers. masks. cowls. braces. glasses. sun glasses. eye contacts. pyjamas.

[ MISC ] ~ balloons. bubbles. candles. battle. war. diplomacy. peace. money. power. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. sex. hugs. duality. sin. lust. greed. wrath. envy. sloth. gluttony. pride. virtue. chivalry. honour. piety. charity. diligence. chastity. gentleness. aggression. romance. hatred. grief. pity. success. bitterness. sorrow. joy. fear. anger. good. evil. relativity. vampirism. sapphism. life. birth. time. death. illusion. silence.

#a lotta the gems n stuff are based off symbolism #representing good/bad luck #plus fortune and hope #♡₊˚ 🍀・₊✧ » ic : dash game ─ 𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘚 𝘉𝘌 𝘎𝘖𝘖𝘋 𝘓𝘜𝘊𝘒 𝘖𝘙 𝘉𝘈𝘋 𝘓𝘜𝘊𝘒.ᐣ ❞#♡₊˚ 🍀・₊✧ » ic : aesthetic ─ 𝘏𝘖𝘗𝘌 𝘚𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘌𝘚 𝘉𝘙𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘙𝘒𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚 𝘖𝘍 𝘋𝘌𝘚𝘗𝘈𝘐𝘙. ❞

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thevhagarwriter · 1 year ago

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Grandma Violence - I.IV.

[Dragons, Death and Daemon]

Chapter IV - Enemy Approaching

Balerion and Vhagar coped quite differently with the loss of Meraxes. The black dragon grew quiet and sullen, eating less and sleeping rarely. At day he did what his rider commanded him to do and at night he cried out in the winds, trashing in his sleep and flying long stretches in complete solitude until he returned at sunrise. He ignored everyone but Aegon, ignored everyone but the silver eggs stored in the hot deeps of Dragonstone.

He burned the dornish cities without passion and strength, letting cool fire just blacken the outer layer of bricks instead of melting stone into fiery mud. As often as he could, he returned to the ancestral home of the Targaryen, staring at the clutch of three eggs, rubbing his chin gently against the scaly rocks and whispering tales of their mother. It took months and years until his heart healed, but at last, as the little hatchlings broke through the thick shell of the egg, he could purr again.

Vhagar was…different. All the fire that Meraxes could no longer spew, she let rain tenfold. While Balerion knew nothing but sorrow and mourning, Vhagar knew nothing but anger and vengeance. Visenya and her dragon had both sworn to avenge their sisters, to kill every fucking dornish man they could find, to burn their cities to the ground and destroy their harvest.

Visenya never had to give orders this time, she never had to tell Vhagar what to do, because she understood - deeper and better than anyone else. With every man crushed under her feet or between her jaws, with every building collapsing under the heat and every child crying out in terror, Vhagar felt better, felt satisfied and happy to have driven deep regret into the heart of the Dornish.

But it was never enough. As the mountains of bones, ashes and dust rose and rose - it was never enough, still too many left, still too many alive and breathing! The copper dragon grew obsessed and furious, eating less and sleeping rarely. At day she destroyed and burned her enemies alongside Visenya and at night she roared her ire at the sky, trashing in her sleep and vanishing for hours at night to search for more to kill until she usually returned at sunrise. She ignored everyone but Visenya, ignored everyone but the deep seated hatred burning in her chest. As steady as her heartbeat was the voice screaming in her head: “Kill! Kill! KILL!”

Vhagar smelt the Stepstones before she saw them. The smell of blood, ash, steel, sickness and burned flesh made her snout water.

She flew above dozens of war ships, most of them already showing signs of wear and tear - their sails dirty and ripped and the wet, splintered wood rotting. They were gathered around a large island, one of the few Stepstones that were firmly in the grasp of the Westerosi forces.

Like a hawk, Vhagar descended in slow circles, carefully analyzing the situation below.

She saw the military tent camps stretching over the island, colored red, black and seagreen and smelling of medical herbs, mutton stew, human sweat and horse feces. Men ran around, carrying timber, armor and weapons or guiding horses and livestock. The animal seemed unbothered, but it didn’t take long for the humans to point at the sky, yelling and laughing at her sudden appearance. Vhagar didn’t understand a lot of the Common Tongue, but she could pick out her name and phrases of surprise and joy.

She purred to herself. This is where she belonged, these were the people who loved and respected her above everyone else.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”, a voice suddenly hissed and Vhagar quickly ducked her head as a stream of bright red fire washed over her.

She growled as she stabilized herself in the air, looking at the other dragon in both amusement and annoyance.

“You lack respect for your elders.”, she remarked and Caraxes spat out. “I don’t need an old bitch like you telling me what to do or what not to do. Also, I asked you something!”

Vhagar rolled her eyes. “I’m here to settle what you fail to do.”

He glared at her, crimson eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

“Silverwing told me that your little war hasn’t been going as well as expected. I am here to rectify this.”

Caraxes grunted. “What can Silverwing do but keep whining about shit that doesn’t concern her? Daemon and I are doing just fine, it’s the other humans fault - they are the one who keep fucking everything up.”

The red dragon craned his neck to lock at Vhagar’s back. “Where’s your rider, by the way? Seasmoke told me that his rider's sister doesn’t have a dragon yet and that she hopes to find you. Did that little Velaryon bitch claim you and is too big of a coward to actually ride you?”

Vhagar’s tail whipped around her and slapped Caraxes hard in the chest, sending him tumbling down as he tried to find his balance again. As Baelon’s dragon she had spent a lot of time with Caraxes and she had enjoyed his company while as Laena’s dragon in her past life, but he was quick to cross a line.

“I am not bonded with Laena Velaryon and you should be glad for it, because if I were, I would rip your tongue out of your snake head.”, she growled and he smirked, showing off his rows of teeth. “Try to, sweetheart.”

Vhagar shook her head, but couldn’t help but chuckle. “Whatever you say and do, you’re still just a little hatchling in my eyes.”

—

As they descended closer to the military camp, Caraxes took the lead and directed them to the windswept beaches, where Vhagar smelt the ashes of animal bones.

Clouds of sand rose to the air as both dragons landed, with Vhagar taking up most of the dune’s space.

“But I have to ask again, who and where is your rider? Is it Viserys, did the king decide to jump right to the next conquest dragon?”

Vhagar couldn’t suppress a shudder. From what she had gathered from Aemond, who had loved to talk for hours with his best friend, Viserys hadn’t been a very good father to him and his siblings and Vhagar had felt through their bond how it had hurt her little Aemond. “No.”, she said and couldn’t quite keep the anger from her voice which Caraxes noticed with a surprised flaring of his neck crest.

“I am currently unbound, I don’t follow anyone and no one follows me.”, she elaborated and the younger dragon stared at her in confusion. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

“Silverwing asked me to.”, Vhagar lied…well half lied.

Caraxes huffed dismissively. “And what does it concern her and why didn’t she show up herself if she wants to bitch about it so badly?”

“She told me that Seasmoke wants the war to end quickly and that I, with my experience and spirit, would be able to defeat the enemy in no time.”, Vhagar explained and Caraxes rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Seasmoke that little pussy. If he hates fighting so much, why did that little twat bond with the son of the Corlys and Rhaenys? The fuck did he think would happen?”

Vhagar sighed. “So I assume that you would prefer to fight alongside me?”

Caraxes slowly swayed his head from side to side. “I’m not sure. You definitely have more fire in you than little Smokey, but you would probably steal all my thunder and I don’t think Daemon and I would appreciate being outshined.”

Vhagar huffed, her mood immediately souring when he spoke of his rider. “Well maybe I should stay with Seasmoke after all. No wonder he dislikes fighting, when he has to spend all his time with someone like you and Daemon.”

“Eh, what's wrong with Daemon?”, Caraxes asked and he sounded a little bit insulted.

Vhagar didn’t answer right away as she stared into the dark ocean waves crashing behind his scarlet form.

What was wrong with Daemon? Despite all her brooding and planning, Vhagar had only thought about how Daemon should die and not why.

It opened quite a barrel of questions. Vhagar wanted him to die because he killed Aemond and indirectly Laena. But this was in her past life, the current Daemon hadn’t done any of these things…yet. Was it right of her to kill an innocent man because he had the potential to do evil? Could his actions be defined as evil? He couldn’t have known that Laena’s second pregnancy would be her last and Aemond had provoked the deadly fight in which both sides were winning and loosing.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What was she thinking about? She was a dragon, she couldn’t concern herself with gods and monsters, justice and morality. Daemon was a threat to her and to the people she held dear and therefore had to be eliminated. Simple as that.

She chose her next words carefully, but spoke the truth all the same. “Daemon is a difficult character to deal with - hotheaded, moody and aggressive. Not everyone has the patience for this.”

Caraxes huffed out a cloud of smoke but seemed oddly pleased by that answer, as if it was a compliment.

This was also the second reason why Vhagar wanted to kill Daemon. He was like a plague, rotting the people around him and infecting them with his anger and malice. Who knows if the whole dragon war would have even broken out, if it wasn’t for his neverending wrath against everything and everyone.

She knew how dangerous such a person was - because she kept slipping into the same abyss.

Suddenly Caraxes let out an annoyed growl and Vhagar’s ears twitched as she heard the flapping of wings. “The little bitch is back. Well, I for once had enough of playing wetnurse, you can take it from here.”, he said and quickly took off, flying away in the opposite direction from where Seasmoke was coming from. Vhagar was glad she could speak to Seasmoke alone. As much fun as Caraxes could be, it was difficult to get any factual knowledge from him and he was obviously not going to help her kill his rider. Though she hadn’t seen the youngest dragon in a long time, the way his mother talked about him made Vhagar assume that he was just as sensible and reasonable to work with. No wonder Caraxes despised him.

“Could it really be you, Vhagar?”, a young, gentle voice called and Vhagar shifted around till she was face to face with the gray-white dragon. “Hello Seasmoke.”, she greeted him and couldn’t help but add: “How you have grown!”

The young dragon bowed courteously, but Vhagar thought she could hear him purr ever so slightly.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing at the Stepstones?”

“Well, the fighting has been going on for quite a while and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight.”, Vhagar said and the other nodded sadly.

“Yes, the triarchy is tougher than we all anticipated. They are very sneaky and know how and where to hide from dragonfire…” Vhagar sighed in sympathy, but decided to cut the chase right away. “I see...Your mother actually told me you are quite unhappy at the war camps.”

Seasmoke glared at her with silver eyes, his back crest angrily inflating. “That’s not true! I am loyal to Laenor and wherever he goes I go, even if that means fighting on the front lines!”

Vhagar hummed. “But you don't like it, don’t you?” Seasmoke growled defensive: “Are you calling me a coward? Is that why you are here? Because you don’t see me fit for fighting?”

The older dragon shook her head, looking at the smaller dragon with all the gentleness she could muster. “No, though I understand that spending so much time with Caraxes may have given you the misconception that the entire purpose of our existence is to fight the human wars. It doesn’t have to be.”

The gray dragon immediately relaxed his stance and he looked at her with gratitude in his eyes. “So you don’t think I'm a coward for hating to fight?”, he asked again.

“No, a coward would have fled, but you fought even if you didn’t want to.”, Vhagar answered. “Though I can’t, for the life of me, understand why and how you feel that way.”, she added and Seasmoke cocked his head in confusion. “I told Silverwing the same. Maybe it has been all my time fighting along Aegon the Conqueror, but I can’t imagine a life where I am not a warrior. I have claws, teeth, wings and fire - I am perfect for killing and destroying, so what else should I do? What else can I do?”

Seasmoke kept quiet for a moment. “Well…if I had a completely free choice, I would love to explore the world with Laenor, see the most beautiful wonders of the world, smell the sweetest flowers, hear the songs of the strangest creatures, fly farther than any dragon has ever flown, but most importantly: I wish to never have to kill any human ever again.”

This caught Vhagar off guard. “Huh?”

The younger dragon shrugged. “Do you know why I hate fighting humans? Because it’s unfair. As you said, we have wings and claws, teeth and fire. What do our opponents have? Metal armor that will burn into their flesh? Swords that cannot reach us, arrows that bounce off our scales? We aren’t warriors, not truly. We are butchers - no, we are worse than that. Butchers kill to provide their neighbors with food and nourishment, but we can’t possibly eat all the men and horses we kill, can we?” “War is never fair.”, Vhagar countered.

“Yes, that’s my point.”, Seasmoke said. Vhagar hummed. “Then can we both agree that it would be the best for everyone if we finish this mess as quickly as possible?”

The younger dragon nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

Vhagar blinked confused. “For what?” “For coming here and helping us, for listening to me and for respecting my feelings. For not being Caraxes, I suppose.”, Seasmoke said, chuckling at the last sentence.

The older dragon purred, but she could feel that there was still something that the younger dragon wanted to say. She looked at him expectantly and he took a deep breath. “Earlier you said that our existence is not entirely defined by being warriors. I always felt that way and never doubted that my life is meant for more than being an instrument of destruction. But what about you? The way you said it, I thought that you two have broken out of this line of thinking, that you too have found a higher purpose. Is that true?” Vhagar thought for a second before she answered. “I said that fighting the wars of humans isn’t our only purpose and that still stands true. If you want to be a curious explorer, if Silverwing wants to be a gentle mother, if any other dragon wants to do what they want to do, they are all free to do so. And so am I. But my purpose is still to fight - but not for the humans, not for their trade and pride and conquest. I fight for what I want, for what I think is right. Don’t be mistaken, I am not here to fight a human war, I am here to fight my war.”

#vhagar #hotd #hotd fanfic #asoiaf #house of the dragon #fanfic #caraxes #seasmoke #grandma violence

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howieabel · 1 year ago

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Regarding Art

by Nâzım Hikmet Ran

Sometimes, I, too, tell the ah's of my heart one by one like the blood-red beads of a ruby rosary strung on strands of golden hair! But my poetry's muse takes to the air on wings made of steel like the I-beams of my suspension bridges! I don't pretend the nightingale's lament to the rose isn't easy on the ears... But the language that really speaks to me are Beethoven sonatas played on copper, iron, wood, bone, and catgut... You can "have" galloping off in a cloud of dust! Me, I wouldn't trade for the purest-bred Arabian steed the sixth mph of my iron horse running on iron tracks! Sometimes my eye is caught like a big dumb fly by the masterly spider webs in the corners of my room. But I really look up to the seventy-seven-story, reinforced-concrete mountains my blue-shirted builders create! Were I to meet the male beauty "young Adonis, god of Byblos," on a bridge, I'd probably never notice; but I can't help staring into my philosopher's glassy eyes or my fireman's square face red as a sweating sun! Though I can smoke third-class cigarettes filled on my electric workbenches, I can't roll tobacco - even the finest- in paper by hand and smoke it! I didn't - "wouldn't" - trade my wife dressed in her leather cap and jacket for Eve's nakedness! Maybe I don't have a "poetic soul"? What can I do when I love my own children more than mother Nature's!

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horizon-verizon · 2 years ago

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The bird arrived as Rhaenyra and her blacks were mourning Ser Erryk and debating the proper response to “Aegon the Usurper’s” latest attack. Though shaken by this attempt on her life (or the lives of her sons), the queen was still reluctant to attack King’s Landing. Munkun (who, it must be remembered, wrote many years later) says this was because of her horror of kinslaying. Maegor the Cruel had slain his own nephew Aegon, and had been cursed thereafter, until he bled his life away upon his stolen throne. Septon Eustace claims Rhaenyra had “a mother’s heart” that made her reluctant to risk the lives of her remaining sons. Mushroom alone was present for these councils, however, and the fool insists that Rhaenyra was still so griefsick over the death of her son Lucerys that she absented herself from the war council, giving over her command to the Sea Snake and his wife, Princess Rhaenys. Here Mushroom’s version seems most likely, for we know that nine days after Lord Staunton dispatched his plea for help, the sound of leathern wings was heard across the sea, and the dragon Meleys appeared above Rook’s Rest. The Red Queen, she was called, for the scarlet scales that covered her. The membranes of her wings were pink, her crest, horns, and claws bright as copper. And on her back, in steel and copper armor that flashed in the sun, rode Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was. Ser Criston Cole was not dismayed. Aegon’s Hand had expected this, counted on it. Drums beat out a command, and archers rushed forward, longbowmen and crossbowmen both, filling the air with arrows and quarrels. Scorpions were cranked upward to loose iron bolts of the sort that had once felled Meraxes in Dorne. Meleys suffered a score of hits, but the arrows only served to make her angry. She swept down, spitting fire to right and left. Knights burned in their saddles as the hair and hide and harness of their horses went up in flames. Men-at-arms dropped their spears and scattered. Some tried to hide behind their shields, but neither oak nor iron could withstand dragon’s breath. Ser Criston sat on his white horse shouting, “Aim for the rider,” through the smoke and flame. Meleys roared, smoke swirling from her nostrils, a stallion kicking in her jaws as tongues of fire engulfed him.

Fire and Blood, by George R.R. Martin, pg 433-434

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sonorous-eisfyl · 6 months ago

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what are your muse’s aesthetics? BOLD any which apply to your muse! remember to REPOST! feel free to add to the list!

[ WEAPONS ] ~ bites. fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. bow. crossbow. hammer. shield. poison. (bow)guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. bombs. missiles. boomerangs. lethal pets. lasers.

#[ im not actually sure how many of these apply im kind of just highlighting whatever feels right LOL ]#{ 🌸 } dreams of tomorrow (headcanons)#{ 🎐 } gathering hub (dash games)

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that-one-malereader-enthusiast · 9 months ago

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Love and War

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

“Love doesn’t die with death. Love is like liquid; when it pours out, it seeps into others’ lives. Love changes form and shape. Love gets into everything. Death doesn’t conquer all; love does. Love wins every single time. Love wins by lasting through death. Love wins by loving more, loving again, loving without fear.” - Kate O’Neil

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚

The battlefield was bloodied, littered with the remains of many brothers in arms. Fathers, sons, brothers that would be missed dearly. The bodies–sliced, stabbed, bludgeoned, trampled–briefly forgotten in the heat of battle as warriors crossed swords with each other. The cries of battle that filled the air seemed to clash with the sounds of steel on steel. Pained screams of agony and the yells of power could barely be separated with so many bodies around. Too many soldiers to count, both living and dead. The sun that was once high in the sky when the battle began was now sinking down into the horizon. The sky seemed to paint itself in colors of deep reds, as if soaking up the blood that decorated the ground below.

“Commander! We’re becoming overwhelmed!”

“We push forward! Do not let them break your will! Know who and what you are fighting for!” Hearing the cries of his troops from beyond his helmet was a devastating drive to push forwards. Avenging them, avenging their fallen brothers–the best motivation to make it back home, to bring honor to their kingdom. The commander was still mounted on his steed, his vision limited to the small holes within the font of his helmet. The armor that adorned his body felt as if he was wearing his normal garbs, having trained day and night while adjusting the weight of his protection as well as his sword.

The thunderous sound of hooves hitting the ground seemed to overwhelm the yells of the masses. To him, he wasn’t fighting for his kingdom. He had no family to go back to. No mother, father, brothers, sisters…no wife, sons, daughters–though in his mind, the love of his life was safely tucked away in another kingdom. Far from the bloodshed that covered the fields they once rode on together. He was fighting for not himself, but for the love of his life. Fighting to stay alive, to see their smile again, to hear their voice and sweet whispers in the bed they shared.

He was determined to fight for his love. To share another day with them, and many more after.

The commander yelled out as he was struck off his steed, the impact sending him to the ground. He fumbled onto his feet as his horse strayed, trampling and ramming through the enemy line as well as the commander's allies. The animal knew none the better, disoriented in the heat of battle with the loss of its rider.

Finding himself on the ground, he no longer had the upper hand that his stead provided. He was now on the same playing field as other troops and knights on both sides. The commander moved swiftly, his strikes heavy and unyielding. The pained screams of the enemy fell to his own deaf ears compared to the louder thumps of his heart beating. His body rippled with strength and power, yelling out as his sword sliced through flesh and carving out the weakest points of his enemies. At that moment, the man was fearless, his moves bold and as they were careful. As invincible as he felt at that moment, his armor only allowed him so much defense. He suddenly cried out as something made contact with the side of his helmet, ringing now sounding off–much louder in his right ear than in the other.

In frustration, he swiftly took his helmet off with his left hand, slinging it into the person in front of him. Within a single breath he gripped the handle of his blade before slashing upwards. After that, he left his opponent in blood and gore, their body dropping dead to the ground. Blood was flung onto the male's fair skin, now revealed to the death-ridden and open air. For a moment, the commander found himself able to catch his breath, the metallic and copper-like smell of blood flooding his senses. It was as if it was bared onto his tongue with how pungent the scent was. The once green and healthy valley that smelled of lilacs now smelled of death and tragedy. Even if one side were to come out victorious, both sides would still have many losses. The rich and royals would see it as a victory, safe in the comforts of their castles, fortified and safe from the bloodshed. They would mourn their people, but truly see them as nothing but pawns in their game to rule.

The commander felt the wind howl, as if the lost and damned souls of the war were crying, begging for the madness to end. The whipping winds blew against his blonde hair, eyes determined as he steadied himself for but a moment before he was back into the fight. He not only led, but knew how to fight alongside his fellow knights. He wanted the battle to end, just as everyone else did, but he knew when to back down.

Even as the odds seemed against them, they slowly began to prevail.

He watched as the enemy forces seemed to slow and toil, his men rallying about and pushing forward on his command, as if he’d given them hope. They had a fighting chance. A grin spread across his lips as he watched the enemy banner in the distant start to burn, arrows flying through the air like shooting stars within the night sky. Raining down hell. The screams of fear and lack of preparation started to show from the opposing side, having underestimated the enemy. The commander watched his men start to pull ahead of himself, pushing other knights back with sheer force and strength. He would wait to cheer–celebrate–seeing the enemy crumble and retreat. For a moment, time slowed. He predicted that soon his forces would overwhelm the enemy and there would be an end for the bloodshed. His blue eyes scanned the faces he could see, nodding at the determination within his knightly brethren.

At that moment, he foresaw victory.

But, he didn’t count on seeing the love of his life with a blade in hand.

And, fighting on the opposing side of this gruesome battle.

At that moment, time completely froze. The grin that was once stretched across his lips faltered with a shaken expression drawn over his face. The air in his lungs seemed to disappear, his pupils dilating and his body going rigid. The flash of red hair seemed almost too familiar and he seemed to quickly question if it was a trick of the light. He blinked, his breath shaky as it was clear. The sound of battle seemed to fall silent as he heard the yells of a voice he’d grown accustomed to all his life.

“...Caspian?..”

He spoke quietly, his voice but a whisper in the wind compared to the roaring battle before him. The commander seemed almost hesitant to call out the name again, as if his mind was fighting to deny that it was actually them.

“...C...Caspian!”

The man spoke up louder, his ears now ringing, as if the bustling noises around him were tuning back in. He felt his body jerk forward as he was roughly shoved against the shoulder, a knight pushing past him and into the fray. He was determined this time, gripping his hand with one hand and his fist being balled up in the other.

“Caspian!”

His lungs seemed to burn as he called out for his lover, his heart skipping a beat and his skin growing cold as they responded to the name. Looking up from their current pinned and speared opponent with confusion, the redhead quickly seemed to look side to side before his amber colored hues connected. The other blue hues held fear, true fear. The moment the truth slammed into him, everything seemed to return to normal, his surroundings becoming the least of his worries. He was shoved yet again, grunting and nearly dropping his sword. It wasn’t until then that he realized he was in the enemy lines, raising his blade to deflect another from slicing him in two. He yelled out and pushed the offender back, knocking them on their back before coming down on them. The moment his blade sunk into their flesh, he was rendered useless and open to all attacks.

He pressed his foot against their stomach, ripping the blade up, but before he could retaliate, There was a piercing, fiery pain that spread through his back and chest, nearly taking him off his feet. Suddenly the world seemed to slow once again, his body dropping. He felt himself drop to his knees, all while a scream seemed to stand out from the cries of war.

“ROLAND!”

It sounded more like a broken cry as the battle waged on. The blonde gasped but felt as if he could no longer intake air. He looked down, his armor having been pierced. The sharpest point of the lance coated in a deep red–his own blood. His eyes widened for a moment, energy slowly seeping out of his body the longer he looked. He tried to speak, his lips moving yet incoherent and whispers of words seemed to go with the wind. His eyes seemed to feel much heavier, his body feeling dragged down by the weight of his armor. The commander has long since dropped his sword, the blade still dripping with the blood of his enemies. He heard his name once more, but it seemed much closer to him. It was as if the person was right in front of him. The male's eyelids felt heavier and heavier with each passing second, closing them and then forcing them open.

The redhead seemed to smile as he watched the blonde look back at him in such a daze, their bare bodies covered by nothing but the white linen sheets of their bed. “Are you done staring handsome? Paint a picture, it’ll last much longer.”

The blonde grinned and moved his hand to slide down the others bare waist, pulling him closer as his warm palm pressed against their lower back. “A painting could never rival the true beauty of you my love. I’d rather never take my eyes off the one person I love more than the moons and the stars combined.”

The other seemed to laugh in response, a charming smile blessing his rosy lips that edged ever so closer to the blonde lips. “What a poet you have become my darling knight, though I’d rather you speak less…and do more…” Just as this was said, the redhead started to close his eyes, the blonde filling in a small gap that was between their lips.

Just as the blonde closed his eyes again, warmth appeared against his lips as well as his tongue. The cooper smell that was once burned into his nose was now in his mouth, the taste much more bitter than the scent itself. The warmth traveled from his lip and down his chin, dripping down past his chin and even down his throat. Some seemed to even drip onto the ground for the soil to soak up. His body began to feel much weaker, his center of balance slipping from him. The commander felt himself gently rock–left, then right–all until his eyes seemed to roll back, falling onto the left side of his body.

The world was once again quiet and muffled for the male. His lips parted once again as he gasped out breathlessly, “Cas...pian…” He knew that this was the end of his story, that he would no longer live to spend another day with his lover. His body would soon become like the other, food for the worms, the birds, or soon to be burnt if collected for the village. His face came in contact with the ground, the patch of untrampled grass licking against his cheek. The male's blue eye could see nothing but the feet of other knights as well as bodies that would end up just as his. Dead bodies that he would be counted with. His hand aimlessly reached out with the last ounce of energy. He could feel his own breathing stuttering, coughing up blood that began to fill up his lungs with every passing moment. His body had been pierced through, not even a miracle would be able to save him from such a fate.

His eyelids closed once more, heavy and sluggish, prying them open with the willpower still lingering in his body. His vision was shortly blurred with the glare of the sun towards the side, the reddish glow flickering against his face, the last bit of warmth the world would provide him. No cozy beds, no embraces by the fireplace, no more warmth from the kiss of his beloved–no legacy to leave behind.

The blonde commander would just become another casualty of war, ready to be replaced by the next knight who showed some sort of control or higher power. Just as he did so many years ago.

The cold embrace of death seemed to slowly envelop him, his breathing slowing into stutters and his vision blurring, darkness crowding around the edges. His body was more numb to the pain, feeling on slight nudges as other knights seemed to kick or almost trip over his body. His eyelids closed once more, though it felt like weights holding them down as he tried to force them open once again.

His vision blurred as he appeared to be on the same field once more, vacant of bodies, blood, and violence. The wind seemed to gently caress his face, comforting him at the moment. He saw nothing wrong, his hand gently closing around the blades of grass that brushed against the skin of his palm. The metallic scent was now replaced with a fragrance resembling lilacs…his favorite. His eyes grew heavy once more, though he forced them to stay open upon hearing his name in the distance. The commander couldn’t move his head in the direction of the voice, wincing as he felt a numbing sensation throughout his entire body.

His eyes closed and opened once more, finding himself back on the battlefield. His head was no longer touching the ground, but instead against someone's body. His name was being called, barely recognizable with his muffled hearing. His lips moved to speak, but no voice left his throat. Fingers ran through his hair as he was held close to one's body, unable to feel the strength of the hug he was pulled into. Over the cries of battle he listened in as his name was called again, much closer to his face–mere inches away. With his strength completely sapped from his body, he could do nothing more than lie down within the embrace of the other. As his skin grew cold, his eyes fluttered feeling something drip upon his skin.

Rain?

The sky was bleeding into darker colors, but they were clear of any gloomy clouds with no signs of a storm. A droplet splashed upon his cheek yet again, another dripping onto the corner of his lip. The saltiness seemed to splash against his tongue while running down his lip, the liquids merging like watercolors. It wasn’t until then that his mind realized they were tears rather than raindrops. Someone was crying–over him–holding him close as if they were to slip away at any moment. He was slipping away, his vision growing darker and the world growing much colder.

His lips parted once again, muttering as the commander felt his last breaths slowly trickling away. A brief feeling of warmth brushed against his bottom lip as well as the side of his face. A hand–a gentle caress.

The blonde male felt his breath hitch and stutter, the pain turning into numbness and all feeling diluted into nothing. Death embraced him, but he seemed hesitant to embrace them back. His body was rendered useless as well as most of his senses, his sight being the last to go. In the muted world he looked upon once more, he’d only wished that his love could hear his final cry. As the battlefield faded to black, one voice could be heard, clear as day. It was a plea– a cry–a declaration of love and desperation.

“Roland, don't leave me! Please!...I love you!”

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

2.7k words // proofread

Do not repost my works on any other platform, thank you.

#drabble #AntoniusSanctuary

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sovereign-spaw · 1 year ago

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Thank you!!! @dekarios for the tag!!

Animals

Fafern Tiliqua rugosas, swans, gray wolves, albatrosses, deer, coyotes, butterflies, maggots

Odret Penguins, pigeons, turtles, tardigrades, spiders, moths, roaches, bloodhound

Duchess Nightingales, boars, lions, hyenas, killer whales, narwhals, squids

Colors

Fafern Blue, white, gold

Odret Black, purple, red

Duchess Blue, gold, red

Month

Fafern December, March

Odret August, May

Duchess July, January

Songs

Fafern Ghost in the rain, rises the moon, I think I love you, the horror and the wild, heart of stone, heart of steel, I am the winter, gales of song, blind and frozen, safe ship harbored, where is your rider, family jewels

Odret Ocean deep, beneath the brine, lend me your voice, buckled knees, nothing good, fragile things, dirty paws, the fire, pale white horse, this will end, le seine and I, never love an anchor

Duchess Farewell to the crown, tarviin vielä yhden yön aikaa, if I were, hello my old heart, thus always to tyrants, the call, the garden, tongues and teeth, feed me with your heart, everything at once, ship in a bottle, syntisten pöytä

Number

Fafern 43358

Odret 13433

Duchess 13324

Plants

Fafern Spruce, showy stonecrop, dahlia, blackberry

Odret Birch, heliotrope, daffodil, cranberries

Duchess Oak, nettle, dandelion, holly berry

Scents

Fafern Dirt, moss, clay

Odret Hyacinths, burned sugar, hint of sweetness

Duchess Smoke, copper, sulfur

Gemstone

Fafern Cerussite, sapphire, garnet

Odret Amethyst, kunzite, moonstone

Duchess Onyx, sunstone, moissanite

Time of day

Fafern The blue hour

Odret Dusk

Duchess Sunrise

Season

Fafern Fall

Odret Winter

Duchess Spring

Places

Fafern Caves, the small crevices between rocks, somewhere dark and cold, somewhere impenetrable, somewhere safe

Odret Somewhere lonesome yet not abandoned, warm and safe yet not home, somewhere he could feel her again, someplace where he could keep them safe

Duchess Beneath the open sky, boundless field filled with harebells, someplace that only she could find, with a path only he could follow

Food

Fafern Meat the slightly tastes of rot, served with tangy mushrooms and salt of her tears

Odret The same thing she tastes, but he craves for a berry pie made with fresh ingredients

Duchess Something quick to make and light as to make sure she can easily run, should the need arise

Drinks

Fafern Water that drips down the stalactites, better this than the poison that runs through the river

Odret He needs nothing, knowing that she has fresh water

Duchess Rich wine, it tastes awful, but satisfaction come from quenched thirst, it comes from knowing she’s taking something away from him

Element

Fafern Zirconium

Odret Hafnium

Duchess Carbon

Seasonings

Fafern Rosemary, ginger, dill

Odret Poppy seeds, cinnamon, nutmeg

Duchess Saffron, cayenne pepper, turmeric

Sky

Fafern A freezing, cloudless winter night, maybe there will be northern lights

Odret When both the sun and the moon are visible, with a few clouds in the sky

Duchess Dark, looming clouds rushing with the wind, it’ll rain soon

Weather

Fafern A winter day, but the weather is starting to warm up

Odret Cold spring day, few weeks after the last snow had melted

Duchess Stormy day when the wind blows and lightning strikes the ground

Magical powers

Fafern Ice so cold it’ll freeze any in an instant, and a gale so frigid none dare to harm those it chooses to shield

Odret A shadow that shrouds and hides all from prying eyes, let no one see the danger that approaches, or the help that is coming

Duchess A song so irresistible all will join hand in hand to dance to its tune till their shoes shred and they fall to the ground from exhaustion

Weapons

Fafern The very water that travels through everyone

Odret Shadows, and the scythe of a hooked horror

Duchess The lyre she plays can bring as much pain as it brings joy

Candy/Sweets

Fafern Black and red licorice, candied cherries

Odret Rock candy, sweethearts

Duchess Dark chocolate, sour lollipops

Method of long distance travel

Fafern Creating an ice horse and using that as a steed

Odret Walking

Duchess Charming someone into carrying her

Art style

Fafern Finger painted, reminiscent of cave art

Odret Rough, sharp lines, as if chiseled into stone

Duchess Flowing and free, as if drawn to the tune of a pleasant song

Fears

Fafern Being abandoned, being misunderstood. Afraid of not seeing him again, afraid of the day when it’ll be too late, yet too scared to go back and face the consequences of her own actions, fears they forgets once he’s endangered

Odret That he won’t see her again, of time running out, her reaction, the sun, dying again, wasting the chance he's been given

Duchess Of not being enough, being weak, his victory, failing, the contracts

Mythological creature

Fafern Tuonelan joutsen

Odret Iku-Tihku

Duchess Vörðr

Piece of stationery

Fafern Pinned bugs, magnets

Odret Chisels, ice picks

Duchess Notebooks, matches

Three emojis

Fafern ❄️🔥🕧

Odret 🩻🧊🔥

Duchess 🎶👁️😶

Celestial body

Fafern Wandering planet

Odret A comet

Duchess Pulsar planet

#fafern #odret #duchess #someone get fafern fresh food they've been in the Underdark for too long

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clareguilty · 5 years ago

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Valentines Gift Fic 4

Jesse X Reader Here it is! Happy Valentines day to the wonderful @pegasusdrawnchariots <3 you are wonderful and amazing and you deserve the world! This is kind of an AU for Steel Horses (an AU for an AU u kno how it be)

The desert slid by slowly outside the train window. If you hadn't grown up among the rocks and sand, you would have found the landscape monotonous and boring. Instead, this was home for you. There was beauty in the desolation. You watched the foothills fade into the distance. You couldn't imagine what the high mountains would be like. Looming and perilous? Bitter and cold?

Leaving home was hard. You would miss the sun and the stone and the songs of the cattle men.

A band of riders kicked up dust on the horizon, far enough that the horses were just specks. Wildness. Freedom. You envied them. Just the thunder of hoofbeats under the wide open sky.

The riders drew closer, you could make out the wide brims of hats. The flutter of their coats.

The glint of sun off the barrel of a rifle.

Bandits.

You froze in your seat. Should you alert the other passengers? The conductor? Could the train outrun their horses?

You stood, hands shaking. You had to do something.

Not even two steps down the aisle, a heavy hand clapped on your shoulder. A low voice drawled in your ear.

"I see you noticed my friends out there," the man said. The muzzle of a revolver pressed into the small of your back. "Why don't we sit back down?" He tugged you back to your seat.

The bandit roughly pushed you back to your spot by the window, sitting next to you and blocking any chance of escape. The revolver peeked from beneath his serape. He could shoot you before you even moved.

"You're going to rob the train," you said quietly, looking straight ahead to the front of the car.

"That we are." You saw him nod out of the corner of your eye.

"Are people going to get hurt?" You hated how your voice shook.

"I would certainly hate to have to hurt anyone. But sometimes, it happens."

"I don't have very much money." Your lip trembled. "I'll have nothing." You had spent most of your savings on your ticket to Denver. The rest of your money was supposed to pay for lodgings when you got to the city.

"You see that woman over there?" The outlaw jerked his elbow toward a few rows up.

You nodded, throat tight.

"She's got a fine gold watch. She's ordered three glasses of brandy. There's a sapphire on her finger."

She was a beautiful woman. A fine woman. Head held high and hair pinned in place with jewels and gold.

"The man across from her pays for her drinks. The clip on his billfold is platinum. He has a jeweled pin on his lapel."

You watched the man smooth his moustache with white gloved fingers. The pin glinted in the afternoon light.

"There's a man in the next car. His hands are rough but his clothes are fine. He bragged about how much money he's made and tried to convince other men to gamble with him."

You turned to look at the bandit for this first time. His eyes were a warm hazel that gleamed like fire in the sun. Brown hair framed his face. He was… handsome. You stared at him, unable to understand how a man so beautiful could be so dangerous.

“You see, sweetpea?” The outlaw grinned, cocksure and crooked. “When my buddies stop this train, I already know exactly what I’m going to steal and who I’m going to steal from. There ain’t much glory in stealing from those who ain’t got nothing to begin with.”

You nodded along, pretending like his convoluted explanation made sense. Despite the fear that gripped your heart, you found yourself lost in the eyes of this mysterious outlaw.

“Now,” he patted your shoulder, “you just sit right here and let me and my friends finish our job. If you’re a good girl, I may just give you a treat.” His smile was easy, but you could see the threat behind his eyes.

The train began to slow. You could hear commotion from the other cars. The sound of a gunshot made you jump.

“Easy, darling,” the outlaw brushed your hair behind your ear. “You ain’t got nothing to be scared of.

The wheels screamed as the ground to a halt against the tracks. The outlaw stood, brandishing his revolver out in the open.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed, “if you’ll pardon the interruption, this is a robbery. No one has to get hurt. I just need for you to hand over your valuables.” He shook out a burlap sack.

The other passengers on the train clamored and cowered. You watched the outlaw stride up and down the aisle, demanding the passengers cough up their money and jewelry. You noticed how he passed people by: the mother with her child, the old man with a cane, the young man with tatter clothes and sunken cheeks. He stole from the man with the platinum billfold, the woman with the sapphire ring.

“Thank you kindly,” he tipped his hat as he began to make his way to the next car. “I hope y’all arrive safely at your destination.”

And then he was gone. You could hear him in the next car, warning the passengers not to cause trouble. You were frozen in your seat, still trying to figure out what had just happened.

Agonizing minutes of waiting. Listening for the sound of a gunshot or a cry of pain. None came. The train began a steady crawl forward, slowly picking up speed. You peered out the window, looking for a band of horses retreating on the horizon. Instead, you saw the outlaw.

A strong, dark horse was keeping pace with the train, chestnut brown with a white star. The outlaw smiled widely and waved his hand, gesturing for you to open the window.

You shoved the glass up. The wind caught your hair as you leaned out, shielding the sun from your eyes.

“Hey, sweetpea,” the bandit called. “I told you I would give you a treat, didn’t I?” He waved a parcel in his hands.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. This was ridiculous. You were hanging out of the side of a train, accepting gifts from an outlaw. “Does this make me an accomplice?” you called.

“Most certainly,” the outlaw grinned. He had perfect control of the horse as he pulled up alongside the train, reaching out to offer you the parcel. You leaned farther out of the window to grab it, heart racing. The train was picking up speed, faster and faster with each passing second.

Your fingers closed around the package. You pulled it into your chest.

The outlaw tipped his hat one last time before rearing his horse in and turning to ride back the way he came. You watched him disappear in the distance before you pushed back into your seat. Your cheeks were burning from the wind and from the flood of emotions racing through you. You tore open the package, heart racing as you unwrapped the paper.

It was a handful of bills, a string of pearls, and a blue sapphire ring.

#valentines fic #valentines gift fic #jesse mccree x reader #jesse mccree #jesse mccree/reader #steel horses #steel horses and copper hearts #overwatch fanfic

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asongofstarkandtargaryen · 3 years ago

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Arya Month : Smallfolk ( and leadership)

A great lesson Ned taught his children was that a leader ought to listen all their people and trully know them.

Back at Winterfell, they had eaten in the Great Hall almost half the time. Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. "Know the men who follow you," she heard him tell Robb once, "and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger." At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories.

On the above passage we see that this advice was directed at Robb, which makes sense considering that he was Ned’s eldest son and his heir. It’s Arya though the one who takes the lesson to heart. During that point of the story nobody expected her to achieve a position of power (and she still haven’t at the current moment of the series) however the fact that she knows that a good lord must associate with his people and loves doing this makes her a good potential ruler.

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father's table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her "Arya Underfoot," because he said that was where she always was. She'd liked that a lot better than "Arya Horseface."

She loves spending time with the smallfolk and that’s why they have given her the endearing nickname “Arya Underfoot”.

Another passage where Arya's love for smallfolk is highlighted comes from her sister Sansa's POV chapter:

Sansa knew all about the sort of people Arya liked to talked to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken free riders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anyone.

Lastly, Arya herself has lived as a commoner for the majority of the books so she knows better than most nobles the problems and struggles the smallfolk face. The fact that she understands them so well and can empathize with their problems makes her a better ruler candidate than the rest of westerosi classist nobles.

#aryastarkmonth2022 #arya stark #canonarya #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #arya meta #mymeta

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jackoshadows · 3 years ago

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I'm not an "American First" (and maybe because I read science fiction) I'm a "Terran First". I'm a human being first. And I have this sympathy for other human beings no matter what side of the giant ice wall they happen to be born on. - GRRM

Jon’s plot with the Freefolk is, for me, one of the best parts of his story. There’s GRRM’s poetic prose in his description of the wilderness of the lands beyond the Wall as Jon travels with the rangers and then the Freefolk. There’s Jon’s character growth and gradual dawning realization that it’s never been the Freefolk who were the real enemy.

It’s interesting to see from Jon’s thoughts and comments ‘Wildlings’ gradually change to ‘Freefolk’. We are introduced to the Wildlings in AGoT as the enemy of the realm from beyond the wall - savage heathens who raid, murder, rape and steal women. The Night’s Watch and even the Warden of the North, Eddard Stark, see the Wildlings as the true enemy against whom the Wall must stand as a defense.

Jon goes undercover among the Wildings to understand the enemy and convey information back to the Night’s Watch. In doing so he learns more about the Freefolk, their people, their culture, their traditions and humbly acknowledges his ignorant hate against a people he knew nothing about (You know nothing, Jon Snow)

The Freefolk tackles the themes of human beings otherizing each other due to bigotry and hate and fighting each other while the real threat - the inhuman Others - advances on them as a threat to ALL humans.

Humanity being one and having to be accepting of differences is a recurring theme in Jon’s story right from AGoT. His new friends and brothers, his new family include the likes of Pyp, a mummers boy, Toad, the son of a winesink keeper, Sam who is bookish and cannot fight. He gets to know and befriends Ygritte, Tormund, Mance, Val and Leathers. He appreciates Satin and Wun Wun.

He told me that a maester's collar is made of chain to remind him that he is sworn to serve," Jon said, remembering. "I asked why each link was a different metal. A silver chain would look much finer with his grey robes, I said. Maester Luwin laughed. A maester forges his chain with study, he told me. The different metals are each a different kind of learning, gold for the study of money and accounts, silver for healing, iron for warcraft. And he said there were other meanings as well. The collar is supposed to remind a maester of the realm he serves, isn't that so? Lords are gold and knights steel, but two links can't make a chain. You also need silver and iron and lead, tin and copper and bronze and all the rest, and those are farmers and smiths and merchants and the like. A chain needs all sorts of metals, and a land needs all sorts of people." - Jon, AGoT

This is no army, no more than it is a town. This is a whole people come together - Jon, ACoK

A thousand captives watched through the wooden bars of their stockage as the horn was lifted high. All were ragged and half-starved. Wildlings, the Seven Kingdoms called them; they named themselves the free folk. They looked neither wild nor free — only hungry, frightened, numb." - Jon, ADwD

The shield that guards the realms of men. Ghost nuzzled up against his shoulder, and Jon draped an arm around him. He could smell Horse’s unwashed breeches, the sweet scent Satin combed into his beard, the rank sharp smell of fear, the giant’s overpowering musk. He could hear the beating of his own heart. When he looked across the grove at the woman with her child, the two greybeards, the Hornfoot man with his maimed feet, all he saw was men. - Jon, ADwD

“Are you certain that I have not forgotten some? The ones about the king and his laws, and how we must defend every foot of his land and cling to each ruined castle? How does that part go?” Jon waited for an answer. None came. “I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Those are the words. So tell me, my lord— what are these wildlings, if not men?” - Jon, ADwD

“These are godless savages,” said Septon Cellador. “Even in the south the treachery of wildlings is renowned.”

Leathers crossed his arms. “That battle down below? I was on t'otherside, remember? Now I wear your blacks and train your boys to kill. Some might call me turncloak. Might be so … but I am no more savage than you crows. We have gods too. The same gods they keep in Winterfell.” - Jon, ADwD

"Free folk and kneelers are more alike than not, Jon Snow. Men are men and women are women, no matter which side of the Wall we were born on. Good men and bad, heroes and villains, men of honor, liars, cravens, brutes . . . we have plenty, as you do." - Jon, ADwD

The King beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder, understood the Freefolk and managed to unite several warring factions under one man in order to lead them across the Wall.

“When I left the Shadow Tower there were five men making noises about how they might be the stuff of kings. Tormund was one, the Magnar another. The other three I slew, when they made it plain they’d sooner fight than follow.“ - Jon, ASoS

Mance had spent years assembling this vast plodding host, talking to this clan mother and that magnar, winning one village with sweet words and another with a song and a third with the edge of his sword, making peace between Harma Dogshead and the Lord o’ Bones, between the Hornfoots and the Nightrunners, between the walrus men of the Frozen Shore and the cannibal clans of the great ice rivers, hammering a hundred different daggers into one great spear, aimed at the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Free folk don’t follow names, or little cloth animals sewn on a tunic,” the King-Beyond-the-Wall had told him. “They won’t dance for coins, they don’t care how you style yourself or what that chain of office means or who your grandsire was. They follow strength. They follow the man.” - Jon, ADwD

However Mance, while shrewd and a thinker, shares some similarities with Stannis Baratheon in that he is not very flexible in his goals and ambitions

“You can kill your enemies,” Jon said bluntly, “but can you rule your friends? If we let your people pass, are you strong enough to make them keep the king’s peace and obey the laws?”

“Whose laws? The laws of Winterfell and King’s Landing?” Mance laughed. “When we want laws we’ll make our own. You can keep your king’s justice too, and your king’s taxes. I’m offering you the horn, not our freedom. We will not kneel to you.” - Jon X, ASoS

Now there is nothing wrong in Mance’s way of thinking. He is arguing for freedom against feudalism, which aligns with our morals. Mance’s thoughts on why he leaves the NW are very relatable and a bastard like Jon can understand the love for a freedom free from societal rules, bigotry and ignorance.

She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears…and most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said.

“I left the next morning…for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose.” - Jon, ASoS

However, a people who don’t want to obey the laws of Westeros are going to run into trouble with the people of Westeros who already hate them for their raiding, stealing, raping ways.

I think that Jon intends to go further than Mance and that his arc in the books will end with him integrating the Freefolk into the North. We see hints of this in ADwD.

“These wildlings … do you think they will keep faith, my lord?”

“Some will. Not all. We have our cowards and our knaves, our weaklings and our fools, as do they.”

“Once the free folk are settled in the Gift, they will become part of the realm,” Jon pointed out. “These are desperate days, and like to grow more desperate. We have seen the face of our real foe, a dead white face with bright blue eyes. The free folk have seen that face as well. Stannis is not wrong in this. We must make common cause with the wildlings.”- Jon, ADwD

However, Jon’s approach is different to Mance’s - a sort of middle ground where both sides have to make concessions. He goes back to the original interpretation of NW oaths to include the Wildlings and pushes through with allowing Freefolk this side of the wall. At the same time, he insists on the Freefolk following orders, no matter what. Except for the Thenns - in whom Mance valued this quality - much of the Freefolk are without disciplined leadership.

Stannis also wants to settle the Wildlings in the North, but he intends for them to bend the knee, something that Jon knows will not endear them to the king.

“Your brothers will not like it, no more than your father’s lords, but I mean to allow the wildlings through the Wall… those who will swear me their fealty, pledge to keep the king’s peace and the king’s laws, and take the Lord of Light as their god. Even the giants, if those great knees of theirs can bend. I will settle them on the Gift, once I have wrested it away from your new Lord Commander. When the cold winds rise, we shall live or die together. It is time we made alliance against our common foe.” He looked at Jon. “Would you agree?”

“My father dreamed of resettling the Gift,” Jon admitted. “He and my uncle Benjen used to talk of it.” He never thought of settling it with wildlings, though… but he never rode with wildlings, either. He did not fool himself; the free folk would make for unruly subjects and dangerous neighbors. Yet when he weighed Ygritte’s red hair against the cold blue eyes of the wights, the choice was easy. “I agree.”

Unlike Stannis, Jon does not force them to kneel. Unlike Mance, he does require them to follow orders and NW rules.

It is too cold for this mummer's show, thought Jon. "The free folk despise kneelers," he had warned Stannis. "Let them keep their pride, and they will love you better." His Grace would not listen. He said, "It is swords I need from them, not kisses." - Jon, ADwD

Down in the Seven Kingdoms boys of twelve were often pages or squires; many had been training at arms for years. Girls of twelve were children. These are wildlings, though. “As you will. Boys and girls as young as twelve. But only those who know how to obey an order. That goes for all of you. I will never ask you to kneel to me, but I will set captains over you, and sergeants who will tell you when to rise and when to sleep, where to eat, when to drink, what to wear, when to draw your swords and loose your arrows. The men of the Night’s Watch serve for life. I will not ask that of you, but so long as you are on the Wall you will be under my command. Disobey an order, and I’ll have your head off. Ask my brothers if I won’t. They’ve seen me do it.” - Jon, ADwD

And we see the Freefolk accede to this and Tormund bargain a deal that allows them passage to the other side of the wall and Jon Snow getting sworn oaths from them. Many of the Freefolk take up Jon’s offer to fight for the Night Watch. Others are hired to cook and clean, make weapons and become stewards and builders.

Jon plans for Soren Shieldbreaker to garrison Stonedoor with Freefolk. Borroq and his boar is headed there. Jon wants to garrison Hoarfrost Hill and Rimegate with Freefolk like Harle the Huntsman, Harle the Handsome etc. He’s planning on sending Halleck to Deeplake or Sable Hall. Morna White Mask commands Queensgate with her people. Tormund gets Oakenshield. Long Barrow is manned by spear wives under Iron Emmett. Devyn Sealskinner and his clan is given command of Greenguard. By the end of ADwD, of the 19 castles along the wall, at least ten have Freefolk either in command or there as a fighting force.

Amongst the stream of warriors were the fathers of many of Jon's hostages. Some stared with cold dead eyes as they went by, fingering their sword hilts. Others smiled at him like long-lost kin, though a few of those smiles discomfited Jon Snow more than any glare. None knelt, but many gave him their oaths. "What Tormund swore, I swear," declared black-haired Brogg, a man of few words. Soren Shieldbreaker bowed his head an inch and growled, "Soren's axe is yours, Jon Snow, if ever you have need of such." Red-bearded Gerrick Kingsblood brought three daughters. “They will make fine wives, and give their husbands strong sons of royal blood,” he boasted. “Like their father, they are descended from Raymun Redbeard, who was King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

Blood meant little and less amongst the free folk, Jon knew. Ygritte had taught him that. Gerrick’s daughters shared her same flame-red hair, though hers had been a tangle of curls and theirs hung long and straight. Kissed by fire. “Three princesses, each lovelier than the last,” he told their father. “I will see that they are presented to the queen.” Selyse Baratheon would take to these three better than she had to Val, he suspected; they were younger and considerably more cowed. Sweet enough to look at them, though their father seems a fool.

Howd Wanderer swore his oath upon his sword, as nicked and pitted a piece of iron as Jon had ever seen. Devyn Sealskinner presented him with a sealskin hat, Harle the Huntsman with a bear-claw necklace. The warrior witch Morna removed her weirwood mask just long enough to kiss his gloved hand and swear to be his man or his woman, whichever he preferred. And on and on and on. - Jon, ADwD

Tormund points out that Mance is King beyond the Wall because he’s clever.

The king gave the older man an irritated look. “Tormund, some day try thinking before you speak. I know it was Craster. I asked Jon to see if he would tell it true.”

“Har.” Tormund spat. “Well, I stepped in that!” He grinned at Jon. “See, lad, that’s why he’s king and I’m not. I can outdrink, outfight, and outsing him, and my member’s thrice the size o’ his, but Mance has cunning. He was raised a crow, you know, and the crow’s a tricksy bird.” - Jon, ASoS

And so is Jon. He does not push the Freefolk, he does not humble them by forcing them to kneel, instead he employs them to address his shortage of man power in return for their access to the same food that the NW brothers get.

And by the end of ADwD, he has their support. They are ready to fight for him.

The Night’s Watch will make for Hardhome. I ride to Winterfell alone, unless …” Jon paused. “… is there any man here who will come stand with me?”

The roar was all he could have hoped for, the tumult so loud that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. Soren Shieldbreaker was on his feet, the Wanderer as well. Toregg the Tall, Brogg, Harle the Huntsman and Harle the Handsome both, Ygon Oldfather, Blind Doss, even the Great Walrus.

I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard.” - Jon, ADwD

Jon integrating the Freefolk into the NW faces a lot of opposition and anger from his men. He tries to convince them of the necessity and he has to address the issue even with the mountain clan chiefs who have come all the way to see what Jon is upto on the wall.

Integrating the Freefolk into the North is going to be even harder considering the 8000 years of bad blood between them. In ACoK we see the Umbers at the harvest fest complaining about Wildling raids. Jon advises Stannis to not use the Wildlings in his army as it would place the Umbers against him.

However, I do think this will happen considering GRRM’s theme of unity against a common enemy. Jon has already started with House Thenn. Of all the Freefolk, the Thenns are closest to the Northerners.

“The spearwives will be so happy. You might do well to bestow a castle on the Magnar.”

Jon’s smile died. “I might if I could trust him. Sigorn blames me for his father’s death, I fear. Worse, he was bred and trained to give orders, not to take them. Do not confuse the Thenns with free folk. Magnar means lord in the Old Tongue, I am told, but Styr was closer to a god to his people, and his son is cut from the same skin. I do not require men to kneel, but they do need to obey.”

“Aye, m’lord, but you had best do something with the Magnar. You’ll have trouble with the Thenns if you ignore them.”

"Different," she said, "but more like us"

"Aye, my lady. The Thenns have lords and laws." They know how to kneel. They mine tin and copper for bronze, forge their own arms and armor instead of stealing it. A proud folk, and brave. Mance Rayder had to best the old Magnar thrice before Styr would accept him as King-Beyond-the-Wall." - Jon, ADwD

The Northerners are not going to be happy with House Thenn taking over for Karstark, but the Thenns in the North is what can start pushing forth the idea that these different people can coexist.

The sigil of house Thenn is also interesting. Notice the similarities to the red sun sigil of Nymeria.

The Dornish Sigil is basically a combination of the red sun with the spear of the Martells. House Thenn has the bronze plate of Thenns, the red flames for R’hllor and the sunburst for Karstark.

House Thenn bringing the people beyond the Wall into the North proper is reminiscent of Nymeria bringing her people to Dorne and integrating the kingdom with Rhoynish customs and laws.

So there are Nymeria’s themes of integration with Jon, Arya has named her Direwolf after Nymeria and GRRM has compared Nymeria to Daenerys.

Q: Also, just how much impact did the Rhoynar have on the modern customs of Dorne? Beyond the gender-blind inheritance laws, the couple of Rhoynish gods that smallfolk might have turned into saints or angelic-type beings, and perhaps the round shields, that is. In particular, given that Nymeria was a warrior-queen, is there a certain amazon tradition?

GRRM: The Rhoynar did impact Dorne in a number of ways, some of which will be revealed in later books. Women definitely have more rights in Dorne, but I would not call it an “Amazon” tradition, necessarily. Nymeria had more in common with someone like Daenerys or Joan d'Arc than with Brienne or Xena the Warrior Princess. - GRRM

While the Freefolk do engage in certain primitive and regressive practices, their women also have more independence in their choice of partners as well as what they would like to do. I don’t think feudalism in Westeros is going to change when the non-kneelers arrive, but I do think the Freefolk could bring with them a more egalitarian approach towards women in the North. And with characters like Arya Stark wanting women to have a more important role, I could see a meeting of minds between these two cultures.

Jon has always struggled with his identity, even more so after his sojourn with the Freefolk.

Ygritte wanted me to be a wildling. Stannis wants me to be the Lord of Winterfell. But what do I want? - Jon, ASoS

I suspect that in TWoW, Jon will become even closer to the Freefolk after the assassination and mutiny by his fellow brothers of the NW. I think that he will indeed march south of the wall at the head of a Wildling army. And the North will have to make their peace with Jon Stark - if Robb’s decree is taken into consideration - and his army of the Freefolk.

Succession and land is already a very complex issue as we see with Lady Hornwood’s case and the king having to make the tough decisions. If the Boltons are defeated who gets the Dreadfort? Just like with the Karstarks I can see Jon injecting new blood into the North. What about House Giantsbane? Will Tormund bend the knee to Jon Stark? Considering that Last Hearth is next door to the Dreadfort and House Umber’s sigil is a giant, that’s going to be so much trouble for Jon if he did this! But that’s what makes these books so much fun.

So in effect, considering how much opposition Jon faced from his men in regards to integrating the Freefolk even into just the NW, at the moment the Gift seems to be the only option for them. And as Jon points out, that does indeed bring them into the realm. I do think that Jon will try for further integration and succeed by the end. I can see him talking to the Umbers and making his case - just like he explained to the Mountain clan chiefs, just like he explained to his men. And if that’s not going to work, he has a huge direwolf and a valyrian steel sword that can be quite convincing as well, as we saw with Robb. The Freefolk who desire to settle beyond the Gift would also have to agree to bend the knee. I can’t see the other houses agreeing to anything else.

I think the approaching threat of the Others is going to make the case for Jon anyway and force everyone else to concede.

“Because they’re different,” he insisted. “Like night and day, or ice and fire.”

“If ice can burn,” said Jojen in his solemn voice, “then love and hate can mate. Mountain or marsh, it makes no matter. The land is one.” - Bran, ASoS

#Jon Snow #Freefolk #JonSnowMonth2022

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