#the blue leather of the scabbard

[floralasterism]

Just went to a new sparring sword site to window shop and was fully blown away by the product showcase photos on the main page. I did not know there was anyone in this world achieving such a level of. Swag.

[vryfmi]

book!l&co character lineup

finally finished extended version of my L&Co designs, based on their book descriptions! it took months, but im happy with the results

ID of designs + thumbnail-sketch under the cut

[image ID: two digital drawings of characters from Lockwood and Co books, done in semi-realistic style, black lineart and plain colour against grey background.

image 1: from left to right there are full body drawings of George Cubbins, Anthony Lockwood and Lucy Carlyle. George is standing facing left, slouching, he's looking at the viewer with indifferent expression. he's fat, light-skinned and has medium length fair hair. George's wearing round glasses, red t-shirt, baggy jeans, unzipped grey hoodie and sneakers. he has a grey sport bag in right hand and a black messenger bag across left shoulder. next to him there's Lockwood, he's standing half turned to right, he's facing the viewer with a gentle smile. Lockwood is paler than George, almost a head taller and slim with short, slightly wavy, black hair. he's wearing a grey three piece suit with white shirt underneath, as well as smart black shoes and a purple tie. on top of it is a black greatcoat. Lockwood stands with one hand in pocket and another resting on rapier's grip. the sword is in its scabbard attached to Lockwood's belt. furthest on the right is Lucy, she's standing half turned to right, head facing left with a curious look directed at the viewer. her skin is light and her hair is warm brown, slightly uneven and spiky with middle parting. she has a wide frame and is the same height as George. Lucy's wearing a baggy orange sweater, plaid grey skirt, black leggings and tall dark-brown work boots with iron patches. she's holding onto a strap of her rucksack that is on her right shoulder. there's also a belt on top of the sweater which holds her rapier.

image 2: from left to right there are full body drawings of Flo Bones, human version of the skull, Quill Kipps and Holly Munro. Flo is standing half turned to left, facing towards the viewer with a smirk. she's light-skinned with long dirty-blonde hair, and her face has smudges of mud all over. compared to previous pictures, she's almost as tall as Lockwood, but not quite. Flo is wearing long blue puffer jacket on top of her darker clothes that resemble one of fisherman's with mudded thigh-high rainboots. she stands with one hand in jacket pocket, one raising a brim of straw hat with a knife. said hat has a fishing hook stuck on its brim and two lavender stems attached to hat band. next to her is the skull in his human form. he stands half turned to right, slouching, hands in pockets, with head thrown back with a wide smirk across his face. skull is very thin and not really tall, he is tanned and freckled with spiky dark hair. skull is wearing ill-fitting clothes: a white old-timey shirt that is slightly too big and grey trousers that are too small and short. he stands barefoot. third from the left is Quill Kipps, he stand half turned to right, crossing his arms, head facing left with a look of annoyance. Kipps is short and slim, he has ruddy and freckled skin and short ginger hair. Kipps is wearing a grey leather jacket with Fittes logo on it as well as two medals, tight black jeans and chelsea boots. his rapier scabbard has a baldric type of belt. rapier itself has green gems on a hilt. finally, there's Holly Munro, she's standing half turned to left, head facing right with a gentle smile. she's pretty tall and slim with deep rich black skin tone and black shoulder length curls. Holly's wearing a white short lantern sleeve shirt with a blue dress with a cloth belt wrapped around and tied into a bow at the back, as well as low heel shoes. she has a light-blue scarf wrapped around her head. Holly also has white small earrings and beige nail paint. all of the characters have artist’s watermark at the lower right side of them./end ID]

bonus sketch

[offtorivendell]

Truth-Teller, Gwydion and Illyrian Runes... or are they actually Wyrdmarks?

This post was written for @azrielappreciationweek Day 7 - Free

Disclaimer: as always, this is just a theory that I think is fun and it makes no claim of being canon. It's definitely entering crack theory territory. This post also isn't Azriel specific - it's more about the dagger he has used for centuries and how it may tie into the Maasverse, or Prythian's plot, as a whole than Azriel himself. I know it's Azriel Appreciation Week, but this is his dagger, at least currently, so I feel like it's okay. It also rambles a bit, sorry.

Spoilers: there are big, huge, massive Maasverse spoilers ahead, so please beware.

Other posts about Azriel and/or Truth-Teller you might find relevant:

Why is Azriel so different? On Dusk, Hel and the Valg

What if Azriel - or his Shadows - are Made Beings?

Azriel could be Koschei’s heir; a crack theory

Shadows, siphons and fog; has something happened in Velaris?

Powerful Heirlooms and the Four Treasures of the Tuatha de Danann

Does Truth-Teller portend a future relationship between Azriel and Elain Archeron? Especially the first section, about Fragarach inspiring TT.

The possible significance of Azriel and Elain Archeron, the Embrace of Solas and Cthona, the paired blades Gwydion and Truth-Teller, and thin places; a theory - in particular the section about the two Made blades.

Love it or hate it - though personally, I love it for many reasons - we all know about the "Truth-Teller scene" in ACOWAR. While I do think it will end up being incredibly crucial and symbolic for Azriel and Elain Archeron as a couple (you may disagree of course), I also think there is a good chance that its importance to the overall plot was intentionally highlighted by its inclusion in the ACOTAR colouring book, which is what I hope to discuss here (plot, not romance, though as this is romantasy I do think the couple will be reflected in the plot/vice versa).

Here is the passage again, to refresh your memory:

Viviane stepped in, offering a Winter Court fashion that was far less scandalous: leather pants, but paired with a thigh-length blue surcoat, white fur trimming the collar. In the heat, it’d be miserable, but Elain was thankful enough that she didn’t complain when we again emerged from the covered wagon and found our companions waiting. She refused the knife Cassian handed her, though. Went white as death at the sight of it. Azriel, still limping, merely nudged aside Cassian and extended another option. “This is Truth-Teller,” he told her softly. “I won’t be using it today—so I want you to.” His wings had healed—though long, thin scars now raked down them. Still not strong enough, Madja had warned him, to fly today. The argument with Rhys this morning had been swift and brutal: Azriel insisted he could fly—fight with the legions, as they’d planned. Rhys refused. Cassian refused. Azriel threatened to slip into shadow and fight anyway. Rhys merely said that if he so much as tried, he’d chain Azriel to a tree. And Azriel … It was only when Mor had entered the tent and begged him—begged him with tears in her eyes—that he relented. Agreed to be eyes and ears and nothing else. And now, standing amongst the sighing meadow grasses in his Illyrian armor, all seven Siphons gleaming … Elain’s eyes widened at the obsidian-hilted blade in Azriel’s scarred hand. The runes on the dark scabbard. “It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, the midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.” “I—I don’t know how to use it—” “I’ll make sure you don’t have to,” I said, grass crunching as I stepped closer. Elain weighed my words … and slowly closed her fingers around the blade. Cassian gawked at Azriel, and I wondered how often Azriel had lent out that blade— Never, Rhys said from where he finished buckling on his own weapons against the side of the wagon. I have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife. Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife. Paint that when we get home. Busybody. - ACOWAR, chapter 69

I have previously theorised that Truth-Teller may have pierced the veil of Prythian's world in order to let Elain shadow walk through the murky realm/void to save Nesta and Cassian at the end of ACOWAR - which of course parallels Azriel's threat to "slip into shadow and fight anyway" - but it also ties into the power that Truth-Teller and Gwydion/the Starsword can activate together: instead of opening a portal to somewhere, as a few of us had previously theorised about Truth-Teller alone, we learnt in HOFAS that the dagger and sword will open a portal to nowhere.

A black hole... or a Void?

@wingedblooms has previously suggested that the woman on the cover of HOFAS, who had runes - or were they really Wyrdmarks? - down her arms, may be Wyrd, and I agree. We would both especially love it if Wyrd was the secret language of the universe - the language spoken by shadow, wind and stone, or even what Singers used to cast spells - because how much would that make sense? It would also tie TOG in with a tidy bow, given the importance of Wyrd, Wyrdmarks, Wyrdkeys and Wyrdgates to Aelin's story.

But it could get wrapped up even tidier. I hope.

The markings on Truth-Teller's sheath

Take a much closer look at the "Illyrian runes" on Truth-Teller's scabbard, the runes that SJM made sure existed in print, in May 2017 (the colouring book was published the same day that ACOWAR came out, on the 2nd of May).

But back to the runes.

Do you see what I see?!

They are so similar to the runes on HOFAS' cover that it cannot be coincidental? I acknowledge that they're not identical, but they pass the vibe check.

A. I've previously discussed the possibility of the first rune on the HOFAS cover being derived from the Embrace of Solas and Cthona, and that it might have been indicating the two Made blades, Gwydion and Truth-Teller, coming together to create a portal to nowhere. @wingedblooms has also brilliantly suggested that it could be depicting the three mountains of the Night Court, or even the three sister peaks. But do you see the similarity with the top rune(s) on Truth-Teller's scabbard? The dot and two ^ type markings come together differently, but imo the components are still there.

B. This portion is the weakest link for sure, not least because there are more runes on the woman's arm than Truth-Teller's sheath - and I'm no artist so my opinion definitely comes with a huge heaping of salt (if anyone wants to weigh in then please do!) - but I can see similarities in the elements of certain runes. If I put my clown hat on then the spiral could be referring to a vortex/portal, and the marking half hidden by the O could be depicting a ship... you know, like those names after the Archeron sisters.

C. The two opposing triangles on Truth-Teller could be referencing the diamond on the woman's forearm and the crescent moon shape half hidden by Azriel's thumb could potentially be linked with the crescent moon shape above the diamond. Could the diamond on each of her forearms be suggesting siphons, like those worn by Azriel and Cassian? And is the crescent moon referring to the Mother, or Wyrd? SJM paralleled siphons and invoking stones were in ACOSF, was she hinting that the Illyrians and the priestesses all serve Wyrd in the end?

If I'm correct - a big "if" - the difference in runes, or Wyrdmarks, could be down to one of a few potential reasons (though the following list is not exhaustive):

It was always intentional so we wouldn't piece it together too easily.

The almost seven year gap between ACOWAR and the colouring book coming out in 2017, and HOFAS in 2024. Things change.

The in-universe time difference between Wyrd's birth/creation and Truth-Teller's forging. Did the wyrdmarks "evolve," so to speak?

The Wyrdmarks are not actually identical; perhaps they only look similar because they have similar or even complementary meanings?

I'm actually completely wrong and need to remove my clown makeup right now. 🤡

It would make sense that Truth-Teller's wyrdmarks were not identical to those we would see on Wyrd (assuming it is actually Her on HOFAS' cover). One of those things is a goddess, a force who created their entire universe, and the other is a dagger that can help open a portal to the Void and ferry the bearer through. Truth-Teller's scabbard might tell a story, it might hold a warning, or even contain a spell or the instructions for activating its magic etc; are they a spell to contain the power of the blade, as Bryce hinted at in HOFAS, or something else?

As if their sheaths had kept their power contained, the naked metal now throbbed against her palm, up her arms, tugging toward each other so violently it took all her strength to keep them apart. - HOFAS, chapter 48

It's just a pity that - unless I missed it - we weren't told about any markings on the Starsword, though that's assuming that its scabbard¹ was the original (or that Truth-Teller's is the original, of course - maybe it was given a new sheath, one with a very specific message, after Silene returned to Prythian). All we know is that both blades were Made by the Cauldron, with their obsidian² (wyrdstone?) hilts and black Iridium blades that can devour light (though Gwydion's blade can sparkle) and appear muted in darkness, I assume because there is no sunlight to charge their magic.

¹ @ladynightcourt3 has previously suggested that Truth-Teller may have been blessed by the God of Truth, who also blessed Damaris - the Sword of Truth, first wielded by Gavin Havilliard and currently claimed by Dorian Havilliard - which also has Wyrdmarks on its scabbard and was used in the Valg king Erawan's death. She's also reminded me that the Asterion blades in TOG also have markings, and are described as being made of a dark metal imbued with starlight... sounds familiar!

² @emmitaaa4 reminded me that wyrdstone can cause headaches in those who carry it - and who is known to rub his temples so much that Elain gifted him headache powder? Azriel.

I have spoken before about the possibility of the obsidian hilts either being possessed by some sort of Void based being, or that the material may help the Made blades attract a prince of Hel by design (here and here). Imagine if the Iridium³ blades come from a meteorite originating in Hel. Could the Made blades be secret wyrdkeys thanks to their hilts?

³ The element iridium's name is derived from "Iris," which means rainbow. Could this be where the meteorite that went into forging Gwydion and Truth-Teller have fallen... in the Rainbow of Velaris? What does this mean for Velaris' history, or the future of the Made blades? Will Feyre, the protector of the Rainbow, become involved?

What might this mean for Prythian?

Let's revisit the Truth-Teller scene, and pay close attention to Elain's clothes: Winter Court attire. Too warm, but Elain didn't complain... is that because she suspected she may have to brave the cold, harsh environment in the space between before the day was done? My next suggestion is unlikely, but could her face have turned crimson because she didn't know how to ask for warmer clothes without explaining that she'd Seen that she'd need them, especially if she knew that she was going to be sent away and she'd have to work from the shadows, as uaual? This could even tie in with my theory that the Archeron sisters will "sail" (for lack of a better term, sorry I know it's silly) the bat brothers by Singing them across the Void, possibly to Hel, as Nesta wanted insulated leathers in ACOSF. @elrieldreamer and I have previously discussed the fact that the serpents (dragons?) on HOFAS' cover look like they could be passing through Wyrdgates, which could also circle into the "sailing through the void" idea I mentioned in my post about The Weaver's Song, because Illyrian armour is known to feature scales. So isn't it handy that Emerie can source fleece-lined leathers!

“I was about to write to you before Bellius interrupted me. I asked about making leathers with fleece inside.” Emerie leaned her forearms on the immaculate counter. “It can be done, but it’s not cheap.” “Then it’s beyond my means, but thank you for finding out anyway.” “I could order it and let you pay it off as you’re able.” - ACOSF, chapter 25

Then there's the blade-like object that appears to be pointing down onto the eight-pointed star above the woman's head; could it be indicating Truth-Teller or Gwydion, or even Damaris - the Sword of Truth - from TOG?

The eight-pointed star obviously holds relevance to Nesta, given the tattoos that she and Cassian shared for much of ACOSF and Bryce's parting remarks in HOFAS, and we know the Starborn used it as their symbol, but why? Many don't realise that it may also have been the symbol on 'The Elain' ship that Papa Archeron commissioned among the three named for each of his daughters. Could it be a seafaring compass rose/rose of the winds, as Wingedblooms has previously discussed? Is it also related to Ishtar, another amazing theory shared by @wingedblooms' and @merymoonbeam? Or could it actually be the Chaos⁴ star, and truly be a symbol of Wyrd as Chaos, the Mother - or dam - to all?

⁴ I hope to post this theory soon.

I cannot move past the fact that, in addition to The Elain flying an eight-pointed star with nothing on either side (referencing the Void?), The Nesta was flying a dragon with two suns, and The Feyre was flying two crescent moons and diamonds. It has to mean something, right?

I still find it really interesting that one of the eyes of the woman on HOFAS' cover - which seems to be all about depicting gate travel and world walking - appears to be bleeding, when Gwyn remarked in ACOSF that reading Merrill's theories about multiple worlds made her eyes bleed.

Gwyn frowned. “Lots of things. Merrill’s brilliant. Horrible, but brilliant. When she first came here, she was obsessed with theories regarding the existence of different realms—different worlds. Living on top of each other without even knowing it. Whether there is merely one existence, our existence, or if it might be possible for worlds to overlap, occupying the same space but separated by time and a whole bunch of other things I can’t even begin to explain to you because I barely understand them myself.” Nesta’s brows rose. “Really?” “Some philosophers believe there are eleven worlds like that. And some believe there are as many as twenty-six, the last one being Time itself, which …” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Honestly, I looked at some of her early research and my eyes bled just reading her theorizing and formulas.” Nesta chuckled. “I can imagine. But she’s researching something else now?” “Yes, thank the Cauldron. She’s writing a comprehensive history of the Valkyries.” - ACOSF, chapter 13

Now, Gwyn was obviously being flippant while attempting to demonstrate the extent of Merrill's brilliance, but who do we know who has peered across one world so far, who may be set up as a worldwalker with a strong affinity to any thin places? Elain Archeron, the sister whose ship flew the eight pointed star sail for all to see. A Seer. Will the Seer's eyes bleed when she looks too far, or past wards of "mist and shadow" designed to keep her out?

“Firebird by day,” Rhys mused, “woman by night … So she’s held captive by this sorcerer-lord?” Elain shook her head. “I don’t know. I hear her—her screaming. With rage. Utter rage …” She shuddered. Mor leaned forward. “Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” Elain studied the table. “No. No—that is all mist and shadow.” Rhys blew out a breath. “Can you sense where she is?” “There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobbed. “He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow. They glide across the water—while she rages through the skies above it.” - ACOWAR, chapter 33

Its over-large teeth clacked faintly. “Thrice now, we have met. Thrice now, you have hunted for me. This time, you sent the trembling fawn to find me. I did not expect to see those doe-eyes peering at me from across the world.” - ACOWAR, chapter 58

Alpha and omega. Ask and answer (and Azriel told Elain that Truth-Teller would "serve" - a synonym to "answer" - her well). Made (or Make) and Unmade (or Unmake). Matter and antimatter. Gwydion can kill the unkillable, while Truth-Teller slew an almost unstoppable king. They Sing⁵ to each other - is it a spell, or are they communicating in Wyrd, the secret language of the universe > Chaos > eight pointed star? - and to those who bear enough Starborn magic to hear it. Azriel learnt that he can charge a Starborn fae like Bryce in HOFAS, there are three Archeron sisters who share significant parallels with Bryce and Theia... and wouldn't you know it, Azriel has two brothers. I could always be wrong, but this all seems fated to me.

⁵ I know I'm not alone in speculating whether Elain heard Truth-Teller Singing to her like kin, as @wingedblooms, @emmitaaa4, @psychologynerd and @ladynightcourt3 all share this theory at least (I've also wondered if she can hear Azriel's siphons singing, but that's another theory). Is this why Elain's eyes widened when Azriel offered Truth-Teller? Did it Sing to her? Is she a Singer, as @silverlinedeyes, @wingedblooms and I suspect? Was this in addition to (or instead of) her Seeing herself using it to kill the king? If true, this could parallel the scene earlier on in HOFAS where Elain's eyes widened at "the shadowsinger's display" just before Azriel winnowed her to Windhaven; was Elain listening to his shadows and/or Truth-Teller such that she could activate the blades (or her own) hypothetical shadow walking magic later on?

Anyway, sorry for rambling on a fair bit there, if you made it this far thank you for reading my nonsense! I am so excited to learn what SJM has been planning, because just like Koschei I think she's been playing the long game and setting all of these pieces up for years, even if it was just in case.

[elains]

Azriel's association with Enalius, what it means for his arc and Illyria

This is something me and my friends have talked about off tumblr, but I wanted to write my own post about it and gather my thoughts. But here, I'll discuss a bit Azriel's character and how the revelations we witness in House of Flame and Shadow will be important to his character. (+ a little bit of Emerie).

What do we know about Enalius? From ACOSF, Emerie provides us with a little exposition when they are in the Rite, when the Pass of Enalius is brought up:

Long ago—so long ago they don’t even have a precise date for it—a great war was fought between the Fae and the ancient beings who oppressed them. One of its key battles was here, in these mountains. Our forces were battered and outnumbered, and for some reason, the enemy was desperate to reach the stone at the top of Ramiel. We were never taught the reason why; I think it’s been forgotten. But a young Illyrian warrior named Enalius held the line against the enemy soldiers for days.

Now, from the Crescent City crossover, we learned that Truth-teller and Gwydion are twin blades. They are a pair. According to the Silene History Lesson, the dagger used to belong to her father's (Fionn's) dear friend, slain during the war. A bit later, when they find Vesperus, she confirms that this friend was Enalius:

The Asteri’s eyes flared with recognition at the long blade. “Did Fionn send you, then? To slay me in my sleep? Or was it that traitor Enalius? I see that you bear his dagger—as his emissary? Or his assassin?”

Immediately before that, she also confirms that the Asteri crafted (which can either mean created, shaped forged, but we are going with created) the Illyrians:

The Asteri’s blue eyes lowered to the dagger. “You dare draw a weapon before me? Against those who crafted you, soldier, from night and pain?”

From everything, we can conclude this: Enalius was the original wielder of Truth-teller before Fionn and Theia, a dear friend to Fionn, and someone who pulled the ultimate sacrifice to keep the Asteri/Daglan from reaching the top of Ramiel. He was a traitor to the Asteri, a rebel against his masters and everything they stood for.

Enalius is the hero most Illyrians strive to mimic, the legendary figure who they all hope to one day surpass. He's a symbol of their people, even if so much about him has been forgotten — the fact that he had a dagger, Fionn's friendship, what the battle was for, maybe even how he was as a person. Brave, for sure. Willing to die for the cause.

And it's Azriel who bears his dagger. Azriel, who has such a complicated relationship with his Illyrian heritage and loaths it - and by extension, himself - is the one with this enormous legacy right at this hand. And this matters.

Still in ACOSF, we have Rhys talking with Cassian and wanting him to play Courtier, the following exchange then follows:

“What, we’re doing some role reversal? Az gets to lead the Illyrians now?” “Don’t play stupid,” Rhys said coolly. Cassian rolled his eyes. But they both knew Azriel would sooner disband and destroy Illyria than help it. Convincing their brother that the Illyrians were a people worth saving was still a battle amongst the three of them.

Azriel hates the Illyrians for what happened to him and his mother and his dislike for them is, to a degree, understandable. The thing is that Azriel, no matter how much he loaths it, is Illyrian. Maybe he's more than that (as it's pointed that Az is different in a lot of ways and Bryce wonders if he is Starborn), but at heart, he's Illyrian. Siphons, leathers, fighting, being Carynthian, his wings, his scabbard and the dagger it holds.

It was healthy, perhaps, for Az to sometimes remember where he'd come from. He still wore the Illyrian leathers. Had not tried to get the tattoos removed. Some part of him was Illyrian still. Always would be. Even if he wished to forget it.

Being Illyrian is part of who he is and his deep hatred for them only fuel his self-loathing. He would like to set himself apart, but he is not.

We can actually draw a direct parallel between Azriel and Bryce with how they regard the Fae vs the Illyrians. Bryce loathes the Fae and for most of HoFaS, she believes they are evil, corrupt, power-hungry and quite generally, not worth saving. She would leave them all to burn. Sound familiar?

And Bryce is wrong. Sathia challenges her notion, pointing out that she's laying judgement to all fae and that is hardly fair. What the one who don't deserve it? Herself, yes, but Flynn, Declan, and Ruhn himself? Do they deserve to burn too? Bryce herself acknowledges this:

Urd had sent her there to see, even in the small fraction of their world that she’d witnessed, that Fae existed who were kind and brave. She might have had to betray Nesta and Azriel, trick them … but she knew that at their cores, they were good people. The Fae of Midgard were capable of more. Ruhn proved it. Flynn and Dec proved it. Even Sathia proved it, in the short time Bryce had known her.

And this part here sums up quite neatly:

Fire met starlight met shadows, and Bryce loosed herself on the world. It ended today. Here. Now. This had nothing to do with the Asteri, or Midgard. The Fae had festered under leaders like these males, but her people could be so much more.

There are Illyrians who are kind and brave and break the mold. We see this with Emerie, who is also a woman. We see that with Balthazar, Cassian. The main point stands, though, that you cannot judge or condemn an entire race for the bad apples.

Azriel is wrong, just as Bryce was wrong, and his journey will be also to realise that his people are worth saving. They were created of night and pain (words that Azriel embodies, being a master of shadows and a torturer), but that is not everything they need to be. They can be more than soldiers. They can thrive.

And I believe this was something Enalius himself came to the believe, long ago. His people deserved more than to be slaves to the Asteri, forced to give them their power when need be, bred to live and die for them. They could be more. And Enalius died to free his people from their chains.

Is Azriel Enalius's blooded descendant? I'm not sure, but he doesn't need to be. Azriel is Enalius successor because he will finish what was started. He'll uncover the secrets of the past, what his people were in truth, what Enalius rebelled for, what he stood for, what the Blood Rite truly means - which he only got a glimpse of.

And this is where I think Emerie will also come in. She's s one of ACOSF most relevant characters and the first female Illyrian to be Carynthian. I think Emerie will also become an inspirational figure to the Illyrian women, another of these what they coud be. What they can be. And more importantly and that is just a theory, what they were.

Orestes was a warrior. What if so was Carynth and she was woman? The name always struck me as similar to Carina, which is the name of a constellation and commonly used by women. It would be ironic and another shaking revelation to the Illyrians that Carynth, for whom their greatest warriors are named after, was a woman.

Does that mean all Illyrian women must become Valkyries? No, but some might wish to follow this path whilst their society takes its time to catch up. They already shook the status quo and with Nesta poised to have a big role (andthe Valkyries along her), they will continue to do so.

Azriel will uncovered the lost history of Vesperus offered him all the clues he needed to start looking. His journey to find out this secrets will lead to him facing his own demons, confronting his loathing for his people and, in doing so, he will make peace with himself.

[fandom-lover2]

My Sword Is My Shield, And I Shall Never Bend

Chapter Four - No Politics At The Table

Word Count - 1359

-image not mine-

Chapter Three - Too Young For This

Chapter Four - Music And Mead Make Men Happy

Optimus had been convinced that seeing the girl dressed the way she was when she first entered the dining hall was the most beautiful he’d ever see her, but he was mistaken when she entered a second time.

When she’d come in after being summoned, she was obviously straight off the training field, quiver secured to her back and bow still in hand. Her sword rested in the scabbard tied around her waist. The white shirt hung loosely on her top while tight leather pants hugged her legs tightly and boots went up to her calves.

Her hair caught the last few rays, making it shimmer a mix of gold and chocolate brown. It had been the same as this morning, except then her hair had been untied and showed the golden more. Now the locks were secured in a plait, though some strands had escaped and stood out in all directions.

When she left the room it was almost as if she was excited at the news she would be joining the meal. That had not been too long ago and now she had returned.

A royal blue and cream gown covered her body, hugging her chest snuggly. Her hair was pulled away from her face, but now showed tight curls that cascaded down her back, so beautifully natural.

Everything about her was so natural, the way she moved with grace but also comfortably. How she flopped down into the chair rather than slowly sitting. How the small “thank you” that followed after the servant had helped push her in was automatic and not forced.

Optimus decided that he liked all three versions of her equally. The morning bedhead who cared not what others thought, the training hard and looking like it, and the dressed up. Each showed a different side of the same woman.

She began eating without a word, but snuck glances at every one of the men when she could, studying them. Curiosity danced in her eyes, blending effortless with wonder.

The Lord began talking, but the General did not bother listening to him. He watched her. Then Ironhide, who sat beside him, nudged the General.

Optimus snapped his attention back to the Lord. “Yes?”

The Lord was glaring at Optimus, clenching his teeth. “I asked how long you thought the war would continue?”

Optimus was used to these kinds of questions.

He and Lord went back and forth, war talk. Optimus continued to talk. As long as the Lord focused on him, his men could eat.

It was after Optimus had said something about casualties that the Lord decided to toast, “To worthy sacrifices!” he cheered, hoisting his challis up.

Before any of the soldiers had the chance to be horrified at the Lord’s callousness, a snort broke the tension. Everyone turned to the end of the table, where the Lord’s daughter was picking at her plate.

“Yeah, worthy.”

Optimus felt the shift in Ironhide beside him, the anger now aimed at her. He raised a hand to rest on his friend’s shoulder but it was shrugged off.

“You will not speak at the table.” The Lord ordered, putting the challis down.

“No,” Ironhide spoke up, squaring his shoulders as he looked at the girl. “Let her speak.”

The girl took the challenge, sitting straighter and turning to face Ironhide.

“What do you think of war?”

She took a second before replying. “I think more damage comes of it.”

Ironhide narrowed his eyes, a cue to continue.

She took it. “Fields destroyed, towns burnt to the ground, millions of lives lost and good soldiers buried, and yet no side ever gains an advantage, so the cycle continues.”

“You think war to be brutish and unnecessary?” Ironhide tried to be aloof about the question, but the underlying tone and way he was gripping his mug said otherwise.

“I think that there are times when war is necessary and times when it was a loss of human life.”

Ironhide barked out a laugh, but it was not one of joy. “You believe diplomatic talks are the way to end manslaughter?”

Now the conversation had changed from war in general to the current war. Would she notice?

The girl took a moment. “You ever hear of the debate of whether the pen or the sword is mightier?” The question was directed to Ironhide.

He clenched his jaw, leaning back. “Yes.”

The girl smiled. “Well I believe the mightiest is the hand that knows when to pick up a pen, and when to raise a sword.” She allowed a moment for her words to sink in. “And mightier still is the hand that knows when to lay down the sword.”

That struck something inside Optimus.

The girl then turned her attention, looking at each soldier as she spoke. “From what I understand of this war, two men with similar ideals picked up pens in an attempt to make a change, to speak out against the abuse the old council dished out to the Kingdom of Cybertron. They gained attention from the people and soon their writings turned into words. But soon one lost faith in the pen and raised a sword in anger. The second then raised his in defence, and both men gained followings that started the war. Neither have learned how to lay down their swords.”

 She then fixed her gaze on Optimus. “Though from what I hear, neither of you are trusting enough of the other to allow peace talks to occur.”

Optimus cleared his throat, readjusting in his seat. “You speak with a wisdom far greater than your age.”

The girl smiled, picking up her goblet. “Perhaps I can just see both sides.” Her eyes never left his as she took a sip and swallowed. “But that is just the ramblings of a child who has never seen war.”

“Exactly.” her father started, and every soldier was brought back to the awareness that they were all seated in a dining hall in a Lord’s mansion.

How did she always manage to steal the attention of every person and make them hang off her every word without even asserting herself in the centre of the room?

“Just nonsense ramblings of a girl. From now on you will hold your mouth at the table.”

The girl scoffed, leaning forward to take an apple from the table. “Sure, as long as you keep holding that stick up your ass.”

Optimus could see many of the men try to hold in their laughter, hiding smiles behind feigned sips of mead. Ironhide was the only who didn’t bother holding back.

“I like her.” he decided, shooting a genuine smile in her direction, which she returned.

“Take her.” the Lady spoke up, smirking at the girl from across the table. “You can turn her into the army’s whore.”

The smile fell away, but instead of hurt or fear, she girl looked at the woman with fake innocence. “Didn’t my father meet you in a whorehouse?”

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. This was definitely not something they should be involved in.

The Lord rose, slamming his hands on the table. “Go to your room!” he roared.

The girl kept her gaze on her paled step mother, a smirk gracing her beautiful face as she rose, apple still in hand. She made a show of scrapping the chair as she stood, then doing it again as she pushed it in. Once she got to the door she turned, dipping her head.

“Brave warriors.” she addressed, then raised her head to the General, repeating the action and calling him his fill title.

That was the first time Optimus heard his name fall from her lips, and he liked it.

Then she spun on her heels. Her father’s call of her name stopped her.

She turned to face them again, doing a very exaggerated curtsy. “Sperm giver. Whore.”

It was very clear who that was intended for.

Then she rose to her fill height, took last look at every soldier who stared at her in wonder and bit the apple. She spun again, pushing the doors open. “Jack! Come on, we’re going to the tavern!”

[ghostwise]

“As a promise” kiss for Hamal and Zevran? 🥺 pls?

“Antiva is like any other Andrastian nation,” Zevran said as they were packing to leave; packing lightly, for the life they were embarking on together would be full of hardship and danger. “We will not be permitted to carry weapons.”

“Obviously that never stopped you,” Hamal said, brow raised.

“Certainly not! You see, for the Crows, the authorities are more than willing to look the other way. A curious custom, though I understand there are precedents. Ironic, isn’t it, that we are setting off to do away with it?”

As he spoke, Zevran buckled a scabbard into place. He tightened the leather straps, making sure the hilt was easily accessible as well as hidden. Once secured, he grinned up at Hamal, and took a moment to admire the sight. “Comfortable?”

“Not at all,” Hamal scoffed.

Zevran kissed him. “You do not pass for a Crow.”

With that he turned away, fetching a blue waistcoat from the armoire. The style was a tad dated, but it was long enough, and a nice color on him. It would do. Hamal held his arms out, somewhat befuddled, as Zevran dressed him. When he was done, the Warden touched his fingertips to his vallaslin.

“No visible weapons,” he murmured. “I will need to leave my sword behind.”

“I am afraid so,” Zevran said gently.

“And my bow and arrows?”

“You need not leave them behind. You could pass for a hunter,” Zevran said. “It is not far from the truth, anyway. But we may be questioned, at times, so be ready.”

“The human cities are the same whatever country you are in,” Hamal replied. “I understand.”

A lull of silence met them. Zevran looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on the fading bruise on his right cheekbone, the stitches over his forehead, and the ribbons woven through his braids. The Blight’s memory was enormous, and it loomed over them, even now, weeks out from battle. But it was over; it could no longer hurt them, he had to remind himself. And yet here they were, preparing for another fight. Was it wise?

“You do not need to do this with me, amor,” he reminded him, his voice a whisper.

Hamal smiled, and stepped close to him. He grabbed his hands and kissed his battle-scraped knuckles and palms, until Zevran was holding his face and laughing.

“What was it you said to me?” Hamal asked him. “The gates of the Dark City itself?”

“For the chance to be at your side,” Zevran answered.

“Emma lath. Promise?”

And Zevran remembered it well: The way the air had smelled of smoke when he’d spoken those words, and the sound of war horns amidst the burning sun.

With all the fervor of that blood-soaked promise, Zevran kissed him.

“I promise.”

[acourtofquietdreamers]

✨Elriel moments: love languages edition✨

Acts of service:

He set her down gently on the foyer carpet, having carried her in through the front door. Elain peered up at his patient, solemn face. Azriel smiled faintly. “Would you like me to show you the garden?” She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them. But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once.

“Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.” “I can help her,” said Azriel, stepping to the table as Elain silently rose. No shadows at his ear, no darkness ringing his fingers as he extended a hand. Nesta monitored him like a hawk, but kept silent as Elain took his hand, and out they went.”

But I strode to my seat—nestled between Amren and Mor—in time to see Elain say to Azriel, “Hello.” Az said nothing. No, he just moved toward her. Mor tensed beside me. But Azriel only took Elain’s heavy dish of potatoes from her hands, his voice soft as night as he said, “Sit. I’ll take care of it.” Elain’s hands remained in midair, as if the ghost of the dish remained between them.

Words of Affirmation:

Elain said to Azriel, perhaps the only two civilized ones here, “Can you truly fly?” He set down his fork, blinking. I might have even called him self-conscious. He said, “Yes. Cassian and I hail from a race of faeries called Illyrians. We’re born hearing the song of the wind.” “That’s very beautiful,” she said.

Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.” Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks, but he inclined his head in thanks and led my sister toward the back doors into the garden, sunlight bathing them.”

Elain’s eyes widened at the obsidian-hilted blade in Azriel’s scarred hand. The runes on the dark scabbard. “It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, the midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.”

Quality Time:

“Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports—likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City—the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it.”

Azriel and Elain remained in the sitting room, my sister showing him the plans she’d sketched to expand the garden in the back of the town house, using the seeds and tools my family had given her tonight. Whether he cared about such things, I had no idea

Gift Giving:

“Az, this one’s for you.” The shadowsinger’s brows lifted, but his scarred hand extended to take the present. Elain turned from where she’d been speaking to Nesta. “Oh, that’s from me.” Azriel’s face didn’t so much as shift at the words. Not even a smile as he opened the present and revealed—“I had Madja make it for me,” Elain explained. Azriel’s brows narrowed at the mention of the family’s preferred healer. “It’s a powder to mix in with any drink.” Silence. Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.”

She extended the wrapped gift, her hand shaking. "Here." … Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days, and then opened the lid. Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, "You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you..." He chuckled, unable to suppress the impulse.

He pulled the small velvet box from the shadows around him. Opened it for her. Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin. His shadows skittered back at the sound. They'd always been prone to vanish when she was around. The golden necklace seemed ordinary -- its chain unremarkable, the amulet tiny enough that it could be dismissed as an everyday charm. It was a small, flat rose fashioned of stained glass, designed so that when held to the light, the true depth of the colors would become visible. A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

Physical Touch:

Azriel rasped, swaying on his feet, “We need Helion to get these chains off her.” Yet Elain didn’t seem to notice them as she rose up on her toes and kissed the shadowsinger’s cheek.

He knew it was wrong, but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. Letting his scarred fingers touch her immaculate skin. Letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took a damn long time fastening the clasp. Azriel's fingers lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch. Until his palm lay flat against her neck.

It had never gone this far. They'd exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers, but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching.

Azriel's hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain's mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut.

Based on these, I think Elain mostly shows love with gift giving/words of affirmation while Azriel is acts of service/quality time. I’m sure they both love physical touch coming from the right person💗

[kayr0ss]

Rosewood

[Dungeon Meshi / Delicious in Dungeon, Farcille, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Proposal Fic, Woodworking / Furniture Making, Fluff and Humor, Touden Siblingisms] AO3 Link

Summary: Falin gets into woodworking, is kind of a (loveable) idiot, and Marcille loves every second of it

I.

“I believe us tall-men call it a quarter-life crisis.”

“How is it a crisis?” Marcille glared at Kabru. “Now that the kingdom’s relatively stable, she’s probably just looking for something new to do with her free time.”

Marcille ran into him at the tradesman’s courtyard—a rectangular wing of the castle with an open garden in the center. This wing housed wide rooms with high ceilings and windows facing the garden to flood them with natural light. Some were used for textiles and tailoring, others for working metal. Another section—Marcille’s intended destination—was for putting together and repairing furniture. She had stopped herself at the room’s threshold at the sight of ash-blonde hair, leaning against the doorway to allow herself a minute to just… look.

And that’s when Kabru found her—such terrible timing. She was trying to enjoy herself!

“That’s what a quarter-life crisis is,” he insisted.

Marcille scoffed. “Why can’t we just call it a hobby?”

“I mean we can.” Kabru hummed thoughtfully. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Falin’s interest in woodworking hadn’t come up out of the blue. Marcille remembers her having a small collection of books on it—as early as their school days. She’d read about Izgandan tools and scribble notes on the margins of her book on Eastern joinery. Marcille fondly remembers how she’d complain about neck pains—too much reading did her no favors—how she’d sigh to Falin about wanting a bookstand.

Oh, Falin had said back then. I’ll just make you one.

And she did—even if it took her a few years to get around to it.

It sat at the center of Marcille’s desk—Falin’s first ever project, imperfect and a little funny-looking but Marcille would never have it any other way. In a few short months, Falin had graduated from making cutting boards to specialized barstools for Chilchuck. Her most recent completion was a knife block for Senshi.

Today, she was starting on something new.

The most beautiful slab of rosewood was laid out on Falin’s work bench, and it seemed like she was working on flattening it. Falin worked with a large hand-planer, running it across the wood at an angle from its grain. Back and forth she went, spilling sawdust and shavings across the floor. Marcille couldn’t help but watch—she watched the way Falin’s arms moved with each pass, her brows knit together in a look of concentration. She watched the way Falin paused to fold up the sleeves of her loose, cotton shirt—further up to her elbows until Marcille could see tufts of soft, beautiful feathers. Marcille kept watching. Even as Falin wiped the sweat off her brow, running a towel across the side of her neck while she steadied her breathing. Still, Marcille kept watching—until finally, Falin gripped the handles of the planer again—her hands strong and steady, placing the tool back into position on the rosewood—

Kabru cleared his throat and Marcille quickly wondered if she could get away with murder.

“Wha—!” Marcille felt her blood pressure pitch into the high heavens. She burned, red, sputtering. “What are you even still doing here! I thought you were working?!”

“I am. It’s my job to remind the Royal Court Mage,” Kabru smiled diplomatically. “To stop ogling Lady Falin so openly in public.”

Kabru ducked—expertly dodging Ambrosia’s arc towards the back of his head.

--

II.

“What kind of wood is it?”

Marcille ran her hand along the scabbard Falin had crafted for Laios. She didn’t cover it with leather or paint, instead opting to stain it with a mild oil. Marcille had never seen wood with such odd grain patterns and color before. They curved almost anatomically, swirling into knots and unraveling like blood vessels.

“Uhm—It’s—” Falin looked to the corner of the room, nervously scratching at her check.

Marcille raised an eyebrow—then Laios excitedly barreled into the room.

“Falin!” He ran towards them, towering over his sister’s back and ruffling her hair.

“Get off!” Falin pouted, swatting him away. “Don’t ruffle my hair!”

“Did you finish it?” Laios blinked. Then he gasped, grabbing the scabbard excitedly from Marcille’s hands. “You did! My barometz scabbard!”

Marcille shrieked. “Barometz?!”

“Look, Marcille!” Laios held the scabbard right at her face—Marcille recoiled, pressing backwards against Falin who held wrapped her arms around her waist. “Do you see how the pattern branches out? It looks like wood grain but it’s actually a network of capillaries designed to provide nourishment to the creatures a baromtez grows—”

“Like a placenta!” Falin added softly.

“Exactly!” Laios laughed. “I have a sheath made out of—"

Marcille, exasperated, shoved her hands onto the two siblings’ faces to push them apart. “Barometz!?”

Falin flashed her sheepish grin.

“I just—you two!”

--

III.

Marcille was surprised to find Falin at Laios’ office—she had made a mess of the guest table at the center of the room, littering it with ribbons and decorative parchment. There were leathers laid out by the couch nearby, and Falin scrambled about, inspecting each one before coming back to a small box placed at the center of the table.

It was a beautiful jewelry box—another one of Falin’s projects. It had a body made from walnut and a checkered line that ran along its lid, made of cherry and pine. The colors reminded Marcille of the trees around her home. The lock was capped with a crest—one that surprised Marcille. Falin never cared for the posturing and ceremony that she and her brother now had to suffer, so why was her royal crest set in gold on this box?

“Oh—hi, Marcille.”

“Hey,” Marcille smiled, tugging on the front of Falin’s shirt to pull her closer. She got up on her tip toes, wrapping her arms around Falin’s shoulders to steal a small kiss.

“You found me,” Falin mumbled into their kiss, holding her by the waist.

“Mhm,” Marcille finally pulled back. “What are you doing here?”

“Sending a package. It’s going all the way up North so I needed good wrapping.”

“Is it this a jewelry box you made?”

“Mhmm.”

“It looks beautiful,” Marcille walked towards the table to inspect it. “Though I’m surprised that you used such an official symbol. That’s unlike you.”

“W—Well I heard jewelry boxes were a good gift for mothers.” Falin scratched at the back of her head. “And I wanted this one to be kinda… official looking?”

“Oh!” Marcille blinked. “Well, I’m sure your mother would love it!”

“Ah, no.” Falin’s natural flush deepened. “Not for my mom—”

“Hm?”

“It’s… for yours.”

Oh.

Marcille—stunned at first—smiled. Then she laughed, pulling Falin into a hug—her wonderful, loving, thoughtful Falin.

--

IV.

“Don’t you want to go tell her yourself?” Laios asked over dinner.

“I can’t.” Falin squirmed. “I’m too nervous.”

“She can’t be that strict!”

“Do you remember how Marcille was when we first met her in the tavern?”

Laios paled. “Yes. Is she even stricter?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Understandable.

--

V.

“It’s so pretty!” Marcille swooned, hands clasped as she admired Falin’s hard work.

The rosewood desk that Falin had been working on was finally finished after weeks of work. It was polished impeccably, sealed with the finest wax to finish. It had all the drawers Marcille needed – shallow ones for her inks and pens, deeper ones for parchment and scrolls, and even a little platform towards the back where she could set her feet—Falin knew that sometimes the chair was too high for Marcille to be able to reach the ground.

“Oh, it’s perfect!” Marcille hugged Falin, who looked delightfully smug.

“No fair!” Laios pointed at his sister. “Falin—I want one too!”

“I already gave you a scabbard,” she shook her head.

“My desk is so big and boring though,” he slumped.

“It’s also a thousand-year hold antique,” Kabru supplied dryly. “It would do well for appearances to keep it.”

The new desk was heavy. Really, really heavy. It had taken nearly all of them to carry it up to Marcille’s office with how heavy and set it was. This was apparently by design, according to Falin, who can be so much like her brother and not know when to not say things, because—

“I made sure to use joinery instead of nails and angle irons,” Falin gave herself a self-satisfied nod. “I know that it bothers you how it creaks when w—”

Marcille turned so red they thought she might faint, hooking Ambrosia around Falin’s head and yanking her backwards hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs.

--

VI.

By the time winter started that year, all the furniture in Marcille’s room and office had been replaced by Falin’s handiwork: new shelves for her books and trinkets, an extension for her windowsill where she could keep plants and little felt toys.

Today, Marcille came into her office to a brand-new chair. It perfectly matched her desk, coming up a little higher than her old one to make writing and reading more comfortable.

“I asked the tailors for help with the upholstery,” Falin said, still in her apron and smelling of sawdust. “I’ve never been very good with sewing and leatherwork.”

“It’s amazing,” Marcille whispered as she traced along Falin’s simple engravings—she had started experimenting more artistically with her work. Beautiful, Marcille thought to herself. How wonderful it was to see Falin’s efforts engraved into something tangible—something permanent. “Thank you.”

Falin simply smiled back.

“You’ve gotten so good at this!”

“You think?”

“Yeah!” Marcille stood up to clasp their hands. “The gift you sent mom left such an impression on her that she’s planning to visit.”

Falin gasped. And then grinned, “I’m so glad!”

“Me too,” Marcille leaned forward, smiling against Falin’s shoulder and the feathers of her neck. “I’m happy you found a hobby you like so much. Between dungeons and politics, it seems like such a good break for you.”

“Mm, yeah.” Falin gently ran her fingers along Marcille’s hair. “I’ve always wanted to be able to build furniture for my wife one day.”

Marcille froze.

What?

She pushed herself backwards, looking up in surprise at Falin while still staying in their embrace. “Wife—? Wh—”

Falin was blinking, almost in a panic. Then she grew redder, and redder, and redder—like a kettle about to whistle. “I, uh—!” She stammered. She had that look on her face, the adorable expression of confusion as if she had just forgotten something very important. It reminded Marcille of their younger days. “You see—”

Marcille’s thoughts were running a hundred paces at a time—her mother visiting? Falin—wife?

“Marcille,” Falin looked at her resolutely. Lovingly. “Will you marry me?”

--

VII.

“You forgot to propose?” Chilchuck had his face in his hands.

“Well, technically I was still able to…” Falin said meekly.

“After all the time I put into helping you plan it!”

--

VIII.

By the next summer, Marcille found herself at the tradesman’s courtyard again. She had a tray of refreshments in her hands—one for herself and another for Falin. The condensation on the glass formed droplets of dew that ran along its side, mirroring the droplets on Falin’s brow. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail—messy with stray locks escaping this way and that. Her shirt was loose and bunched around her forearms and she was wearing a brand-new work apron that Senshi had made for her—with hooks and pockets and all.

Marcille, like so many times before, leaned against the woodshop’s doorframe to watch and wonder.

“Marcille,” Kabru cleared his throat, standing next to her with an arm full of scrolls.

“Kabru.”  

He nudged her shoulder. “May I remind the Royal Court Mage—”

“I can ogle my wife whenever I want!”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” Marcille scoffed, petulant yet still smiling.

She watched as Falin gripped the handles of her planer, firm and strong, her left hand glittering with new jewelry.

-

fin

-

A/N:

extremely self indulgent thanks i love these two, this was not beta read so sorry *throws it to AO3 and posts it* hope that you enjoyed!

[baccarry]

Winter's Promise

Summary: Boromir and a girl from Rohan continue to meet in secret against the backdrop of a harsh winter. Their encounters, filled with genuine moments and quiet conversations, bring them closer together despite the differences between their worlds.

Amid their growing relationship, Boromir faces an inner conflict: torn between his duties as Gondor’s heir and his longing to be simply a man who loves and is loved. The girl, too, understands that their love might be impossible within the rigid confines of Gondorian tradition, but her feelings and faith in him outweigh her fears.

Set in the wintry landscapes of Rohan, the story unfolds as each day brings the promise of spring—a symbol of hope and a new beginning for them both.

The tale can be enjoyed as a continuation of The Scarlet Ribbon or as a standalone story.

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: G

Dedication: This story is dedicated to @scyllas-revenge and @lilunoakes for their inspiring comments and unwavering support. Thank you for being part of this journey!

Note: Winter's Promise is the second installment in The Scarlet Ribbon series. There will be 2–3 more parts to this story, including one smut chapter (18+). To stay updated, follow the tag #The Scarlet Ribbon Update so you don’t miss any new releases!

2890 Words.

***

It was midwinter, and you went to the river to do laundry. A mundane task, but for you, it was also an excuse to leave the house, to be alone—and perhaps to meet the one whose presence you longed for so much. You wore warm, simple clothing suitable for a merchant’s daughter from a roadside village in Rohan. A long green woolen cloak lined with fur, fastened with a leather belt, covered you. Underneath, you wore a dark blue dress of sturdy fabric that didn’t hinder movement. On your feet were soft boots lined with sheepskin, and you had wrapped a thick scarf around your head to shield your hair from the wind.

You carried a wooden basin and a small sack of laundry. In your hands was also a bag containing washing tools: a brush, wooden paddles for beating out dirt, and bars of soap that your father had acquired from a passing caravan. Yet what you regretted most was leaving behind the iron pickaxe, deciding at home that the river wasn’t fully frozen over yet.

When you reached the river, you set the basin down on the snow and looked around. It was quiet here. The white shores and the still, icy surface of the river gave the place an almost magical air, but the cold seeped through your clothes, making you shiver. You sighed regretfully, realizing you’d have to explain to your father why the laundry remained unwashed. But worse, returning home earlier than planned might mean missing a chance to meet him, and that was something you could not allow.

You knelt by the shore, brushing away snow with your hands to gauge the thickness of the ice. The ice was thick, smooth, with no visible cracks. You hesitated, wondering what to do, when you heard a voice behind you:

“You won’t break through it.”

You turned abruptly and saw him. Boromir stood a short distance away, having just dismounted. His horse, dark and powerful, was tied to a nearby tree. He wore a long cloak lined with fur, barely concealing the mail beneath. At his side hung a sword in plain but sturdy scabbards, and over his shoulders was draped a light woolen mantle typical of Gondorian soldiers. His face, weathered and intent, was framed by light chestnut hair that had slipped loose from beneath his hood.

“How long have you been here?” you asked, trying to keep your composure, though your heart raced.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he removed his sword and stepped toward you. His movements were confident but unhurried, and for a moment, you thought he was coming to help. He stopped at the very edge of the shore, his gaze fixed on the ice.

“Step back,” he said curtly, raising his sword.

You took a step back, watching as he gripped the weapon with both hands, lifted it over his head, and brought it down forcefully onto the ice. The strike rang out sharply, the sound echoing off the frozen trees. The ice cracked but did not give way. He struck again, and the crack deepened.

“Enough to freeze to the bone,” he said, sheathing his sword. His voice was warm, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible smile. You caught the tone and felt your lips curve into a small smile of their own. A simple act—a sword striking ice, the crack, the resounding echo—but in it, there was a care so natural to him that you couldn’t help but notice it.

The ice was no longer an obstacle, but you knew the laundry was just an excuse. All of this—the sack of clothes, the heavy basin, the biting cold that stung your fingers—was merely a guise to meet him once again.

Your meetings became more frequent, but in your father’s shop, they had turned into an impossibility. Boromir, with his proud bearing and noble manners, immediately drew attention. Your father was a perceptive man, and it didn’t take him long to notice how the gaze of the Gondorian lord lingered on you too often. His voice softened whenever he inquired about your health, and his movements became unnaturally slow as he browsed the wares, as though searching for excuses to stay longer.

“A merchant’s daughter is no match for Gondor’s heir,” your father said one day—not with malice, but with the stern honesty that was part of his nature. Those words were sobering, but could they stop you?

You recalled that kiss, given to him on the night of the Winterwood Festival. It was a moment when everything stilled: the forest, the stars, your hearts. That kiss was a promise, spoken without words, and it remained etched in your memory.

In Rohan, where hearts were free and traditions less rigid, such moments were a natural expression of human connection. But in Gondor, where people upheld strict morals and every action, every word, was dictated by tradition, such a gesture would be audacious, especially for an heir. Boromir knew that in his homeland, such behavior was unacceptable. Even married couples refrained from public displays of affection, limiting themselves to light, almost fleeting touches of the hand.

He thought of his brother, Faramir, and his wife, Éowyn. Their union was a living example of how two cultures could merge. Éowyn, while retaining the straightforwardness and strength of her Rohirric spirit, had learned to be restrained among the Gondorian lords. Yet behind closed doors, their love was vibrant and unreserved. Boromir had seen how Faramir looked at Éowyn—with pride, warmth, and admiration. Now, he understood that he wanted the same. He wanted to look at you that way—openly, without fear, so the whole world would see that he had found his happiness.

But for now, your meetings remained a secret. You learned to love what had once seemed like hateful routine. Washing clothes by the river, carrying dried herbs from your father’s shop, sorting fabrics and furs—all these tasks had become your excuses. They allowed you to leave the house, to step into the winter wind, and perhaps, to meet him.

You always noticed how different your worlds were. His confidence, forged by the strict traditions of Gondor, and your ease, shaped by the freedom and simplicity of Rohan, created a striking contrast. Boromir seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, often becoming too serious, and it stirred in you a desire to push him toward laughter, to see his true, human side. He, in turn, sometimes looked at you with mild astonishment when you spoke your mind or made a decision without hesitation, as though all the rules he had ever known could so easily be cast aside.

"Are you really going to wash clothes here?" he asked one day, crouching by the river. His finger traced lightly across the ice, leaving a faint line before he raised his gaze to meet yours, filled with a mix of doubt and concern.

"Of course," you replied with a wide smile, adjusting your scarf. "Do they do it differently in Gondor?"

"I wouldn’t know," he admitted after a brief pause, as though surprised by the question himself. "I never gave it much thought."

He glanced at your fingers, reddened from the cold, and frowned.

"Do you need help? Your hands must be freezing."

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, surprised by his offer.

"Alright, but don’t let the laundry fall into the water."

At first, everything went well. He pulled pieces of fabric from the basin, and you showed him how to work them against the paddle. But the further you went, the more it became clear: Boromir had no experience with such tasks. His strong hands, used to gripping a sword, fumbled awkwardly as he tried to wring out the fabric. Water splashed onto his face and cloak, and one of your best shirts nearly slipped into the hole in the ice.

"Eru Almighty!" he exclaimed as the fabric slid from his grasp. He managed to catch it, but not before leaning precariously over the icy water, nearly plunging in himself.

You couldn’t suppress your laughter as you looked at his bewildered expression, droplets of water streaming down his cloak.

"What?" he asked, wiping his face with his hand. "You said this was easy."

"For me, yes," you said, still laughing. "But for you, my lord, it seems beyond your skill."

He huffed in mock annoyance but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.

"In that case, I’ll leave the washing to you."

And indeed, he didn’t offer his help again. But you noticed that he particularly enjoyed watching you work. He would sit a little ways off, as if guarding you, his gaze warm and slightly pensive, lingering on your movements.

Sometimes, though, he stepped in when he saw you struggling—pulling up a bucket of water or hauling the heavy basin. In those moments, he would speak with a quiet, barely noticeable smile:

"This isn’t washing, but at least I can help with this."

You liked it. There was something so genuine in his desire to be helpful that you began to wonder how little Gondor had offered him in terms of simple, human joys.

He still loved to watch you at work.

Even today, his eyes followed you as you bent over the basin, scrubbing the clothes with effort. Your hands, red from the cold, your cheeks lightly flushed, and a stray lock of hair slipping from beneath your scarf that you kept tucking back behind your ear—it all captivated him. To him, you seemed a part of the harsh winter landscape: determined, stubborn, and unyielding.

"In Gondor, it often snows in winter," he said, breaking the silence, and you looked up at him. He stood by his horse, running a hand along its neck. "But it rarely stays on the ground for long. And the rivers never freeze. Winter there comes quietly, like a guest who doesn’t linger."

You smiled, blowing the stray lock from your face.

"And here, winter is a mistress who sets everything in order," you said, glancing at the forest around you. "She closes the rivers, lulls the earth to sleep. Even the air is different—it smells of snow and pine, and of a cold that chills you to the bone."

Boromir chuckled, looking at you with warmth.

"But you don’t seem afraid of it," he said more softly. "You even come to the river in such cold."

You looked at him, your smile turning slightly mischievous.

"And if you didn’t come?" you teased, a playful spark in your eyes. "Do you think I’d endure these frozen fingers?"

He glanced away, visibly flustered, and turned his attention to his horse to hide it.

"But I do come," he said simply, pulling a comb from his saddlebag.

He began carefully combing the horse’s tangled mane, but the winter rides had taken their toll: the comb snagged in the knots, and the horse tossed its head in irritation. You frowned as you watched him.

"What are you doing?" you said, setting aside the laundry and wiping your damp hands on your skirt. "You’re holding a brush, not a sword! It’s hurting him."

Boromir looked up at you and smirked.

"He’s not complaining. If he could talk, he’d thank me for my care."

"He is talking. You’re just not listening," you huffed, stepping closer.

You removed your scarf and began gently untangling the mane with your fingers. The horse snorted but soon lowered its head, visibly relaxing under your touch.

"See?" you said over your shoulder without looking back. "A bit more patience, my lord, and he’d thank you."

Boromir watched you, unable to suppress a smile. Your confidence and ease in handling the task reminded him why he kept coming back to this harsh, wintry place.

"Easy, my friend," you murmured in Rohirric, softly running your hands through the tangled mane. "Your stubborn lord is used to having stablehands look after you, isn’t he? But things are different here."

You spoke quietly, almost a whisper, as if your words were meant only for the horse. It snorted and shook its head, but less sharply than before. You continued your steady, confident movements before leaning forward to place your palm on its neck, as if trying to share your warmth.

"Hey," Boromir protested, breaking out of his reverie. "I understand your language."

You glanced over your shoulder at him, smiling but saying nothing. Instead, you continued speaking to the horse, avoiding the Common Tongue:

"He’s stubborn, but he meant well. Didn’t he, friend? There, that’s better."

You extended your hand toward Boromir.

"Give me the comb."

He handed it over without a word, frowning slightly as you began untying the horse from the tree.

"Leave him," he said cautiously. "He might run off. And I still need to ride back..."

You turned to him with an easy smile and shook your head.

"A horse never leaves its master if it knows it’s well cared for. And here, my lord, he knows he’s safe."

You led the horse a step away, giving it more freedom, but you continued combing, occasionally smoothing its flanks with your hand. The horse snorted again, dipping its head toward your touch, as though accepting your care.

"Incredible," Boromir said, watching the two of you. "You’re so good with him. It’s as if he melts under your hands. Your bond with horses..."

"Has nothing to do with it," you interrupted, standing upright and returning to your basin. Your movements were brisk, as if eager to finish the washing. "He simply trusts me and 'melts under my touch,' just like his master, my lord."

You returned to your work, feeling Boromir’s gaze linger on you. He stayed by his horse, watching you, his expression a mix of admiration and unease. In your world, touch was natural—a gesture to the shoulder, the hand, the heart through warmth and action. But for him, it was something new, almost forbidden. You noticed how he increasingly sought excuses to touch you: handing you the comb, brushing a stray lock from your face, or lightly grazing your hand when helping with the heavy basin.

For you, it was natural. But each time you met his gaze in such moments, you saw something more: longing, hesitation, and sometimes gratitude, like a man learning to accept warmth for the first time.

"Are your hands cold?" he asked when you had kept them in the icy water too long.

You sighed, lifting your eyes to meet his.

"As always."

He stepped closer, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the snow. Your hands, red from the cold, trembled as he took them in his. His fingers were warm and strong as he carefully rubbed your hands before cupping them in his palms, as if protecting something fragile.

Usually, it ended there. He would warm your hands until they stopped trembling, then let go, avoiding your gaze, as though afraid to linger too long. But not today.

Today, he did something different. His lips brushed lightly against your index finger, then your middle finger, as if testing whether you could feel the warmth. He moved to the next, slow and deliberate. Each kiss was soft, barely there, but they carried something new, as though he himself was surprised by his boldness.

"And now?" he asked in a quiet, low whisper, his voice making the moment feel like it belonged only to the two of you.

You started slightly, not expecting the gesture, but you didn’t pull your hands away. Instead, you smiled faintly, meeting his eyes as warmth spread from within.

"Now it’s warm," you replied just as softly, letting the words hang in the air.

Your gazes locked. You saw the struggle in him, the attempt to reconcile the feelings that consumed him with the boundaries he had been taught to uphold. But you knew: with every touch, with every kiss, he was thawing. The polished veneer of a Númenórean lord, a familiar mask for a Gondorian heir, was beginning to fade.

You didn’t pull your hands away, letting him hold them a moment longer. You understood this wasn’t just physical contact for him—it was a step toward closeness, a moment of vulnerability he rarely allowed himself.

"My lord," you said with soft amusement, breaking the silence but keeping the tenderness intact. "Perhaps now you’ll warm them completely?"

He laughed, quietly but sincerely, and the sound warmed you as much as his hands did.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, you gathered your things. He helped you lift the basin, and together you walked back to the village, silently enjoying the winter stillness, which no longer seemed so cold.

That day became another thread binding your worlds together. Every gesture, every word—small steps, but they led you both to a place where Gondorian rules and Rohirric traditions didn’t matter. There was only the two of you, and a winter that no longer felt so harsh.

[ravenwriter16]

hello I want to draw your emperors

Can you give me a quick description of their appearances ☺️❤️

And perhaps the princess to.

oooh! Okay okay okay!

Just a heads up, whenever I have an image in my head, sometimes it's hard to put down into words. Some descriptions might be more detailed and others not so much. I'll try my best so please bear with me!😁

Also, the boys have at LEAST three styles and I'm just going to write them all down to the best of my ability! I hope this helps!

Sun:

Features: He has five golden rays, blue eyes, and his body colors are a soft yellow and a cream white. His teeth are like normal, his canines just a tad sharper than usual. Some faint scratches here and there, showcasing the many missions and sparing sessions he went through in his lifetime.

Usual Attire: A white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the first button un-buttoned. A red cloak that mostly hands off his left shoulder and is held in place with a golden four-pointed star brooch. Brown trousers that cuff towards the top of his knee-high leather boots. His sword scabbard tied to his belt and handing off the right side of his hip.

Training Attire: Sleeveless and tight black shirt with leather pants. Same type of boots and scabbard position as "Usual Attire". His belt as pouches (one full of small throwing stars) and a small sheath on the back for a dagger. A braided leather bracelet around his wrist (Gift from child!Y/n).

Formal Attire: *Just going to copy paste from fic* "His rays shone in the sunlight, as well as his crown of smaller golden spikes with ruby gems imbedded into it. His shirt white with golden tassels, his pants red with a golden strip down the sides. A red cloak attached to the Emperor’s brooch on his shoulder. On his chest were many military medals, no doubt from his time on the battlefield. But the medal showcasing the emblem of the Celestial Guard stand out among them."

Moon:

Features: Same height as Sun (Minus Sun's rays). He has blood-red eyes and his body colors are silverish gray and dark blue. His teeth are sharp and so are his talons. Around his hands are faint scars from using spells and his time as a thief.

Usual Attire: Black dress shirt (Sleeves rolled up ONLY when he's in his office and buried in work) with black trousers that go over his boots. Hanging from his black leather belt is a silver tassel with star charms and small glass beads (A gift from child!y/n). He wears his usual leather gloves that hide his scars (He only ever takes them off when he is done for the day and only with his family). And of course, he also has a night cape made from a blue fabric with yellow stars. On the end of the cap is the usual white star.

Teaching Attire: A white robe with gray spiral designs around the hem and sleeve cuffs. Same shirt, pants, and boots as "Usual Attire". He has white cloth gloves with a silver mana sigil sewed in on the back of them. He still has his nightcap, but he uses a broch to keep the end in place (Much like a bun)

Formal Attire: *Copy pasted from fic with some adjustments*A black oriental vest, silver threads making elegant designs of stars and waves around his collar. A dark blue waistcoat covers most of his vest, yet it dipped so the embroidery could be seen by all. His black leather gloves concealing his sharper talons, though if you looked closer you could see the small points. A dark blue wizard hat with a glowing white star on the end finishes the look.

Eclipse:

Features: A while head taller than his husbands. More built body wise. Four arms with sharp talons. Eyes that are fully black with golden irises. He has about ten rays, Five large golden ones with five smaller black rays in the front. He has scars along his back, down his arms, and large ones across his chest.

Usual Attire: A maroon dress shirt, a black vest, and (slightly darken) grey pants with black embroidery of suns and crescent moons on the end of the pant legs. Black dress shoes. Hidden under his shirt is a necklace with a small shiny pebble incased in a cage of silver (A gift from child!y/n).

Work Attire: Gold-rimmed circular reading glasses that hang around his neck from a silver chain. He wears the same shirt as Usual attire but with no vest, and the same with his shoes. His plants are black with a golden stripe down the sides. When he goes outside his office he puts on a long black frock coat.

Fromal Attire: A black shirt underneath a shiny and ornate red vest. Same pants as Work Attire and same shoes as Usual Attire. A large red cloak attached around his chest and on his shoulder with ruby encrusted brooch baring the design of a wolf head. In one of his rays is a hanging ruby earring.

Y/n:

Features: Femine physique, long hair, and ears that--

"-were pointed and pitch black with small specks of grey. The nerves in that part of your ear were destroyed so you could not feel anything there. In fact, your hearing wasn’t even normal anymore, it was deafened somewhat. Not enough to affect your day-to-day life, but enough to notice the difference that it drove you up the walls sometimes. The texture of the black-gray speckled tips was rough like gravel. It fell apart like gravel as well, your left ear chipped from when you wouldn’t stop tugging on them all those years ago. Sometimes you still do when your especially angry."

I can't go into more detail about Y/n's features because it is YOU who is in her place.

Clothing is really whatever the Dads buy Y/n. But what she does prefer is a tunic, trousers, and boots. Really anything that is easy to move in.

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

💎 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Spellforge Scabbard
Wondrous item, rare (requires attunement) ___ This teal leather scabbard is decorated with mithral emblems. While wearing it, you can use a bonus action to drag a weapon across the scabbard. For the next minute, the weapon glows with a faint blue aura, and you can use a bonus action to magically return that weapon to the scabbard, stowing it there. If the weapon was nonmagical, it also becomes magic and has a +1 bonus to attack and damage rolls for the duration. The effect ends early if you use this property again. The scabbard can magically hold any one weapon at a time, shunting the weapon into an extradimensional space while leaving its handle or similar end exposed and within your reach. Regardless of the weapon it's holding, the scabbard always weighs 2 pounds. Any sheathed weapon falls to the ground at your feet if your attunement to the scabbard ends or if you sheath a second weapon in it. The scabbard has 3 charges and regains 1d3 expended charges daily at dawn. When you use the scabbard to grant a weapon a +1 bonus to its attack and damage rolls, you can choose to expend 1 of its charges to increase that weapon's bonus to +2 for the duration instead. Alternatively, you can use an action to expend 1 of the scabbard's charges to draw any type of melee weapon out of the scabbard. The drawn weapon is spectral, remains for 1 minute, and has a +1 bonus to its attack and damage rolls. Any attack that hits with it deals force damage, instead of its normal damage type. You can use a bonus action to return the spectral weapon to the scabbard, and if the weapon would normally have the heavy property, it doesn't. ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[rj-drive-in]

Ye Olde American Pulp Department:

Independence Day draws near! Let's celebrate with a tale of America's first masked hero.

THE DEADLY PLAN OF DOCTOR POX! © by Rick Hutchins

“Call me Doctor Pox, my dear,” said the man in the scarlet cloak and theatrical tragedy mask, as he finished binding her wrists behind her back. Beneath the cloak, his proper British attire was spattered with mud from hard-riding the buckboard through the night.

“How dare you?!” she cried for the millionth time. “My father is Colonel….”

“I know your father!” screamed Doctor Pox, silencing her. He quickly regained his composure. “My dear Sybil.”

Turning on his heel, the madman marched off to a dark corner of the barn, out of the small circle of light cast by the single kerosene lamp.

Sybil struggled against the leather straps that bound her to the wooden beam, but to no avail. Her light blue Polonaise gown had been torn to shreds in the struggle and her low-cut bodice had been ripped, exposing an unseemly amount of decolletage. Strands of brown hair fell in her face, her bonnet having been lost in the kidnapping.

Doctor Pox reappeared from the shadows, dragging something heavy through the dirt and straw. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “I met the esteemed Colonel Willing during the Siege of Boston. He was so proud of his cannon upon Dorchester Heights. So proud of his ruffian irregulars who guarded the roads.”

He was dragging a large wooden coach trunk with iron braces; huffing and puffing, he positioned it three feet in front of Sybil. Leaning in close to her, his theatrical tragedy mask, which seemed wrought of copper, hovering near her face, he said, “It is my tender sentiment for your father which has brought you here.”

With a flourish of his scarlet cloak, the doctor turned and flung open the top of the trunk.

When Sybil saw what was inside, she screamed.

And with that, the barn doors burst open and in strode a tall and stately figure.

“Goodman America!” gasped Sybil.

His face entirely masked by white cloth, the famed mystery man was dressed in a waistcoat and tricorn hat of brightest blue; his vest bore thirteen red and white stripes. His breeches were midnight black, as were his rugged highwayman boots. The knob of his walking stick and the rattlesnake insignia on his hat were rumored to be of pure silver, smithed by Paul Revere himself.

“Surrender, Doctor Pox!” he commanded.

“Never!” replied the madman, drawing a flintlock pistol from beneath his scarlet cloak.

But Goodman America was upon him in an instant and knocked the weapon from his hand before he could fire. The two masked men faced off, circling each other warily, preparing for hand-to-hand combat.

Grimacing with disgust, Sybil reached out with her foot– she had lost her shoes in the scuffle as well– and knocked the coach trunk shut with her stockinged toe.

The noise distracted Doctor Pox for but a moment, but it was enough for Goodman America to throw a punch. The mighty blow knocked the theatrical tragedy mask from the madman’s face.

Both Sybil and Goodman America recoiled in horror, for that face was so hideously scarred and twisted that it was barely human.

“Look then!” shrieked the doctor. “Look upon the face of Doctor Silas Conduct! See what the smallpox epidemic of the Siege of Boston did to me! If Colonel Josiah Willing had let us pass that night, I would not be thus disfigured– and my beloved wife would not be DEAD!”

He pointed savagely at the coach trunk.

“But when the bits and pieces of the rotting human remains in that trunk, raging with smallpox, are added to the food and water of the Continental Army, then so too will the American rabble die! And the daughter of my most hated enemy will be the first to….”

The silver knob of Goodman America’s walking stick struck the doctor’s temple sharply, and he fell unconscious to the ground.

“Don’t tread on us,” said Goodman America.

Drawing an officer’s saber from a scabbard hidden beneath his blue waistcoat, he quickly went to work cutting the leather straps that bound Sybil Willing.

“Hurry!” she cried. “We must get away from that horrid trunk!”

As Sybil ran ahead through the open barn doors in her stockinged feet, the masked Patriot grabbed Doctor Pox by the cloak and dragged him out into the night.

“Wait here,” he told Sybil, as he dropped the doctor’s body in the dirt and ran back into the barn.

Taking the kerosene lamp from its hook by the door, Goodman America smashed it upon the coach trunk. Within seconds, flames had engulfed the trunk and begun to spread to the straw and wooden beams.

Returning to the barnyard, as the flames rose into the night sky behind him, the Revolutionary Hero looked around.

“Where has Doctor Pox gone?” he asked.

“He ran off across the fields,” answered Sybil. “But no matter! When that madman kidnapped me, my gentleman friend, Mister Nathan Hand, was knocked to the street and hurt. He is a man of learning, not combat, and I fear for him!”

“Then rest your fears,” said Goodman America. “I have already seen to Mister Hand and he is even now being tended to by the Sons of Liberty in their meeting place.”

“Thank God!” cried Sybil.

And beneath his white mask, Nathan Hand smiled.

[darklordazalin]

Trinkets Chart for Darkon

I enjoy making trinket charts for DnD. I made this d100 one for my DnD game that's set entirely in Darkon, which I've called The Iron Crown. There's a lot of easter eggs in here, but thought this could be a fun thing to share on a Friday morning while I ignore my actual job.

01-02

A star chart contained within the face of an ornate compass. A question mark is placed where the moon should be.

03-04

A frail bit of parchment containing a half-created new and highly complex summoning spell.

05-06

A flute carved from the charred remains of a human tibia.

07-08

A cane topped with a silver owl that is cold to the touch.

09-10

A silver charm bracelet that contains the following charms: an ornate eye surrounded by flames, a crown set with a single amber gemstone, a skull with small garnets in its eye sockets, and a closed book.

11-12

A vial of cloudy red blood labeled “LvZ”.

13-14

A wooden box engraved with the letter “S” containing a shimmering black, outlandish traveling cloak; brimmed hat, great cloak, and silvery skull-like mask.

15-16

An ebony brooch in the shape of a dragon that does not reflect light.

17-18

A hand mirror that sometimes reflects the translucent image of a young man instead of your own image.

19-20

A mummified hand holding a black candle that cannot be lit.

21-22

A cloak that leaves tendrils of mists in your wake.

23-24

A ring in the shape of a human skull. The skull opens to reveal a coil of coppery reddish hair.

25-26

A set of dice that always roll snake eyes.

27-28

A leather hand cuff engraved with the symbols associated with each school of magic. When someone wearing it casts a spell, the associated symbol glows.  

29-30

A ticket for free admission to The Carnival

31-32

A blanket in which silently screaming faces appear under the light of the moon.

33-34

A belt that changes color and size to match any outfit.

35-36

A finger puppet of a piebald raven.

37-38

A scabbard that always keeps the blade within sharp and clean.

39-40

A plush of a skeleton wearing a crown with the label “Is No Fun, is No Blinsky!” on it.

41-42

An hour glass containing black sand that quickens the closer one is to their own death.

43-44

A green gemstone containing the spirit of an unknown entity.

45-46

Incomplete sheet music for the song ‘The King of the Dead’ written by Andres Duvall

47-48

A tarnished wedding band with the words “Life Eternal” carved on the inner band.

49-50

Long, thin, curved blade with a handle carved from a stag’s antler that inspires its owner to take up the craft of wood carving.

51-52

A silver pendant of a raven that you are loathed to part with.

53-54

An invitation to Neverwere Manor signed by Baron Eversong.

55-56

A porcelain doll with eyes that seem to follow you wherever you turn.

57-58

A bell carved from bone that makes a sound only spirits of unrest can hear.

59-60

A monocle that, when viewed through, shows every humanoid in the form of a hybrid lycanthrope.

61-62

A burial shroud that never frays.

63-64

A tea kettle that singles a funeral dirge when the water within boils.

65-66

A blood red candle that produces a black flame.

67-68

Eye glasses that, when worn, change one’s eye color to red.

69-70

A rose made of obsidian that cannot break.

71-72

A music box that, when open, plays an eerie melody as a miniature ballerina wearing a blood-stained tutu dances.

73-74

An amulet that absorbs blood.

75-76

The fingerbone of an unconsecrated skeleton.

77-78

Strange smelling perfume from Borca contained in a glass bottle in the shape of an apple.

79-80

A lantern containing floating dim, phosphorescent lights that constantly change from green to blue to purple.

81-82

A book entitled “An Herbalists Guide to the Shadow Rift” that contains alien-like drawings of bizarre plants and plant monsters.

83-84

A pair of cufflinks shaped like skulls that glow purple during a thunderstorm.

85-86

A magnifying glass that shows the user ghostly footprints on any surface they examine.

87-88

A miniature stone dragon egg engulfed in shadowy tendrils.

89-90

A quill pen that contains red ink that refills whenever someone writes with it.

91-92

A cloak clasp in the shape of a moon that changes to match the moon’s current phase.

93-94

A book entitled “Van Richten’s Guide to the Hunter” which contains a ‘how to’ guide for monsters dealing with hunters written in a comedic and often snarky voice.

95-96

A hood that, when worn, gives one a skeletal-like appearance.

97-98

A green leather pouch containing soil from an unmarked grave.

99-100

A pendant in the shape of a golden dragon skull that occasionally speaks into your mind in an unknown tongue.

[f4rgd]

@crosaidi : they're all bundled together in a neat little bunch instead of wrapped, but waiting for aksel on wintersend are three things: a pretty sword scabbard, rich leather and finely tooled and with dragonscale embellishments, and it fits his existing sword perfectly ; a little wooden carving of a griffon, inexpert and stained a deep blue ; and a plate of not one, not two, but three strawberry muffins.

His attention probably shouldn't be on the three cupcakes but it is all whilst he's admiring the markings on the scabbard, thumb tracing over the detailed embellishments. It's always difficult not to tease Paerin a little because it's just what they do. But he loves his gifts and he's already reaching for his sword so he can slot it into the treasured scabbard. " Which took you longer, the griffon or the muffins? " He leans over to press a kiss to the warden's cheek and at the same time he picks up the griffon to turn it over in his grip. " I might keep this in my pocket for good luck. I love it, thank you. " He has gifts of his own to give to him but reaches for one of the cupcakes and holds it up to him. " Eat it whilst I get your gifts. "

[ardafanonarch]

The Others: Ringil, Dagmor, Glamdring, Orcrist, Sting

Swords of the First Age, Part 3 of 3

[This is a continuation of the response to this ask]

Ringil

Meaning: From ringe- “cold”. Quenya. (Eldamo).

Maker: Unknown

Owned/wielded by: Fingolfin

Notable for: wounding Morgoth seven times and hewing his foot.

Fate: Unknown.

But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice. The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin’

Discussion

We don’t know a lot about Ringil besides its epic, climactic moment. Who made it? Was it brought from Valinor or made in Beleriand? Did it somehow survive Fingolfin’s fall? Lots of room for the imagination to roam.

Dagmor

Meaning: Uncertain. Possibly “Slayer of Darkness”, combining dag- “slay” and môr “darkness”. Sindarin. (Eldamo).

Maker: Unknown

Owned/wielded by: Beren

Fate: Unknown

Danger he sought and death pursued, and thus escaped the doom he wooed, and deeds of breathless daring wrought alone, of which the rumour brought new hope to many a broken man. They whispered 'Beren,' and began in secret swords to whet, and soft by shrouded hearths at evening oft songs they would sing of Beren's bow, of Dagmor his sword… Lay of Leithian Recommenced, 503-12

This is the only mention of Beren’s sword’s name.

From the Trolls' Lair

There were lots of clothes, too, hanging on the walls—too small for trolls, I am afraid they belonged to victims—and among them were several swords of various makes, shapes, and sizes. Two caught their eyes particularly, because of their beautiful scabbards and jewelled hilts. Gandalf and Thorin each took one of these; and Bilbo took a knife in a leather sheath. It would have made only a tiny pocket-knife for a troll, but it was as good as a short sword for the hobbit. The Hobbit, Chapter 2: Roast Mutton Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls' lair, and he said: ‘These are not troll make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made in Gondolin for the Goblin wars. They must have come from a dragon's hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes name Orcrist, the Goblin cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foehammer that the king of Gondolin once wore. The Hobbit, Chapter 3: A Short Rest

Glamdring

Meaning: Foehammer. Sindarin. Called Beater by the goblins.

Maker: Elves of Gondolin

Notable for: slaying the Great Goblin.

Owned/wielded by: Turgon, Gandalf

Fate: Unknown

Discussion

Glamdring is a significant First Age weapon for having been the sword of Turgon, though no mention of it is made in the “Silmarillion” legends, as with the other “Troll’s lair” blades. (Tolkien never returned to edit or rewrite the narrative version of the story of the fall of Gondolin — other than the unfinished ‘Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin’, which ends with Tuor’s arrival to the Hidden City — after the publication of The Hobbit; he may have intended to incorporate Glamdring and Orcrist into the legends and never got around to it.)

As the only weapon known to have been in Gandalf’s possession in his last standoff with Dúrin’s Bane, Glamdring may have dealt the death blow to the Balrog. It is not known whether Gandalf took Glamdring to the Undying Lands when he departed or left it in Middle-earth.

Orcrist

Meaning: Goblin Cleaver. Sindarin. Called Biter by the goblins.

Maker: Elves of Gondolin

Owned by: Unknown; Thorin Oakenshield (taken from him in Mirkwood)

Fate: Placed by Thranduil on Thorin’s tomb.

It had killed hundreds of goblins in its time, when the fair elves of Gondolin hunted them in the hills or did battle before their walls. They had called it Orcrist, Goblin-cleaver, but thegoblins called it simply Biter. They hated it and hated worse any one that carried it. The Hobbit, Chapter 4: Over Hill and Under Hill Upon his tomb the Elvenking then laid Orcrist, the elvish sword that had been taken from Thorin in captivity. It is said in songs that it gleamed ever in the dark if foes approached, and the fortress of the dwarves could not be taken by surprise. The Hobbit, Chapter 18: The Return Journey

Discussion

Though Elrond says Orcrist was a “famous blade” he does not say to whom it belonged. As Gondolin had no shortage of great warriors and other nobles, there is ample opportunity for the imagination to run wild.

Sting (dagger)

Meaning: Any previous name unknown; named by Bilbo after he killed a spider of Mirkwood.

Maker: Presumably also Elves of Gondolin.

Owned by: Unknown; Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee

Notable for: slaying Shelob.

Fate: Unknown.

Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwarves or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins. He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath. “I will give you a name,” he said to it, “and I shall call you Sting.” The Hobbit, Chapter 8: Flies and Spider

Discussion

Sting, as a dagger, may not have been an especially significant weapon in the First Age, though of course one can always imagine tales for it involving well-known canonical characters! As with Glamdring, we do not know whether Sam took it with him when he sailed or not.

Finally: Elrond surmises that the “Troll’s lair” weapons survived through multiple plunderings over the Ages — but it’s not a sure thing. There’s room to invent other histories for these blades.

Tangent: Glowing Blue

The ability to glow blue in the presence of Orcs seems to have been a feature unique to these three Gondolin-forged blades. Whether or not other Elven weapons had this ability is unknown, though it’s not implausible that they would possess this or other “magical” properties. For those who enjoy coming up with explanations, the “science” behind the blue glow is also left to the imagination.

Research

Note that these websites contain some inaccuracies and incomplete citations and were used to help with finding quotations.

The Tolkien Forum: Weapons

Wikipedia: List of weapons and armour in Middle-earth

Elven Swords by Iain Norman (This one is an interesting and well-researched essay comparing the sword designs in the Jackson films to Tolkien’s canon; accurate info to the best of my knowledge)

Tolkien Gateway

Part 1 | Part 2

[jackoshadows]

Thinking of the parallels between Jaime/Brienne and Jon/Arya and the contrasts between Jaime/Cersei and Jon/Arya.

We start with the swords. I spy similarities in the writing where Jon gifts Arya a sword and Jaime does the same for Brienne.

First, it’s a gift.

“I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”  Her face lit up. “A present?” 

“You could call it that. Close the door.” - Jon, AGoT

“I have a gift for you.” He reached down under the Lord Commander’s chair and brought it out, wrapped in folds of crimson velvet. - Jaime, ASoS

Then there’s the unveiling.

By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her. Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath. The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. - Jon, AGoT

Brienne approached as if the bundle was like to bite her, reached out a huge freckled hand, and flipped back a fold of cloth. Rubies glimmered in the light. She picked the treasure up gingerly, curled her fingers around the leather grip, and slowly slid the sword free of its scabbard. Blood and black the ripples shone. A finger of reflected light ran red along the edge. “Is this Valyrian steel? I have never seen such colors.” - Jaime, ASoS

And then there’s the naming, where both Jon and Jaime name the sword, for Arya’s ‘love’ of sewing and Brienne finding Catelyn’s girls for the oaths promised.

“I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.” “Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.” “Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.” Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: “Needle!” - Jon, AGoT

Before she could think to refuse, he went on. “A sword so fine must bear a name. It would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper. ” - Jaime, ASoS

This then leads to the first instance of Jon/Arya (and Jaime/Brienne) being written as foils to Jaime/Cersei with Cersei’s anger at the difference between how she and Jaime were treated growing up as children.

"Yet even  so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. 'What  do I get?' I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never  understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight  with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and  please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some  stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten  whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime's  lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood."  - Cersei, AFfC 

And while Arya’s parents did treat her differently to her brothers, she did end up getting a sword because Jon Snow gifted her with one. Jon Snow who recognizes what it is that Arya is actually interested in, what it is that Arya wants, who understands the unfairness of the patriarchy where Arya is concerned and proceeds to try and fix in some small manner. 

And yet for as much as Jaime claims to love Cersei, giving up Casterly Rock and becoming a Kingsguard to be with her, he does not seem to either understand this side of her or acknowledge it any way. Given the constant reminders that Jaime and Cersei are very close to each other from birth, does Jaime even know of Cersei’s resentment and try to address it? Have conversations with her about it? Given what we know of pre - one hand Jaime and his initial interactions with Brienne, I doubt it. In fact Jaime is surprised at Brienne’s prowess and strength given that she’s a woman.

She is stronger than I am.The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him, to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so … by rights, she should be the one wearing down. - Jaime, ASoS

And while Cersei resented that Jaime got Casterly Rock and the swords, there is understanding and empathy on both sides where Jon Snow and Arya Stark are concerned.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him. He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.” “Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair. - Arya, AGoT

Jaime only gets to this place of seeing Brienne as an equal in ASoS, after interacting with her, starting to respect her skill and accepting her as a fellow warrior and trusting in her to keep his oaths to Catelyn.

He swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me. We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with us. - Jaime, ASoS

With Jaime’s gradual change in feelings towards Cersei and Brienne, we get that final contrast between Jaime/Cersei and Jon/Arya - possibly also where Jaime/Cersei ends once and for all and where romantic Jon/Arya may start with a resurrected Jon reuniting with an older Arya. Yes, this is about the letters.

“Does my lord wish to answer?”

I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.” - Jaime, AFfC

“What do you mean to do, crow?”

 I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

“I think we had best change the plan,” Jon Snow said. - Jon, ADwD

Keep in mind that by laws and oaths sworn, as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, Jaime can and most probably should defend the queen in a trial by combat and still Jaime refuses to help. Meanwhile, Jon Snow is prohibited by laws and sworn oaths to step in and help Arya and yet he decides to endanger the neutrality of the NW by going to war with Ramsay Bolton.

Jaime is as done with Cersei as Cersei was done with Jaime when he returned without a hand. Meanwhile Jon Snow is just getting started, breaking his sacrosanct NW oaths and rallying an army of Wildlings to go attack the Warden of the North for Arya.

And following through on here, I think there will be a very different reaction from Arya to a scarred Jon Snow - and yes, depending on how Jon is resurrected he may have a lot of scars or never healing injuries like Ladystoneheart and Beric Dondarrion - compared to Cersei’s revulsion at Jaime’s stump. Their bond and love for each other goes deeper than the lust and infatuation based on beauty and looks between Jaime and Cersei.

So yes, I think Braime makes for some nice parallels with Jonrya, while Jaime/Cersei work as foils to Jon/Arya.