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kc-writes-sometimes · 3 months ago

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Crown and Kin | Chapter Three

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter Three: The Red Keep

Word Count: 4,146

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella faces the true dangers of the city, and a terrifying encounter leaves her questioning everything she once knew about her safety. As danger closes in, a familiar figure comes to her rescue, but their appearance only deepens the mysteries surrounding her past.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daella of King's Landing

Daella froze as the men inched closer, her feet sinking into the muddy ground as if the earth itself conspired to hold her captive. There was nowhere to go. Their leering gazes crawled over her trembling form, and she finally understood the true dangers of King’s Landing. She had walked these streets before, stepping over pools of blood and freshly cut bodies, never once caring because it hadn’t been her blood, her body. Trouble had always kept its distance—after all, who would care about a bastard like her? But now, as these men closed in, she realized that there were those who simply didn’t care. To them, she wasn’t a person, just a young girl ripe for the taking.

She screamed as she hit the ground, the impact softened by the mud, but sharp pain flared as her head snapped back. The world swam before her eyes, fogging her vision. She kicked out desperately, but their laughter only grew louder, taunting her.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fighter, lads,” one of them jeered, kneeling over her, his weight pinning her down. His rough hands tore at her nightdress, pulling it apart. Daella squeezed her eyes shut and screamed, praying someone—anyone—would hear her. Her voice grew raw with terror, tears streaming down her face, but his laugh cut through her cries. “Keep going, I like it when they scream.”

Suddenly, silence. The only sound was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, and her ragged breathing. A heavy weight collapsed on top of her, and she felt something wet and warm soak through the remains of her dress. She opened her eyes and stared into the lifeless, terror-stricken face of the man who had just been on top of her—his head severed from his body. She scrambled out from beneath the decapitated corpse, her limbs trembling as she stood and stared at the growing pool of blood.

A choked gurgle drew her attention further down the road. Daemon stood over another man, wrenching his sword from the man’s gut. Daella’s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the five bodies now littering the path between her and the man who claimed to be her father. Five men dead. Their evil wiped from the world. A strange, cold satisfaction welled up inside her. She couldn’t help but feel relieved, even happy.

She stepped over the bodies, moving slowly toward Daemon. Hearing her approach, he whirled around, sword poised, the blade slicing through the air above her head. Confusion clouded his features for a moment before he realized there was nothing left to fight. His gaze softened as he lowered his sword and dropped to his knees before her, his hands gently cradling her tear-stained face. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice thick with panicked concern.

Daella shook her head slowly, the motion numb. She rubbed at her wet cheeks before launching herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. Her tears soaked his collar as he lifted her off the ground. “Shh, little one,” he murmured, stroking her back in comfort. “Let’s get you to Mellos.”

The guards watched them closely as they ascended the steps of the Red Keep, their faces drawn with apprehension, but none dared stop them. Laughter and music floated from the hall ahead, a stark contrast to the horror Daella had just escaped. They moved deeper into the keep, down a long corridor where two knights in polished silver armour stood on either side of large wooden doors, their pristine white cloaks a stark contrast to the blood still streaking Daemon’s hair.

Daemon exhaled sharply as they approached the doors and the knights guarding them. One of them was young, with slightly tanned skin and wavy brown hair, his eyes burning with barely concealed rage as they settled on Daemon. The other was older, tall and broad, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight, a greying beard adding to his severe appearance. The older knight stepped forward, his voice formal. “We were not aware of your arrival, My Prince. The King is currently indisposed.”

“I have no desire to see my brother yet, Lord Commander,” Daemon replied, his tone dry and impatient. “I only wish to borrow his maester.”

“The maester is also occupied,” the younger guard snapped, his words edged with disdain.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze on the young knight. “Well, Crispin, be a good little dog and un-occupy him.”

The young knight shot a glance at the older man, who nodded curtly. He spun on his heel and pushed through the heavy doors, leaving them slightly ajar. Through the gap, Daella caught a glimpse of a grand hall bathed in golden light. At the far end, a man stood at a raised table, cup in the air as if to make a speech. A stout man leaned in to whisper in his ear. The man with the cup suddenly looked toward them, his brow furrowing in displeasure.

The knight returned, glaring at Daemon as he addressed him. “The King wishes to see you.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Now? In there?” He sighed, pulling Daella tighter against him as he headed up the steps and into the hall.

As they passed, Daella glanced back at the two knights. Ser Criston sneered at her, but the older knight stepped forward, blocking her view with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine.

The hall was breathtaking, with dragon silhouettes and red ribbons hanging from the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze. Two long tables were laden with food—more than Daella had ever seen in her life. A roasted pig, platters of fruit, and golden loaves of bread. To the right, a group of musicians stood with instruments poised, their lively tune faltering as the room fell into a stunned silence.

No one spoke as Daemon strode down the central aisle, his boots echoing on the stone floor. All eyes were on them, the whispers quieting as they took in the blood-streaked man and the girl in his arms, her once-white nightdress now torn and stained red.

As they neared the raised table, Daella took in the features of the man with the cup. His sharp nose and silver hair mirrored Daemon’s, though his was pinned back beneath a heavy crown. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized who he was. This was Daemon’s brother. This was the King.

“My King,” Daemon said softly, bowing his head.

Daella scanned the people seated beside the King. To his left was a beautiful young girl with long silver hair flowing down her back, the shade only slightly darker than Daemon’s. Her dress was off the shoulder and black, silver stitching ran throughout it, creating the illusion of scales.

On the King’s right sat a slightly older woman, no less beautiful, her long auburn curls framing a face of stern beauty. She wore a dark green dress, embellished with gold detailing, and a small seven-pointed star sat in the divot of her throat. She was deep in conversation with a young man beside her, her face pinched in frustration. The boy, with silver hair grazing his shoulders, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The King studied Daella, his face lined with confusion and concern. His eyes flicked back to Daemon, hardening. “Why have you returned, Daemon?” The displeasure in his voice was unmistakable.

“Mellos was the closest maester,” Daemon replied, his voice stiff. “I have only come to have our wounds seen to and beg an audience with my brother.”

Ser Harwin appeared, and Daella’s gaze snapped toward him as he approached the older, stout man sitting a few spaces down from the king. As he turned, his gaze locked with hers, and her heart skipped. “Daella,” he whispered, confusion flashing in his eyes as he hurried around the table, his expression quickly turning to concern.

Daemon turned to face him, his gaze hardening to steel as Ser Harwin approached.

The King’s eyes narrowed as he watched. “Do you know this child, Harwin?” he asked, his voice sharp with confusion.

“I do, Your Grace,” Ser Harwin replied, his eyes never leaving Daella. “Give her here,” he demanded, arms outstretched.

Daella shrank further into Daemon’s embrace, clinging to him.

Daemon’s voice was low and deadly as he glared at Ser Harwin. “I like you, Ser Harwin, but touch her, and you’ll lose a hand.”

“What in the seven hells is going on?” the King barked in confusion, slamming his cup onto the table.

The red-haired woman’s gaze landed on Daella, taking in her torn dress and the fresh bruises on her legs. “Dear gods, what has happened to that child?” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with concern.

Daella turned to her, her voice barely a whisper. “Bad men.”

The woman’s face pales, her eyes wide with horror. “Lord Commander Westerling,” the red-haired woman commands, her voice firm with authority, “escort Daemon and the child to a guest chamber. Send for Grand Maester Mellos immediately. Have the servants draw a bath and find her something to wear. Burn that dress afterwards.”

The Lord Commander bows. “At once, My Queen.”

Daemon’s gaze met the Queen’s, his voice low and controlled as he quietly said, “Thank you.” Though his words were formal and polite, an undercurrent of tension simmered beneath them. He turned to follow the knight, but his eyes found the silver-haired woman standing beside the King for a fleeting moment. Her violet eyes lingered on him, almost imperceptibly, as though drawn to him against her will. A silent moment stretched between them, so subtle that it might have gone unnoticed by others, but it felt heavy with something unsaid. She hesitated, her breath catching before her gaze shifted, reluctantly, to Daella.

“Niece,” Daemon said, the soft smile tugging at his lips feeling both familiar and distant, as though there was more behind the word than he dared to reveal.

“Uncle,” she replied, her voice quiet, as if afraid to speak any louder. Daella shifted in Daemon’s arms, glancing over his shoulder. The woman’s gaze followed him, her composure barely concealing the warmth in her eyes. A faint blush touched her cheeks, fleeting but noticeable, before her eyes flickered forward, as if she was suddenly aware of being watched. Yet, in that brief exchange, something lingered—something unspoken but undeniably present—slipping away as quickly as it had come.

As they were led away, Daella, peering over Daemon’s shoulder, caught sight of two children. A beautiful silver-haired girl, engrossed in a glass case, muttered softly to herself. But it was another boy, close to Daella's age, with silver hair like Daemon’s, who captured her attention. His gaze met hers, piercing and unreadable, holding a curiosity or silent question that she was too exhausted to understand.

The King’s voice boomed behind them, cutting through the thick silence. “Alicent, what is the meaning of—” His words were abruptly silenced as the heavy doors closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the hall and the festivities within.

Once inside the private chamber, the atmosphere shifted, becoming heavy with the scent of burning wood and the muted crackle of the fire. An old man in a cream-colored robe knelt at Daella's feet, carefully bandaging her wounds as she stared at the charred remains of her nightgown crumbling into the flames. The heat from the fire seemed distant, almost unreal, as though the pain and fear had dulled her senses to everything but the steady, rhythmic motion of the maester’s hands.

“How bad are her injuries?” Daemon’s voice broke the silence, low and measured, though the tension in his posture revealed the depth of his concern. He watched the maester from his seat at the table, his chin resting on clasped hands, his eyes never leaving Daella’s bandaged feet.

“Her injuries are minor, My Prince,” the maester replied, his voice steady with the authority of experience. “Other than the bump on her head and the cuts on her feet, she appears to be in good health. However, she must try to stay off her feet so they may heal properly.” The old man groaned slightly as he rose from his kneeling position, his movements slow and deliberate.

“And what of the bruising?” Daemon’s voice sharpened, his violet eyes narrowing as they fixed on the maester.

“The bruising does not extend past the knees, so I do not believe it necessary to examine the girl further at this time. Should anything change, have her brought to me immediately,” the maester advised, his chains clinking softly as he gathered his things and moved toward the door.

“Thank you, Maester,” Daemon said with a curt nod, his attention already shifting back to Daella as the old man exited the room.

Daemon approached her slowly, his presence filling the space as he sat down beside her on the settee. His eyes softened as they met hers, the intensity from moments ago replaced with a gentleness that felt almost foreign. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice tender as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile calm.

“Scared... and sleepy,” Daella whispered, her voice small and tired as she curled her feet beneath her, seeking comfort in the warmth of the blankets.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweet girl,” Daemon murmured, his tone a soothing balm to the lingering terror in her chest. He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest as he carried her to the large bed in the centre of the room.

The mattress was soft and warm, as though someone had prepared it just for her. Daemon tucked the covers around her with the same care one might use for a fragile piece of glass, his touch light but reassuring. He stroked her hair gently, sitting beside her as she settled into the bed.

“Can you tell me a story?” Daella asked, her voice barely more than a breath as she curled into a ball, seeking the comfort of his presence.

“Of course, I can, my sweet,” Daemon replied, his hand continuing its soothing motion through her hair. “Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys—” His voice, low and steady, became a lullaby that pulled her into the welcoming arms of sleep. As she drifted off, the horrors of the night faded, replaced by the safety and warmth of Daemon’s presence. For the first time since the terror began, Daella felt truly safe.

The soft morning light trickled through the windows, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. A quiet creak followed by a gust of air pulled Daella from sleep. As she opened her eyes, she took in the unfamiliar surroundings: soft green wallpaper covered the walls, statues of the seven-pointed star were purposefully placed around the room, and even the books on the shelves bore the same star on their spines. The blankets that covered her were green as well, completing the theme. Her gaze drifted toward the adjoining room, where the boy she had seen the night before stood in the doorway, staring at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he had been running.

She pushed the covers aside and slipped out of bed, walking toward him. Her eyes raked over his form, taking in his dishevelled appearance. His long hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his fancy clothing was smeared with black soot. The smell of smoke clung to him, sharp and undeniable.

“Why do you look like that?” Daella asked, gesturing to his blackened tunic with a questioning tilt of her head.

“Dragons,” he answered breathlessly, leaning against the wall as though to steady himself.

Daella gasped, her eyes widening in awe. “You have a dragon? Can I see it?” She rushed toward him, her excitement bubbling over as she grabbed his hand eagerly. “Please, please, can I see your dragon?”

“No!” he snapped, yanking his hand away from hers with such force that it stung. His glare was sharp, his expression hardening as he stepped back, his eyes flickering with something like shame or frustration.

“Why not?” Daella huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, a pout forming on her lips. She felt the weight of her disappointment pressing down on her.

“Because I don’t have a dragon!” he shouted, his face flushing with embarrassment as his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Oh.” The disappointment vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced with an understanding nod. “That’s okay. I don’t have a dragon either.” She patted his shoulder gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “How did you get in here?”

“Come,” he said, his voice quieter now as he took her hand again, leading her to the far side of the room. He pressed hard against the wall, and to her amazement, a hidden passageway opened, revealing a dark, musty corridor. “These can take you anywhere in the keep, and no one can see you. As long as you don’t mind rats,” he added with a mischievous grin.

Daella's eyes widened with wonder. The thought of sneaking through the keep, unseen, sent a thrill through her. Rats didn’t bother her—she’d seen plenty in Flea Bottom. As long as you left them alone, they tended to leave you alone too.

“Daella!” Ser Harwin’s voice boomed from the other room, followed by a heavy knock on the door. “Why is this door locked? Daella!”

Daella glanced back toward the relentless banging of the door, her heart skipping a beat. “Coming!” she called out, turning to the boy, who was already stepping into the hidden passage. “Go, before he breaks through the door,” she whispered with a smile.

The boy’s violet eyes met hers one last time before he disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Quickly, Daella unlocked the door and opened it wide for Ser Harwin. He strode in, worry etched across his face, and without a moment’s hesitation, he knelt down and pulled her into a tight hug. His embrace was warm, grounding her in its familiarity.

“What happened, Daella? Why are you here?” he asked, his voice thick with concern as he pulled away to examine her face.

“Daemon found me in the market,” Daella began, the words tumbling out as tears welled up in her eyes. “He wasn’t happy that I was alone again, so he took me home. He was arguing with Rose, and I—I ran. I tried to find you, but I couldn’t. There were men... they tried to hurt me.” She sniffled, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Daemon killed them. He brought me here and made sure I was okay.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, sweet girl,” Ser Harwin murmured, pulling her into another hug. His voice was heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Daella pressed her face into his chest, finding comfort in the familiar scent of him. “Is Prince Daemon really my father?” she asked, her voice muffled by his tunic.

Ser Harwin gently pulled her away, his eyes softening as he looked at her tear-streaked face. “Your mother always said he was,” he admitted quietly. “It’s why Rose and I tried so hard to keep you safe. We didn’t know how Prince Daemon or the King would react, but it seems that the Prince cares for you.”

His words sank in, but there was still so much she didn’t understand. “What are you doing in the keep, Harwin?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “I thought you’d be with the City Watch.”

“My father is the King's Hand, Daella. I’m expected to maintain a presence at court, which means attending feasts and announcements whenever needed.” He chuckled softly, stroking her hair. “Like the one you and Prince Daemon interrupted last night when you walked in covered in blood.”

Daella smiled sheepishly at the memory, but before she could say more, Harwin’s tone shifted back to concern. “Enough about me. Are you alright? What did the Maester say?”

“I think I’m fine,” Daella replied, her brow furrowing in confusion. “The Maester told Daemon that I was in good health apart from the bump on my head and the cuts on my feet. He said the bruises didn’t go past my knees.” She paused, trying to make sense of the cryptic statement. “I don’t know what that means, but I feel alright. Just a little scared.”

Harwin’s eyes softened further, and he nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see,” he said, though he didn’t elaborate. The silence that followed was thick, hanging in the air like a question left unanswered.

“Do you think the King will let me stay?” Daella asked suddenly, breaking the stillness. “I like it here... well, apart from all the green,” she added with a small laugh, glancing at the verdant surroundings.

Harwin chuckled and ruffled her hair. “That’s up to the King, little flame. But if you’re family, I’m sure things will work out the way they are supposed to.” His smile was warm, but beneath it, Daella sensed the weight of what was to come. Harwin’s smile lingered, but there was a heaviness in his eyes. “The King is a hard man to read, but you belong here more than you know, Daella.”

His words brought Daella a sense of relief, though her thoughts were still a jumble. She leaned into his side as he stood, and they walked toward the door together, her mind still racing with unanswered questions.

As Harwin opened the door, sunlight flooded in from the hall, and for a moment, Daella was blinded by its brightness. She stopped and turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Harwin… if Daemon really is my father, will he want me to stay? Or does he just feel like he has to?”

Harwin knelt down to face her again, his expression thoughtful. “Daemon may be many things, Daella. He’s fierce, unpredictable, and often more driven by duty than emotion. But what I’ve seen… the way he looks at you… there’s something there. Maybe he’s just beginning to realize it, but he cares for you. I believe he wants you here.”

The weight of his words made Daella’s heart swell with hope, but also uncertainty. She nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it all, but before she could respond, the sound of distant footsteps echoed down the hall. Harwin straightened up, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll have to go soon, but if you ever need me, you know where to find me. Stay close to the Prince for now, alright?”

“I will,” Daella promised, gripping his arm for a moment before letting go.

As Harwin left, the room suddenly felt too big, too empty. Daella stood there, staring at the door for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. A part of her wanted to explore those hidden passages, to run through the castle unseen and discover its secrets. But another part of her felt the weight of the past few days settling over her, the exhaustion of everything that had happened.

She glanced back toward the passage the boy had shown her, curiosity pulling her toward the unknown. But the memory of his violet eyes watching her before he disappeared lingered in her mind, and she decided to wait. There would be time for that later.

For now, she headed back to the bed and sat on its edge, staring at the green blankets that surrounded her. This place felt foreign, but at the same time, there was a strange comfort in it. Maybe this was where she belonged after all. Maybe she had a place here, with Daemon, with Harwin… with her family.

She didn’t know what the King would decide, or what Daemon would want in the end. But for now, she had the chance to find out. And that was more than she had ever thought she would have.

As the day moved forward and the castle stirred to life outside the door, Daella lay back on the bed, letting the soft green light wash over her. There was so much ahead—uncertainties, dangers, and decisions to be made—but for now, in this quiet moment, she allowed herself to hope.

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paladin-of-nerd-fandom65 · 10 months ago

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DC Comics Supervillain OC: The Lion Master

Civilian Name: Cody Cunningham

Age: 12 1/2 Years

Height: 5’ 0”

Weight: 70 lbs

Personality: Impatient, Filled with internal Self Doubt, Stubborn, Street Smart, Cares for Animals especially his pet Lions, Respectful to his enemies (mainly Skybird), Polite, Merciful, Compassionate, A Quick Learner, Quick Thinking, Friendly, Has a Casual Potty Mouth, Mischievous, Playful, and Optimistic No Matter the Odds

(Under for More Below Cut)

Bio:

Born in Boston, Massachusetts to a Single Poor Mother before her passing when Cody was Six Years of age, having him live in the streets.

Was Picked Up by the traveling Lyons & Guerra’s Amazing Circus at the age of 7, taken in due to his uncanny ability to seemingly get along well with their Lions after being found sleeping in their pens. Was Taken in by a kindly and experienced Lion Tamer who teaches Cody the tool of the trade. However, tragedy strikes during a performance in Bludhaven when by then 11 year old Cody, being impatient in wanting to prove his skills in the show, took a spare whip while the Tamer was in the middle of his act and cracked it. The whip cracking was loud enough that the lions were confused and left disoriented as to where it came from and who to obey. The tamer lost control of them and they attacked him in self defense, mauling the older man to death in front of the show and Cody witnessing it from behind the curtain.

Cody was heartbroken by the tragic accident and the loss of the one person who understood him in that circus. Eventually he overhears the management preparing to put the lions down for their mauling. But unable to see the majestic big cats he seen as friends and family killed, Cody sneaks into their cages to free them. Taking with him only his whip, and only packing up with his outfit and a single toothbrush, Cody flees into the outskirts of Bludhaven with feline companions in tow.

Now left wandering in the Bludhaven streets and without any family, job nor money to provide for himself nor his lion companions, Cody resorts to a life of petty crimes, mainly robberies and racketeering to make ends meet mainly done via ordering his lions to storm and surround the security or anyone in the place of robbery while Cody gains access to his targeted goods, whether they be money or food. This of course runs afoul of resident crime fighter Skybird aka Jake Grayson. After his first attempt at robbing a major bank is foiled by the Tamaranean-Human hybrid and has him and Lion compatriots fleeing from authorities, Cody makes it a point to counter this hero when were his schemes and plots are discovered.

Yet somehow and some sort of way, Cody develops a sort of bond more or less with Jake. For one thing, killing anybody especially innocent civilians whether by his own hands and especially at the claws and teeth of his lions is an absolute line he will never, NEVER cross. It’s considered for him unwarranted and violates his morals if he has any. Plus, from what the wild rumors he hears in the street can attest, Skybird himself comes from circus folk himself or at least has a passing familiarity with it so Cody in turn feels a sort of kin with his hero counterpart. Finally, the fact Jake really doesn’t see true malicious or an appetite for death and chaos he’s seen in truly sinister villains before in Cody’s eyes which inspires him to make offers for the petty criminal to change his ways, never really giving up on him also has an effect on Cody’s heart; maybe one day he can take that offer, it won’t be soon as he’s not a that wants being pitied….but he’ll consider it.

Thus was born a junior Rouge that acts more or less as the Captain Cold to Skybird’s Flash, a true best Frenemy (An enemy and friend at the same time); he no longer a mere Lion Tamer in training, call him The Lion Master

Occupation: Ex-Circus Lion Tamer In Training

Supervillain Outfit: Green Vest with Button Up Long Sleeve White Shirt, Torn Black Pants, Thick Heavy Duty Black Boots and an old school Top Hat

Physical Appearance:

Dirty Blonde Medium Length Hair

Heterochromic Eye Colors (Left: Green, Right: Brown)

Thin Frame With Little But of Muscle Build on Arms

Peculair Feature Of Having Scars on his Feet when they are Bare due to Stepping on Glass Shards throughout his years living in the streets in poverty

Trivia:

Has Three Lions In Total Under his Care and who accompany him on his many adventures, plots and schemes: All three are males with one having a Mane as both the oldest and their leader. Their names from Youngest to Oldest are Antony, Marcus and Octavius

Absolutely despises both Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne as he’s had an overall negative opinion against Rich Billionaires

Favorite Song is ‘Benny and the Jets’ by Elton John. He often times his whip cracks and movements when in the middle of a scheme to the song as his tamer had him practice with said song in the background

Has a Minor Interest In Drawing Arts, mainly with charcoal and often would make portraits of his Lions or his life back at the Circus

Will freely admit that despite often being pitted against superheroes, Nightwing and Beast Boy are his two favorites. Especially Beast Boy given his obvious familiarity and connection to animals of all types

#dc comics #oc #original character #oc supervillain #lion master #Cody Cunningham #jake grayson #Skybird #sfw

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polutrope · 2 years ago

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ohh I love the Silm prompts! may I request either 7 (could not escape and would not yield) or 11 (because he is the son of his father) for Celebrimbor? ~ maglor-my-beloved <3

Thanks for the ask @maglor-my-beloved, and glad you like the prompts! I went for a combination of both. Also sharing today as part of @fellowshipofthefics Forged in Fellowship day.

Celebrimbor at the sack of Sirion, 875 words. Angst.

Warning for moderate violence and a canonical character death.

* * *

What if his father had been among them? It was the first question Celebrimbor asked himself when he smelled the smoke and saw the flames licking the night sky on the outskirts of Sirion.

The next thought, when he pulled his hauberk over his head, was the sickening realisation that, if Curufin had been among them, the mail may have hung less heavily on his shoulders. That he would have lifted his sword more willingly against his own father. The one who had stood by when it was forged, the one whose approval Celebrimbor drank up with a wretched thirst.

Hatred, that poison he had spent years drawing from his heart, now coursed hotly through his veins.

Celebrimbor was not a kinslayer. And despite his burning rage, he had no wish to become one. But now, they offered him no escape. To flee would be far worse than to fight.

He pushed back against the clawing fingers of his bitterness and girt himself to face them—the foes of his chosen kindred—with calm determination.

He ran through the streets, calling forth the small contingent of fighters Gil-galad had placed under his command. His voice competed with the clamour of others orders: to take up arms, to seek shelter, to fly to the ships, to guard the Lady. His courage contended with the chilling drone of a chorus meant to inspire terror: the voices of seasoned warriors led by the greatest minstrel the Noldor had ever known.

It did not take the Fëanorians long to force their way to the centre of the town. They spilled out over the quay. Few resisted their advance. Some threw themselves into the river rather than fight. Whether seized by the madness of terror or because they would rather drown than take up arms against another elf, Celebrimbor could only guess. Others, many of them once-warriors of Gondolin, resisted fiercely, unhesitating as their axes bore down upon distant kin, eyes glinting with cold light as their swords found the weak points in their opponents’ armour. Driven, perhaps, by memories of ice and betrayal that had eaten away at them for five long centuries.

Celebrimbor did not allow his gaze to rest on the faces of any of the Fëanorian soldiers. He lifted a fist, signalling to the archers on the roofs behind him to nock their bows. He lowered it, and a spray of arrows whizzed through the air. Few found their mark.

One of the enemy soldiers turned on him. Celebrimbor drew his sword, his muscles instinctively flexed to fight. His gut churned. His thoughts were elsewhere, where they could not persuade him to drop his weapon and run.

Then the soldier addressed him. “Lord Celebrimbor.”

Celebrimbor tightened his grip on his sword hilt, resisting the urge to lower it. The man’s name came to him unbidden. “Calandur.”

Having spoken it the rage in Celebrimbor’s breast cooled. Calandur’s jaw was set, his mouth drawn down into a frown, but there was no threat in his eyes.

“Stay behind us, lord.”

With that, Calandur spun around with a great cry. “A runandor!* Faithful servants of the House of Finwë!” he shouted. “Redeemers! Now is the hour! Turn! Turn and stand your ground!”

Suddenly, a wall of bodies encircled the remaining Fëanorian soldiers. They had only two ways of escape: to cut through their own people or to leap into the river.

The progress of the battle came to a gasping halt. Then one of the Fëanorian commanders shattered the stillness with a cry. Celebrimbor caught the glint of a long russet braid as he turned to see that his soldiers were gathering around him.

He caught the river of red that spilled from his neck when an arrow sank into the flesh above his collarbone.

He watched him fall.

As easily as if he were a withered leaf upon the bough, Amras Fëanorion fell.

In the moment of shock that followed, Calandur and two others stepped forward and tossed the thrashing body of Celebrimbor’s uncle over the quay’s edge. It was a mercy. Fëanor’s youngest son would receive no burial rites; but nor would a hateful swarm descend upon his corpse, hacking to pieces one who was—who might have been—a noble lord of the Noldor.

Fierce fighting resumed, with the defenders of Sirion now gaining the upper-hand. Celebrimbor was blocked from entering the fray by the tight circle of those who called themselves Redeemers.

It was then he realised there was another choice. To escape was not to yield. To escape was to preserve; to dare to hope.

He called to one of his archers to follow him, then ran down the quay, untethered a sturdy fishing dory, and leapt in, bidding the other elf to join him. Then he rowed furiously into the darkness, towards the Cape and the ship havens. There was little hope that the people of Sirion would prevail, even with the aid of the Fëanorians who had turned against their lords. But there would be survivors, and they would need strength and skill and courage if they were to rebuild their ruined lives in the years to come.

It would not be Celebrimbor’s lot to die here, needlessly; not yet.

* * *

*'A runandor!' is Quenya for 'O Redeemers!'. Thanks to Shihali on the SWG Discord for the translation.

It’s my headcanon, based on a map in The War of the Jewels with a dot labelled ‘Ship Havens’ on Cape Balar, that there were actually two settlements on the Bay of Balar: one built on or very near the actual mouth of the river Sirion (called simply ‘Sirion’), and one, much smaller and chiefly for the purpose of shipbuilding and mooring, on Cape Balar to the northwest (called simply ‘the Cape’). Almost all the survivors of the sack of Sirion were those who were at, or fled to, the Cape at the time of the attack.

I also headcanon a Beleriand-born Celebrimbor, though there could be other reasons he is not a kinslayer.

#celebrimbor #third kinslaying #forgedinfellowship #silm phrase prompts #prompts #my fic #silm fic

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epiceneandroid · 2 months ago

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so, a little self indulgent, but i decided to coin some genders in @neopronouns chargendic system with one of my top kins, dan hibiki! say hello to the danhibikifluidic and the danagenderic flags!

the definition of danhibikifluidic is when you're genderfluid in the way dan hibiki from street fighter is, and danagenderic is when you're agender in the way dan hibiki is, and whatever that means to the person who has this gender is up to the person with this gender's interpretation!

i'm a bit too fatigued from poor sleep to do an image description, but i will probably manage to do an image description once i manage to sleep better!

again, tagging @neopronouns because ey'd appreciate i added a new gender to its gender system, and @radiomogai for archival!

#my gender #chargendic #danhibikifluidic #danagenderic #agender #genderfluid

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jupitermelichios · 2 years ago

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i've got teen wolf on the brain rn, so here's every member of the hale/mccall pack listed by what their favourite video game is

scott: he has been playing world of warcraft since he was 11, and he has done basically everything it's possible to do in game, unlocked every trophy and epic mount, reached the level cap with multiple characters, and still he logs in almost every day, even after stiles got bored and moved onto other games

stiles: he gets bored of games fast, but he developed a brief but intense crush on the masterchief when he was a kid, so if asked he'll say halo

alison: she's not great at suspension of disbelief, and mostly can't be bothered with games, but she has a sims 2 build that takes nearly 30 minutes just to load because of all the mods

derek: hates playing any kind of video game, which is probably good because he would get so addicted to rts games if he ever tried one. does know a weird amount of game trivia and lore though, because he goes away and researches every one of stiles's new hyperfixations but then actually sticks with them, unlike stiles. do you want halo lore? because derek has it, and he is desperate for someone to share it with

erica: she tells people it's metro 2033. it's actually barbie horse adventures. it's her comfort game, okay?

boyd: he played the arkham games for erica, and he loved him, but he imprinted on kirby at a young age and nothing else will ever touch it in his heart

isaac: such a sucker for roguelikes. if he knew what kinning was, he'd probably kin zagreus from hades. the fact that failing over and over is built into the game and there's no punishment is reinforcement his brain desperately needs. erica has written at least one zag/meg fic specifically for him.

lydia: she went 18 years without ever touching a video game, and then stiles persuaded her to try the witcher 3, and she was instantly addicted. if she finds out someone romanced triss over yenefer, she will take this as a personal insult

malia: it took stiles years of trying to find a game that didn't make malia immediately want to put her fist through the tv screen, but then DMC 5 came out.

kira: she likes her games fast, plotless, and button-mashy, so she likes most fighting games, but she's an absolute demon at smash

peter: you might think i'm going to say peter doesn't play games, and it's true that he doesn't admit to playing games, but it's also true that he knows nearly as much about street fighter lore as derek knows about halo, and has a frankly insane number of combos memorised. he would literally rather die than tell any of the pack this.

liam: he plays COD, you know it, I know it

cora: jeff forgot to give cora a personality beyond 'plucky' so i have no fucking idea. lets say it's horror games, because i feel like one of these weirdos ought to have strong opinions about bloodbourne and no one else is picking up the slack

jackson: madden, obviously.

danny: he believes strongly that adding an actual ui to dwarf fortress ruined it, and he was very excited about the abilty to export eve online data into excel spreadsheets

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mana-sputachu · 3 months ago

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(Late) Happy Terry in SF6 to those who celebrate🧢

Pinned post (with commission infos and where you can find me)!

#terry bogard #fatal fury #street fighter 6 #artists on tumblr #tumblr artist #my drawings #sketch #fanart #fanarts #do not tag as kin please

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limerental · 2 months ago

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ficletvember 2024 - day 10

iorveth&isengrim, background dijkstra/isengrim

Isengrim offers refuge to Iorveth in Novigrad, failing to divulge exactly whose hospitality he'll be enduring.

Iorveth had lived far worse places in his life. Had camped in muggy forests teeming with insects, had ruined his poor spine sleeping in the boughs of trees, and several times had woken in the dirt with no bed but leaflitter, jewels of frost stiffening his clothing and hair.

He listed these places off on his fingers, voice rising.

“--and I'd take any of those over staying somewhere where I'd have to entrust my life to Sigismund Dijkstra of all–”

He broke off into archaic elven curses to describe the dh'oine, listing those off on his other hand.

Isengrim didn't look impressed.

“Are you quite finished?” he asked, voice grating and familiar, and though Iorveth did want to keep shouting, the walls had ears in Novigrad, even secuerely indoors. Nevermind that that could largely be attributed to the man known as Sigi Reuven and his men.

He'd missed Isengrim. Had thought him dead for years now and only in recent months as everything made a turn for the worse in Redania had Iorveth gotten word that Isengrim was alive and well and able to offer a respite to any Scoia'tael who remained. A place to rest for the winter in a land where dwindling few safe places remained for them.

“I missed you, brother,” said Iorveth, though the word he spoke in elder was untranslateable, meant something more than kin. Brothers by choice, by circumstance. “Now, tell me you're playing some prank, and you haven't just offered me a room in a house owned by the Devil of Drakenborg.”

“You'll be safe here,” Isengrim promised. The room did seem fairly ordinary, no shackles or barred windows or trap doors that would reveal it to be a dungeon after all.

Iorveth paced to inspect the space again, feeling like a feral mongrel pulled off the streets. There was a bed with down pillows and enough blankets for a dozen elves to survive the winter. There was a fireplace and a writing desk and chest in the corner.

What was the catch? He searched for any stain of ugliness in the room itself, any sign that Isengrim was lying, and couldn't. He searched Isengrim and wondered what it would take for his friend to deceive him. A great sum of coin? Torture?

Isengrim stood placidly with his arms folded across his chest, looking faintly amused at Iorveth's suspicion. He looked well. As handsome as ever, of course, and he was dressed in a richly-colored cloak, deep emerald lined with fur. Iorveth was dressed in actual rags, scraps stolen from corpses sown together, a blood-stained mockery of the insignia of a half dozen kingdoms.

He'd once thought it all very clever and poignant, and now he stood filthy and worn in a room that he'd dreamed of, that shouldn't exist.

“I don't understand,” said Iorveth. “What’s in it for him? He signed the death warrant of countless non-humans. The mad king who burns witches in the streets learned half of his cruelty from him. Why would he–”

“Sigi will be home from his errands soon,” said Isengrim, his even-toned voice infuriating. “He'll explain it himself. How we met and how I came to trust him.”

Iorveth wanted to shout some more scathing insults. He wanted to tear open the down pillows into a blizzard of feathers and toss the fine parchment on the writing desk into the fire. None of it made any sense.

He'd not wanted to give up the fight in the wilderness, would have fought on to his grisly end. At first, when he'd found Isengrim's message, a note on a message board written in a Scoia'tael code they had come up with together in the early days, Iorveth had no intentions of going himself to find refuge, had only wanted to spread the word to others.

But there'd been no one to be found. Only burnt ash every place he returned to. Vacant outposts. Scenes of bloody slaughter. Every fighter he'd ever known had either been killed or fled or vanished. For all he knew, he and Isengrim may be the very last Scoia'tael alive.

When Sigismund Dijkstra returned that evening, he came up the stairs holding a covered basket under his arm. He loomed there filling the kitchen doorway, as ugly and human as Iorveth had imagined.

Isengrim had coaxed Iorveth into bathing and dressing in clean clothes, and he felt a little like he'd been given a flea treatment and also that he'd be ruined for any other bath but the sprawling one tucked in the private rooms in the bathhouse below.

The human did not question Iorveth's presence at the kitchen table. Isengrim had brewed a calming tea and poured it into delicate teacups, and though Iorveth didn't feel calm, he felt less like an animal snared in a trap, searching wildly for the exits.

Dijkstra's errands had apparently largely involved shopping for produce at the market. From his covered basket set on the table, he unpacked vegetables and fresh bread and a cut of meat wrapped in paper. Isengrim rose to help him, settling in to chop vegetables to add to the water bubbling over the hearth.

“Is your pet fugitive staying for dinner, Grim?” asked Dijkstra. His voice was far from what Iorveth expected, soft and softening further on the mangled shortening of Isengrim's name. Beside him, Isengrim touched the human's shoulder.

They were the same height but that’s where similarities ended. Isengrim was lean and scarred and dangerous, and Dijkstra was fat and bald and unpleasant to look at. And yet, they leaned into each other with quiet familiarity, filling the other's space.

Ah, thought Iorveth. So it's like that.

“Iorveth?” Isengrim prompted. "Are you staying?"

He intended to say something like before I dine with his ilk, I'll need an explanation as to why you've allowed this dh'oine to keep you like a spoiled pet. But instead, his empty stomach growled loudly, and Iorveth decided the harsh accusations could wait until after a warm meal.

“Very well, I'll eat your slop,” drawled Iorveth, resigned to his fate. “You'll explain this foolishness immediately afterward, of course.”

He was already thinking of the bed and the down pillows and the crackling fire. He would suffer a single meal at least, for one night of rest.

#my fic

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xeno-p0ny · 5 months ago

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Heyo, I’m Val! (Pinned intro post)

Hey, I’m Val! I’m an autistic transfem who expresses her interests through drawings and animation. I have a lotttt of thing’s I’m crazy about, so I’m going to list them all here. I brainrot over (Art with my kins coming soon):

Guilty Gear (especially Bedman and Happy Chaos)

Xenoblade Chronicles

Lego Elves/Friends (which I post about on my side blog, @vals-toybox)

My Little Pony (over on @vals-toybox)

My own stories and OCs

Things I like that aren’t quite brainrot status:

Making Animations of all kinds

Splatoon

Skateboarding and skateboarding culture

Doll collecting (posted on @vals-toybox)

Persona 5

Fallout, mainly New Vegas and the TV show

Street Fighter

Spider-Man

The Legend of Zelda

I hope you find something that services at least one of your specific favorite character niches here :3

#my little pony #guilty gear #xenoblade #lego #animation #splatoon #skateboarding #doll collecting #persona 5 #fallout #street fighter #spiderman #zelda

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halla-hunts-the-wolf · 6 months ago

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A Dragon's Purpose

A story exploring the motivations of a Shadow Dragon-aligned Rook.

Warnings: Mentions of slavery, depictions of violence, abuse.

The neon lights of Minrathous left streaks of color splashing across the cobblestone streets. Carriages pulled by scaled Dracolisks and litters carted by servants disturb the puddles made by recent rain. The air is humid and heavy, leaving the taste of copper on Ma’hallian’s tongue. He crouches in the shadows of an alley, watching a company of sneering Altus pass by, their noses turned upward to avoid looking at the men and women serving them.

Ma’hallain can’t see their pointed ears hidden beneath scarves and cloaks, but there’s no mistaking the queerness of their eyes, deep, dark, and inhuman. His stomach rolls as they pass him by, his thoughts jumping to his own time in enslavement, when he was beaten and taught to act like a dog waiting for his commands, all in hopes of receiving scraps for dinner.

He shakes his thoughts away as the passing nobility moves on, leaving the street empty except for the echoing laughter bouncing off the surrounding buildings. He pulls his hood further up, allowing the black and purple fabric to bathe his appearance in shadow. Like those servants, his luminescent gaze would out him as an elf, while his vallaslin, half burned away by his scorned master, marked him not as Tevene descent, born and bred to work for Magisters, but as a Dalish captured from the wild, dragged in chains into the city with some of his kin, people he hadn’t seen in nearly five years, and who he hoped had died after leaving the auction site, for their sakes.

Imagining his uncle, cousins, friends, and clanmates being forced to endure the same torment he had, where a brand was etched into his skin with flaming iron, his once long blonde hair became scorched into nothing, scarcely growing back in the wrong shade seasons later, and his Vallaslin, something he worked hard for, and enduring the pain to receive, becoming obsolete in an instant…

Ma’hallian has to grit his teeth to ignore the grief within him. Whatever he was before, Minrathous was his home now, and his people still needed his help. Once, years ago, someone had smiled upon him as a group of freedom fighters broke into his master’s home, slaughtered the lot of them, and allowed the elves to walk free. Most had decided to leave the country; some raved about Fen’harel and went mad trying to join his ranks, but Ma’hallain couldn’t bring himself to pray to false Gods when they weren’t the ones to save him. Instead, he had looked upon the faces of those who freed him, bathed him, fed him, and given him a warm bed to sleep in. The Shadow Dragons became his salvation, and now he worked as a free member of their organization, desperate to save those who suffered as he did.

He didn’t always work alone; breaking into a home was risky enough without someone watching his back. However, the Dragons were pulled thin, with Venatori coming out of the woodwork, hunting them in the night and preventing them from changing Tevinter for the better.

Ma’hallain imagined their cloaked figures emerging from the shadows as he turned the corner to face the back entrance of an estate. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he pulled a glyph etched in stone from his pocket. He held it to the gate, watching a magical sheen ripple across the metal. Dispelling wards and protection spells always risk alerting the original caster, but the estate remained dark, and no one came to the back door intending to kill an intruder.

He wills his hands not to shake as he replaces the glyph with his lock-picking tools, crouching down on one knee to fiddle with the lock. It’s second nature to hold his breath until it clicks, granting him entrance into the lower garden.

The servant’s entrance is precisely where it’s meant to be, hidden behind growing vines and with a layer of cobwebs toward the top. He takes his time unlocking this, fearful of what he may find inside and what may already be lost.

The tunnel into the home is dark, and Ma’hallain braces his gloved hand against the wall to find his way. He can scarcely make out the grooves of the stone, his green eyes flickering from one side of the narrow hall to the next, anticipating something with blades, teeth, or magic. Luck is on his side that night as he comes to the end of the tunnel, pushes open a door, and finds a large room adjacent to the kitchen.

The only furniture in the space included scraps of blankets and a bucket in the corner, with the smell of ammonia emanating from the rotten wood. Ma’hallain’s gaze sweeps over the sleeping bodies, with robes too big for their lithe frames. He knew, without seeing, that their ribs could be counted, had they undressed before him.

He steps around the room, maneuvering around the sleeping bodies with the grace of a cat, until he sees an elf, missing one ear, lying within the shadows of a wall. He crouches at the man’s side, his voice thick with the Tevene tongue, the accent of another gift beaten into him by his former master.

“Arlow,” he whispers, reaching out with a hand to gently rouse the elf at the shoulder. “You’re Arlow, yes?”

The sleeping elf rouses with a start, and Ma’hallain feels his body become stiff and tense as if he wouldn’t dare strike the person who would wake him at such an hour.

“It’s alright, Arlow.” Ma’hallain continued, pricking his ears within his hood as he heard the rustling of more bodies in the dark. “You called for the Dragons. Now I’m here.”

“You want to run from Master Adonis?” Another voice whispers, a mousy woman with large, round eyes. “He'll have the rest of us skinned for your behavior.”

Arlow raises from his place beside Ma’hallain, turning his head to regard his fellow slaves, giving them his good ear to speak into. “You all know about the Shadow Dragons; when I was allowed in town with the master a fortnight ago, I called for them, I did, and now they’re here.”

“He’s one man.” Another says with rising hostility. “What can he do against the master?”

“I could kill him,” Ma’hallain answers, turning his back on Arlow to face the other elves, each with expressions haunted by fear. “If that’s what you would like, then I will bloody my hands in your names. However, my sole intention was to help you flee tonight. Friends are waiting with fresh water, warm beds, and treatment to heal your wounds.”

“You’d kill him?” The woman inquires, “The Master?”

“If that’s the peace you need to start a new life, my lady, then he won’t live to see the sunrise.”

She leans forward on her knees, an eager light in her eyes as she considers the possibility, but her expression falls as she watches something over Ma’hallain’s shoulder.

He pulls a knife from his belt, turns, and lets it fly. It lands in the wooden door, nearly close enough to knick the ear of an elf leaving to warn the estate's owner of the intrusion. The elf couldn’t be paler as he turned to face Ma’hallain. “You don’t know what he’ll do to us if I tell ‘em you’re here; I’ll get more bread for supper.”

“That bread will only fill your stomach for a night or two, my friend. Think of your companions here. Think of Arlow, who has risked everything to save you tonight.”

The elf’s gaze falls to Arlow, their eyes lock, and the rebellious light fades from his eyes before he steps away from the door. “The garden gate is spelled; the last time one of us tried it, she got the shock of a lifetime, killed her on the spot, it did.”

“I’ve handled the gate. Can all of you walk?”

The elves murmur, slowly rising to their feet, with some wrapping their blankets around their shoulders like shawls.

“Try and cover your faces if you can,” Ma’hallain instructs, helping Arlow to his feet until a small cry breaks through the silence in the room.

“Taren isn’t waking up,” the woman from before claims, crouched beside the body of a much older man.

“Pops?” Another elf ventures, coming closer to examine the body.

Ma’hallain does the same, inching closer until he can lay a hand on the cooled corpse, rigor mortis already restricting the deceased’s muscles. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says to the woman, noticing the beginning of tears in her eyes. “Do you believe in the Maker?”

“I like to hope,”

“Then trust that Taren is with him now. Your friend can’t make this journey with you, but you can continue living for him.” Ma’hallain offers her his hand, and they rise to their feet, “Now, my lady, would you like me to handle the man responsible?"

The woman’s gaze sweeps across the room, acknowledging her fellow elves' haggard yet hopeful appearances. Any desire for revenge dies, as she shakes her head slightly. “Just get us away from here."

Ma’hallain nods, holding steady to her hand as he leads the poor souls toward the tunnel, his ears pricked and body taunt, prepared for a fight at any moment. “As you wish. Tomorrow, you’ll see the sunrise as a free woman. Of that, you have my word.”

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age 4 #dragon age rook #rook veilguard

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