#the bronze looking very similar to my new copper eyes

[cicadagaze]

aghhhhh I have to reformat all my eyes now :') it's fine. at least this format will be easier in the long run.

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Brassy Long-Joint Darkling Beetle - Arthromacra aenea

We now go from a wide, Bronzed Beetle to a more slender one of Brass. This specie has no common name, so for today’s post its a combination of its subfamily name and the specie name (aenea meaning brassy). The brassy-ness in question refers to the metallic luster of this insect’s shell. This post was scheduled to be uploaded many years ago, but was pulled back at the last minute due to uncertainty on the identification. While unsure on the exact specie for a while, these images have been carefully re-examined. By looking at the shape of this Beetle and comparing this individual to other confirmed sightings on iNaturalist and Bugguide, I can comfortably say that I’m now happy declaring the identification correct...well as much as can be gleaned from pictures. My biggest doubts came from the thorax width and the antennae which appeared to be the wrong type. However, when counting the antennae segments, it became clear that it had been attacked or damaged in some way. The shell has also been impacted and one of its feet is missing, so a confrontation with a predator was likely! Looking at untouched specimens, they have an elongated terminal antennae segment. 

Please do not overlook this Beetle’s features if you find a similar Beetle in the wild or in your garden (I kept veering towards Lizard Beetles, Tribe Languriini). If you can, try and get a reasonable picture of the head and eyes. This individual represents a new side of Darkling Beetles (it is a thinner specimen) for the blog, specifically from the Subfamily Lagriinae, better known as the Long-Jointed Beetles (and Arthromacra means “large-jointed”). Like their relatives, they can be primarily found in sources of decaying vegetation and stumps. Even then, water is very important for an insect’s body and to prevent desiccation. A strong, predator-proof, brassy shell needs nutrition to remain intact and healthy. Although somewhat metallic, one would be hard pressed to classify this shell as brassy (the light bouncing of this individual makes it seem like a darkened silver). This isn’t unexpected for this Darkling Beetle whose shell can have a variable coloration between individual. Look for such magnificent colors as dark-orange, brown, grey and even dark green! Having said that, if you find a similar-looking Beetle with a more vibrant green shell, you have likely found one of its relatives: A. pilosella. Red coloration could (I stress, could) mean you’ve found A. robinsoni! Who knew Darkling Beetles could be so metal and so colorful? 

Pictures were taken on June 24, 2017 at the Royal Botanical Gardens with a Samsung Galaxy S4. On the subject of bronze and brass, both are alloys composed of copper. Brass is formed of zinc, whereas bronze is bonded with tin.

[winterapocalypse]

Winter Apocalypse chapter 7

The Magic Runes

"We have, however, spotted a foal…"

"Could it be…?"

"We believe it might be a new seal…"

The two young boys had to stand very close to the rune drawn on the brick wall to hear the conversation, and even then it was disconnected and barely audible.

"Dude, your runes suck," said the tallest boy, Aegon. He was very tall and thin, with very pale skin and hair of a cold, pure bright platinum colour, reaching down to his skinny shoulders on which it lay in soft silvery ringlets. They were dyed at the tips by Tyrosh's dye, bright blue and almost indigo, similar to the colour of his deep, dark violet eyes, large and surrounded by long, silver eyelashes like his hair. On his pale, soft face with gentle, almost feminine features was a very light make-up-indigo eyeshadow on his large eyes and a vague blush on his cheeks too pale for Westerosi. He wore what at first glance might have looked like a classic Winter Westeros uniform- but in reality it was deeply modified. The coat he wore was black and classic, with the blue and copper trim and lining of the house to which he belonged - Ravenclaw. He wore it on his shoulders, but just resting it against his body, almost like a cape - and underneath the cape, a colourful T-shirt of a music band that probably only he knew. Not that the others cared about his musical extravaganzas- Aegon had lived in too many places and cities foreign and not to remember them all, and his knowledge of indie shit was immense. He wore tight, dark jeans with fake cuts and rips-he would never dare ruin the designer jeans his father used to get him-and his usual, beloved midnight-blue, copper-striped converse shoes. Aegon was glaring at the red-haired one, the rune-maker.

"It's not my fault, Aegon! I'm only in my third year, and…. there's some kind of spell that avoids listening in on the conversation. You've tried it too, other spells don't work. Let's keep the runes."

Aegon snorted again. It was true, unfortunately. He could do nothing but agree with Dennis.

He and Dennis had known each other for several years since Aegon had joined the Westerosi Quidditch team, coached by the boy's older brother and whose main athlet and fighter was Dennis's older, middle sister. Dennis could be defined as an eccentric boy - over his naturally auburn hair he always wore a very strong fiery red dye, sometimes blood red, so heavy and copious that it ran down his neck and ears, pierced by various earrings and piercings, some with chains and others ring, almost all in bronze, the metal sacred to his father's family, the Royces of the Valley. He always had a thick layer of black mascara around his very blue eyes, a clear legacy of his mother, a rich noblewoman of Lys, and heavy fiery red lipstick the same color as his hair. His paleness was helped by the several layers of milky white foundation he applied clumsily to his face every day. Sometimes it stopped just under his chin, leaving his neck its usual color, and sometimes, like today, it went down to his collarbones, staining white the colorful neon green and yellow shirt he wore under his Winter Hogwarts robes , so full of pins and studs and safety pins and sketches that it's barely recognizable as such. He had his Ravenclaw tie tied around his neck, and there were pins hanging from it too - some even in the shape of runes. The plaid trousers were too baggy and short for his long, thin legs, and he had to hold them up with a pair of old suspenders that he had found somewhere. The trousers could barely fit into the old and tattered boots, blood red and with two different colored laces. Runes were drawn on them too, but Aegon did not grasp their meaning. Maybe they were to help him stand better, given how clumsy and fragile Dennis was.

Both boys, a few hours earlier had witnessed the Night's Watch marching through the main gate of Winter Hogwarts together, and all the professors and even the headmaster participated in their arrival. The Night's Watch were losers, everyone knew it. Scum of the wizarding world. Every now and then these inmates from that much inferior school came to resupply at Winter Hogwarts, but no one ever cared. This time, however, it was treated as something special…

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[gwynrielendgame]

Gwyncien part 3

Idk if y’all will like this one as much. It’s kind of a filler but it took forever to write so I’m posting it anyways. I’ll tag people who have asked below.

Gwyn thought she might puke and it had nothing to do with Lucien's winnowing abilities. She never thought she would feel so nauseas especially after the blood rite. She supposes that the imminent fear of death had her more distracted from her typical anxieties. Now that she could focus on the fact that she was actually leaving Velaris, she felt sick. She grabbed onto Lucien harder and closed her eyes tightly. What felt like hours later, although it was truly only a minute or two, Lucien spoke.

"Welcome to the band of exiles." She opened her eyes to a surprisingly large castle. She was not sure what she expected, perhaps an abandoned cabin, but the building was spectacular and beautiful.

"Jurian and Vassa are excited to meet you." Lucien added as they continued to stand out front. It appeared that he would allow her to stand here for as long as she needed. She knew that if she demanded he take her right back he would. His words finally caught up with her brain that seemed to be running a mile a minute. Why would his closest friends be excited to meet her she thought. It made her anxious for the first time. Perhaps she mistook his friendly countenance for something less than it actually was. She would address it later. She began walking towards the door, mumbling under her breath.

"Let's get this over with."

"That's the spirit!" Lucien inserted much more enthusiasm than necessary into his tone. He grabbed her arm and laced it through his which had her feeling very grateful. Her knees were shaking as she walked and she knew he could tell. Gwyn felt the need to remind herself that he had a mate. She wondered if he would be desperate enough to make a move on her. A large, beautifully decorated foyer greeted them. Two very beautiful people stood in the middle of the white marble floor. Gwyn tightened her hold on Lucien when she saw the new male, stopping them mid-walk. She started her mind-stilling technique as the anxiety clawed at her chest and throat. She would eventually have to face men if she ever wanted to get her revenge. She could not allow a few measly physical reactions hold her back. She took one last deep breathe and then continued walking towards the couple. She spent less time analyzing the female, but from what she saw Gwyn knew she was beautiful. She also had red hair, however, Gwyn's hair was more of a copper/bronze red while Vassa had a deep maroon red. Gwyn kept her eye on Jurian though.

"You are making her nervous, standing there like two parents ready to scold their children." Lucien reprimanded his friends with a roll of his eyes. The female waved his comment off, completely ignoring him. Gwyn did not miss the look they shared, however.

"I am Vassa and this is Jurian." She gestured to the male next to her. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you." It unnerved Gwyn that the few interactions that she had with Lucien warranted Vassa knowing much about her. She did not think much on it as she continued to watch the beautiful male. He had hair cropped short to his head and a deep skin tone. His looks were not what had her distracted though. It was the weapons. Gwyn found it unnecessary for him to require weapons while meeting with her. Instead of exchanging pleasantries like socially integrated Fae would, she began her questioning.

"Why so many daggers?" She gave him a scathing look while cocking her head to the side. He would not manipulate her into believing anything but the truth and she wanted that to be conveyed in her facial expression. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline as if he were surprised.

"I could ask you the same question." He threw back at her with a smirk. It only infuriated her more. He could not tell she had daggers on her. She was wearing a cloak over her priestess robes with silver majesty strapped to her thigh. There was no possible way he could see the outline through her clothes. She narrowed her eyes and waited for him to respond. The staring contest was only broken when Lucien cleared his throat and Vassa nudged him.

"Fine." Jurian conceded with a smile. "Vassa is woefully bad at handling anything sharp, so I have taken on the role of her protecter while soon-to-be high lord is out and about." Both Vassa and Lucien seemed annoyed by his explanation. The anxiety began to loosen in her chest though. He was not completely trusted, but in this moment he would not attack.

"Gwyn." Is all she managed for an introduction. It seemed good enough for Lucien because he began leading her off to the side of the room towards a grand staircase.

"I will be showing Gwyneth her room and then we can talk." He threw over his shoulder. She held onto his arm all the way up the long staircase and through an even longer hallway. She laughed internally at the size of the mansion considering only three people resided here. A thought occurred to her when they finally came to a stop at a door.

"How many people live here?" She finally let go of Lucien and took a step back.

"Just us three. And now you. Occasionally we have a guest or two, but I will give you ample warning before that time. This will be your bedroom here. Mine is right across the hall if you need anything. There is a lock on the inside, but if you would like I can show you how to set up some furniture to keep the door from opening at all." Lucien gave her a small smile. It made her soften towards him even more.

"Thank you. I appreciate that. I appreciate all that you have done for me. Truly. I cannot say thank you enough." She gave him a short hug to convey her gratefulness. He returned it, hesitantly. His touch was feather light. As though he did not want to touch her and make her uncomfortable. She stepped back towards the door once more and began to walk inside.

"I will come get you before dinner. You have a full wardrobe to pick from in there if you would like to change. If there is anything you require, just ask." Gwyn nodded and then he was gone.

The first thing Gwyn noticed was that the satchel she packed earlier before leaving was sitting on the bed. She had been so nervous about everything else that she had not even realized it was missing. Gwyn continued to survey the room. It was beautiful. The decorations reminded her of the night court. Lucien really did pay attention to the smallest details. Gwyn truly believed Elain was an idiot for not giving Lucien a chance. The bedding was all black and the drapes twinkled with specks of a shiny material. It almost made them look like stars. The bed was unnecessarily large and so was the desk that was off to the side of the room. It had been such a mentally exhausting day that Gwyn decided a nap was needed. She locked her door and stripped off her cloak. She knew the lock would do nothing against winnowing, but as far as she knew only Lucien could do that. She placed her desk chair under the doorknob anyways. She fell onto the bed without even removing her priestess robes. She did remove her dagger and place it under her pillow for protection. A small smile graced her face as she thought of a certain spymaster who also slept with a dagger under his pillow.

Soft footsteps woke Gwyn from her sleep. She had no idea how long she had slept, but knew that dinner must be approaching if it had not already passed. A light knock on the door made her jump.

"Gwyn? Dinner is almost ready if you would like to join us downstairs." Lucien yelled through the door. Gwyn's racing heart began to slow as she realized where she was and who was speaking to her.

"One moment." She decided this dinner was not worth changing her clothes so she grabbed her dagger, putting it back in its sheath, and flattened her hair down with her hands. She did not want to keep Lucien waiting after all. The second she stepped out of the room, a sly smile crossed the male's face.

"What?" Gwyn demanded a tad self-consciously. She flattened her hair once more.

"Enjoyed a nap I see?" He was teasing, but that did nothing to stop her from shoving him.

"Oh shut up and show me the dining room." A real smile graced his face as he put his arm out for her to grab. She was half tempted to shove his arm away for his teasing. Instead, she rolled her eyes and held onto his arm anyways.

"Your wish is my command."

The castle was truly beautiful. Gwyn knew she could spend hours looking at the art pieces- some of them looked familiar. She would guess those were done by Feyre. The marble flooring and intricate ceilings were only part of the beauty. It has clearly been decorated. Perhaps Vassa and Lucien bonded over similar tastes in rugs. The thought made Gwyn giggle internally. The castle was so large that it took them about five minutes before they reached the dining hall. Gwyn took her place next to Lucien across from Jurian and Vassa who were already pleasantly discussing Vassa’s doomed fate. They quickly stopped talking once she sat down and turned the conversation to her.

"So I have been dying to know," Jurian begins "is Rhysand as much of a prick as he pretends to be?" Lucien sent him a glare which only had Jurian shrugging with an innocent expression upon his face. Gwyn sighed.

"Depends on who you are. He is kind to me, but only out of pity from what he witnessed at Sangravah. I have seen him be cruel to those he purposefully does not want to understand. I am not here as your spy though. That is as much from me as you will get about Rhysand." Gwyn truly felt a level of gratefulness to the high lord, however, he often squandered any other positive feelings she had of him by constantly looking at her as if he was seeing that day in Sangravah all over again. It did nothing to help her forget. Jurian gave a contemplative look before turning his attention to his plate. Vassa decided to try her hand at conversation.

"How are the Archeron sisters? I know the death of their father was hard on all of them." Vassa took a sip of wine. Gwyn did not want to discuss this either though. Speaking of Nesta made her miss her sisters.

"They are as well as could be expected." It was generic and had the fiery red head pursing her lips in displeasure. Gwyn did not quite care.

“Gwyn is a beautiful singer.” Lucien finally changed the subject to something that she did not mind engaging in. “We will need you to sing for us sometime.” Gwyn nodded in agreement. The conversation continued on with Lucien boasting about Gwyn, talking about her training as a Valkyrie and winning the blood rite. She started feeling uncomfortable with all the compliments he was sending her way. It reminded her of a conversation she needed to have with him. Right now was as good of a time as any she supposed.

"It was extremely generous of you to offer your help, but I feel I should inform you that I am not interested in anything other than your friendship." Gwyn interrupted Lucien mid-speech to clarify. He looked startled by her statement. Jurian choked on his wine and Vassa cackled like there would be no tomorrow. It made Gwyn feel as though she was on the outside of some joke they all knew.

"Excuse me?" Lucien, for once, looked genuinely surprised. It was as if he could not quite believe she would say that and needed her to repeat it just in case he heard her wrong. Maybe Gwyn misinterpreted some of his advances.

"I know our coupling seems inevitable," Gwyn explained further a bit shyly, not quite sure of herself anymore. "But I am not interested in any one that is not Azriel." Vassa's cackles slowed down to more of a chuckle and Jurian kept sending amused looks to Lucien.

"Gwyn, I am your grandfather." Lucien approached the topic slowly. "I assumed your mother talked about me, but, and I really hope this is the case, you did not know this?" His tone lifted up at the end in questioning.

Oh, Gwyn thought. She was not easily surprised, but this topped the cake. She tried to think back to anytime her mother mentioned her grandparents, but the instances were few and far between. Gwyn realized she did not even know their names. Suddenly, every compliment and favor from Lucien no longer appeared odd. He was complimenting and bragging about his only living granddaughter. This took much longer to process than Gwyn would like to admit. Unexpectedly, she felt an unwarranted amount of anger towards Lucien.

"And you waited until this very moment to tell me? What the hell Lucien? Or should I say grandpa?" Her tone was more hostile than it had been with anyone else. The sarcastic comment at the end had the red-haired male cringing. Jurian and Vassa started laughing once more.

"I know this is not great timing to interrupt, but I, for one, will be referring to you as grandpa from here on out." Jurian inserted. Vassa gave an amused smirk, but said nothing. It earned him a glare from Gwyn and Lucien though.

"I apologize, Gwyneth, for the delayed reveal. I thought you knew that's why I offered to help you, though. I assumed your mother had spoken of Jesminda and I. She was rather young when we had to surrender her, I suppose." Lucien looked so genuine that Gwyn's anger diminished as fast as it had appeared. Gwyn's family history had always been a mystery to her. She might finally get some answers.

"Jesminda is my grandmother?" Gwyn inquired. Her own mother had never given details. This adventure was beginning to answer many questions she had always had.

"Yes." Lucien said. Gwyn was trying to understand his expression and tone. She spent another minute watching him. Their other table mates had gone quiet as well. It did not take a genius to understand the moment. Jesminda had never been mentioned before to her from anyone and she was not here right now. She was dead that much was clear. Lucien cleared his throat and for a brief second Gwyn could see the emotion he was so desperately trying to hide, guilt.

"Why did you give my mother to Sangravah?" Gwyn realized it probably had something to do with Jesminda's death. She truly wanted more details. Lucien sighed heavily, probably understanding that there were many questions in store for him.

"Beron just ordered for Jesminda to be tortured and executed in front of me. I am certain if he had known of your mother, he would have had the same future in store for her. I had kept the child a secret from everyone except a brother, who helped me hide her after Jesminda's death." It did not escape Gwyn's attention that Lucien neither referred to Beron as his high lord nor as his father. Lucien ran a hand through his hair roughly. Her hair was clearly from him, but it was his one russet eye that had her pausing. An eye that suddenly reminded her so much of Catrin.

"Why did he kill her?" She asked softly. Gwyn realized she would never be able to deny Lucien anything. One look from his russet eye and Gwyn would give in simply because of its similarity to her dead twin.

"Because he's a spiteful old man." Vassa spit out. Clearly, she was just as enraged by the situation. It made Gwyn wonder if Vassa and Lucien had ever been together. Lucien rolled his eyes at the fiery female. He seemed to roll his eyes constantly while he was here.

"Because he could," Lucien added. "Your mother, who was about six at the time, was extremely unsafe even under my brother and I's protection. Beron would put your mate to shame with all the torture tactics he uses. I dropped her off on the doorstep of that church in the middle of the night. I always planned to go back and visit, but I was nervous and I knew she was safe there. I felt it was selfish to visit her since it only put her in more danger." Gwyn felt sad for everyone involved. Sad for Lucien who watched his love be tortured and executed in front of him only for him to have to turn around and surrender his daughter to a church. Sad for Jesminda who died that day. Sad for her mother who must have lived every day wondering where her parents went and why they abandoned her. Sad for Catrin who never got to meet her grandfather.

"I had a sister." Gwyn felt the need to mention. She was unaware of how much Lucien knew, but it suddenly felt important to her that he knew of Catrin.

"I know." He responded with a sad smile. "This family is well versed in tragedy." Gwyn had so many more questions. She had time to ask though. Her questions were making Lucien relive memories that were better left untouched. Perhaps he had endured enough for one night. She looked down at her full plate. She had been so distracted that she had not touched a thing. She began to devour her food as the rest of the table engaged in a debate about seasonings and which was the best.

"Have you and Vassa..." Gwyn trailed off, leaving the innuendo open when Lucien walked her back to her room after dinner.

"She wishes." He chuckled.

"Would you be with Elain if you could?"

"I would not jump into a mating ceremony but I would like the chance to get to know her. She has not given me the opportunity." He answered practically with his arms folded behind his back. Gwyn felt the need to assure him that knowing Elain would not make any of this easier.

"Trust me, it's better this way." She did not want to leave the conversation on such a sore point. As they approached her door, Gwyn jokingly shoved him. "So this would make Elain my step-grandmother?" Lucien was quiet before speaking. It was not the reaction she hoped for.

"Elain does not know. No one knows. And no one can know, even Azriel. At least until Beron is dead. Make no mistakes if Beron were to discover you, he would torture you simply to spite my mother." His lips pursued together in displeasure.

"Azriel is very good with secrets." She felt the need to remind Lucien. He is a Shadowsinger after all.

"Not with his high lord. If Rhysand knew, he would tell Beron if he had too. If Nyx or Feyre's life were on the line, he would do anything to save them. That includes selling you out. This is very important, Gwyneth. You cannot tell anyone- promise me." His stare was so intense that she could not look away. He grabbed her hands in a tight grip to make sure she understood how serious he was. Gwyneth had never purposely kept a secret from Azriel before. Hopefully, Beron would die sooner rather than later.

"I promise."

+++

Two weeks later

"What do you mean she’s gone?" Azriel was shocked to discover that Gwyn had left two weeks ago. He thought she had been avoiding training because of the kiss they shared- not because she was gone. He had been eating dinner with Nesta and Cassian when he finally had the courage to mention the priestess and where she had gone. Now he was mad that he had not asked sooner.

“She left with Lucien on some adventure. I am not really sure. Her note was unclear.” Nesta responded solemnly. The House dropped a piece of chocolate cake in front of her which made a small smile curve at the brash female’s lips. Azriel’s stomach dropped at the mention of Lucien. Gwyn did not know him well enough to go on an adventure with him. Gwyn would not leave her sisters here and she would definitely not choose Lucien to be the first person she left Velaris with. He was certain of that. He also knew Lucien to be a spiteful person. Perhaps he was tired of watching Azriel and Elain parade their relationship around him, making a fool of the one-eyed male. He could have taken Gwyn as retribution.

“He must have kidnapped her. Gwyn would never willingly leave the House of Wind with anyone- let alone Lucien.” Azriel knew this had to be true. Gwyn would never just up and leave. Guilt started gnawing at his chest as he realize he could have prevented her from being taken. If only his shadows would work properly around her, he could have prevented Lucien’s nefarious plans from being completed. His siphons started glowing the longer he though about it. He had to clench his hands around his silverware to keep from winnowing straight to the Band of Exiles and demanding his mate be given back. Nesta gave Azriel an odd look before speaking.

“She left a note that said she was willingly leaving with him and as much as he annoys the shit out of me, I don’t think he would hurt Gwyn.” A frown marred her face now, though. As if she had not considered that her sister could be in trouble. It only annoyed Az further.

“He could have made her write the note.” He reminded in a quiet, harsh voice. Gwyn and Lucien were not friends. She would have no reason to leave with him. Cassian was cautiously glancing between his mate and Azriel. He did not know what to say that would not piss off Az, so he was choosing to let Nesta handle the situation instead.

“She is not in danger.” Nesta declared after peeking at her wrist. There was no possible way for her to know whether Gwyn was safe or not. Even Azriel could not find out given how stubborn his shadows were being. He could always take a trip to the Band of Exiles, but he had to assume Lucien would not be stupid enough to take Gwyn there.

“You do not know that.” His wings flexed in anger. The siphons atop his hands were glowing dangerously bright now. He needed to get his emotions under control.

“Yes I do.” Nesta insisted with a roll of her eyes that annoyed Azriel to no ends. “My bracelet is not glowing. They glow when any of us is in trouble. It’s how I found her in the blood rite. It has not glowed since then either.”

“Hers could have fell off.” Gwyn would not have left after the kiss they shared. It was too important of a moment between them for her to have left immediately after.

“Gwyn and Lucien are friends, Az. You know if you want someone to blame for her leaving, maybe you should look inward.” It was a sharp jab that hurt more than the Shadowsinger would ever admit.

Suddenly though, he could see the hurt on Nesta’s face. It was there for only a second, but he saw it. Nesta was just as hurt by Gwyn’s departure as he was. He finally unclenched his hands from around his silverware- his fight giving out. Nesta was right. Lucien would never kidnap Gwyn especially if he thought it might upset Elain. Azriel chose this time to leave, however. He would not stoop to Nesta’s level and trade jab after jab. He headed to the training arena. It was hours later when slight footsteps could be heard making their way over to him. He was sitting at the edge, his exhaustion forcing him to take a break. Nesta took a seat next to him, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I miss her too, Shadowsinger." He said nothing in return because there was nothing else he could say. "You are worse than I was with the mating bond." Nesta tried again with a joke this time to try and get Azriel talking. She knew he was not normally one to discuss his feelings though. He gave her a withering look at that comment. It was an ongoing joke within the inner circle that Nesta handled the mate situation particularly horrible.

“Shut up.” Was all he responded with and he only said it halfheartedly.

"I am just saying, if you ask me for advice I could save you some time and heartache." They both continued to look out at the Velaris skyline.

"And what precious advice would you bestow upon me?" The comment was dripping in sarcasm, but he decided to humor her.

"Anyone other than your mate will be a disappointment, especially to you. Just accept it and her and everything else will become background noise." She looked up at him for a second before setting her head back down. He was not one to seek out comfort through touch, but sitting here with Nesta made him feel a bit better. Maybe it was because they could both ruminate in their sadness at Gwyn’s departure.

"Ah so wise. I had not considered that." Again the sarcasm was heavy.

"Well if you have thought about it and have not done it then I would consider you an idiot. You do not strike me as an idiot, Az." She was frustrated now- throwing her arms up and crossing them over her chest. He chuckled lightly.

"I think I might be." He admitted. Everything was so confusing with Mor and Elain that he lost focus of what was truly important.

"Gwyn is the most compassionate and understanding person I know. If she can love me, she can love you too. Just be honest with her." Her voice was soft now in a way that it never was. She always seemed to push him even when it seemed the rest of his family refused. It was the thing he liked most about Nesta- she was never scared of him or his feelings.

"Thanks Nes." He settled his head on top of hers and they stayed like that for hours- reminiscing in all things Gwyn.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Golden Prince Naga Boyfriend (Shesmetet) 2

1 [NSFW]  -  3  -  4  -  5 (FINALE)

Divine Worship Part 2

“The prince’s betrothed is said to be coming today, from the Garnet Court,” Kira told you in the early hours, her voice chipper for the dawn still rising, “Princess Iseka is said to have the title of Rising Sun, like her mother.”

“I heard she liked to bathe in her handmaiden’s blood, to keep her skin youthful; a sorceress if you ask me.” Thaile: younger than you and waifish in size added behind you, brushing your hair with little consideration to get the tangles out. 

“You be careful with that tongue of yours, the Emperor could have it.” Kira hissed, a warning for the younger as she quietened for a moment. “I’m just saying.”

“The Prince won’t like to hear you speak so lowly of his wife-to-be, nor will they allow us to whisper secrets and gossip of her when she arrives at court for the fortnight. Once their vows are said, there will be no hiding from her.” Kira sighed, continuing to bead the headdress for the crown princess; glowing like gilded armour.

If only they knew what the Prince had said to me. A small smile appeared on your face: reminiscing over the Jade Prince’s words. His heat cycle had lasted for the week since you had been bedded to him; surprising to you that he had kept you coming to his chambers in the evenings to help him be rid of it.

You didn’t know how well you would be able to hide it from Princess Amvalma, for your nightly disappearances weren’t asked of or questioned when you had prepared her for sleep.

You weren’t even sure if her brother had been the one to brag to her about being able to bring you to his bed, but you were certain it would’ve taken long before the news would arrive for her to hear. She’s smart, her other handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting aren’t, the news will come swiftly with the wind.

Kira had been asking day in and out about what you got up to with Prince Shesmetet, and although it left you red in the face in sparing the details, she was still fascinated to hear it from you.

‘He seems smitten,’ She smiled to you, a frown forming at her next words, ‘but how long will it go on for?’

Not for so long, but you had been told not to feel disheartened by his lack of visits from you, promising you that final night that he would see you once more. ‘Little one,’ Shesmetet had you curled into his chest, tenderly stroking at the side of your face as your eyes grew tired for slumber, ‘rest assured, I have enjoyed your time too much to see you away so soon.’

But had he been lying? The Jade Court's living family line and its descendants were known for being sly around other nobles - to prosper and be the most known and richest to all the other empires - but he had been so kind to you, enamoured of you that it hurt to not spend evenings with him; held in his arms so lovingly.

It didn’t take long for his passion and physical affections for you to fester and make you feel so very fond of him.

“When will they marry?” You had asked the two, ignoring their talk.

“Before the season of the harvest, his Grace has proclaimed this before Prince Shesmetet’s anniversary of his two-hundred-and-eightieth year,” Kira said.

There was no denying there was a prang in your chest for the information you heard, and although you were simply one of Princess Amvalma’s favoured handmaidens, you yearned for a life where you could simply be more than that; especially in the eyes of the Jade Prince.

-

The Jade and glittering court had been packed to the brim with staff, lords and ladies alike, both human and Nagas, watching in wonder as they stared to the mighty Emperor, Eirgotzo on his gilded throne of heavy gold, the old emperor was the same colouring as his children, with streaks of grey in his hair for his much longer life; his eyes gold speckled with green, fitting for his title.

His two children stood on the side of him on the steps, dressed in their colours of gold and blacks: you had helped Princess Amvalma dress in an elegant jade with slits on each side of her long onyx tail, the beaded headdress atop her smooth long black hair like millions of glistening teardrops, her mouth always in a relaxed position to laugh.

Her brother was whom you had your eyes on for this time, for he was wearing a rapier attached to his hip for his grandeur, dressed in the familiar shades of gold and blacks with a shimmering sash wrapped around his waist and broad collar in the colours of topaz and gold, his arms crossed over his chest. Compared to in size of his sister, he was taller in height, by only a fraction.

The Rising Sun was as beautiful as she had been described: her tail colour of a flickering flame, her skin was a faded copper, similar to the fiery locks she had braided back behind her ears, and when she moved, you noted the jingles of small gold bells braided through; jingling gleefully.

It didn’t take long for it to annoy you.

The Princess Iseka had reached the steps below the throne, her shimmering bronzed eyes fluttering with the sharp smile she had on her lips, her attention falling to the Jade Prince. “Your Grace, it is an honour to be in your court, I have heard many stories since I was young of how fantastic your empire was.”

“The Rising Sun has a fitting title,” Emperor Eirgotzo replied down to her, smiling but not through his eyes, “We welcome you to the Jade Court.” He gestured to his children to his right. 

“My heir and beautiful daughter, the future Jade Empress, Star of the Sea, Princess Amvalma, and my son, The Young Flame and your husband-to-be, Prince Shesmetet.”

“Your Grace, Your Grace,” She sang when she looked especially towards Shesmetet, “I am honoured to finally meet you and to be your wife.”    

Reminded of his customs and manners in front of the entirety of court, Shesmetet slithered down to stand just on the step above Iseka, and dutifully taking her clawed hand into his own, kissing at her knuckles. “The pleasure is mine, Princess.”

Your temper would’ve boiled over there and then at the sight, but you had to remember that for foremost, she was to be his wife, and therefore, you would have to still respect her no matter what. As long as I remain the Star of the Sea’s handmaiden, I only abide by the court of the Jade Empire.

From the tops of the stairs, Shesmetet seemed to almost be scouting for someone amongst the large crowds, and almost out of sense, he had found you; scattered you didn’t think you would be found from the millions of faces. 

Your heart nearly sprang out of your chest when you swore he had winked at you; before returning to his place beside his sister as if nothing had happened, his father continued on with addressing his court.

-

The Star of the Sea had asked her ladies-in-waiting and yourself to draw her a bath that evening, using the scents that had been given to her as a gift from her future sister-in-law’s family. The scents of jasmine and lemon, drops of petals scattered on the surface of the water; a hint of sweetness that was needed for such a long day.

“Dear, stay with me, you can brush out my hair.” Amvalma had addressed to you with a warm smile, dipping her nude body into the heated water as she relaxed. Her bath and most of the baths were deep enough for all nagas to properly bathe in, the bath at least bigger than the ones you had been situated in that same evening you were to be in Shesmetet’s bed.

“At once, your Grace.” You bowed, gathering the items you needed as the Jade Princess dismissed her ladies, leaving you two alone in her bathhouse, situating yourself behind her as you took the hairbrush to detangle out her long locks.

You were more mindful of how you brushed out her hair compared to Thaile, who if given the job would’ve given the Princess a bald spot. Your gentle hands separated each section, starting from the ends and working upwards.

Amvalma hummed to herself, closing her eyes as you worked behind her, gently massaging her scalp the higher you worked. 

“What did you think of the Princess Iseka, your Grace?” You found your voice, knowing full-well that you were allowed to speak in front of the Princess no matter the question. You bite your lip, deciding how to question the Prince’s betrothed. “Her title is matching of her looks.”

“The Rising Sun, a fitting title for her late mother,” Hummed Amvalma, “but you would have to be blind to look at Iseka.”

You accidentally snorted, almost choking on your own saliva, urging the Princess to look back on you, her face warm with a large grin, knowing all too well that you were thinking the same. “Really? You don’t think she is becoming?”

Amvalma chortled through her flat nose, swatting the air as she cleaned herself nonchalantly. “My brother’s betrothed looks more like a black sun in a cold winter than one that is Rising,” she was sniggering to herself, “and she bores me exceedingly.” 

You had to control your laughter, making sure her ladies didn’t hear your responses to use against you, so you had to resort to chuckling quietly. “Alas, my old father thinks that she is a good match for him, but I think he could do better in his arrangements. Thousands of others would agree to themselves to have Shesmetet’s hand.”

“The ones he has bedded?” You asked.

“Precisely,” Amvalma began, her words made the hairs on your arms raise, “My brother has been with everyone who has caught his eye, but no-one who he has been arranged into marrying.” She shook her head at the thought, ink-black hair shaking around her, her locks beautiful. “It shall be a disaster.”

You remembered your fears for if she knew of what had happened between the two of you, now if she were to catch on that you had slept with Shesmetet, it too, would be a disaster.

“Has anyone caught the Prince’s eye so far?” You lamented, trying to suppress your sadness, not wanting her to know. “Perhaps,” Amvalma hummed in thought, “but he is rather secretive about it all as if he is trying to hide something not just from father, but from me.”

There it was: the pondering, the queries and theories, but you knew you wouldn’t come of this alive. Amvalma turned herself around to face you properly now, her golden eyes glinting in the candlelight of the room. 

“You know, you can tell me anything, I have no judgement nor shall you fear me, dear.” She reassured you, the smile dropping slightly on her face. “But, is there anything you wish to tell me?”

“Your Grace-- I-” You blubbered, finally feeling the idea that this would all go horribly wrong. The Jade Princess placed a warm tender hand on your arm, squeezing it carefully. “You can tell me anything.”

You could’ve jumped out the open balcony right there and then, fearing for everything, running out and fleeing before, starting a new life outside of the palace. You knew it was best, to tell the truth, it was better than for if it were to come out badly.

You took a deep exhale out from your nose, setting the hairbrush down. “Your Grace, the Prince-”

“Your Magnificence! Imported wine, a gift from The Rising Sun!” the figures emerged, the one who had come in first oblivious to the quietness of the bathhouse, the other ladies of Princess Amvalma coming in like an awaiting crowd.

Amvalma smiled respectfully, turning from you to look at the ladies waiting with a golden chalice with similar snake hilts curved around it. She settled their chatter as she thanked them, taking a glass as she was poured some.

She turned back to you, watching your sunken face as you finally had her eyes off of her for a moment, savouring in not having to spit out what had been chewing at your insides for ages. “Dear, are you unwell? Your face is pale.”

Your eyes flickered back up to meet golden ones, your eyes darting apprehensively, trying to form a smile back onto your features. “At the moment, yes, Your Grace, may I be pardoned?” You lied, taking the oils and scents as you were dismissed, wishing the Princess a good night, as you raced back to your own chambers, making sure to avoid anyone or anything.

- 

“His Grace, the Jade Prince is celebrating during the midday sun in celebration of the arrival of his wife-to-be. I heard the Rising Sun shall be wearing their engagement ring.” Thaile grinned from ear to ear, helping you sort through arranging the fruit; peeling mangoes and oranges into a large bowl for the guests to share amongst one another. 

“His Grace, the Emperor is pleased with the arrangement, wishing his daughter-in-law a prosperous marriage.”

You couldn’t help the smile that graced your face, reminiscing over Amvalma’s words, ‘It shall be a disaster’. You could only hope that this was true, that Shesmetet’s infidelity continued.

“Princess Amvalma gave Iseka her blessings, kissing both her cheeks, I saw it, I was there. It was beautiful.” The young girl swooned with naivety. If you knew one thing, lying was the best way to improve your situation, building you up on the scale; another chess piece that could win.

“If the harvest this year flourishes, it shall mean a bountiful marriage.” You stated, simply slicing the apple slices and throwing away the cores, “It has so far been dry.”

“You cannot say that! By the moon goddess, the harvest shall thrive, just you wait!” Thaile protested against your words, pouting her bottom lip as she sighed to her work so far. “We shall be needing another bowl from the kitchen, can you bring another?”

“Sure.” Just to get away from you, of course. You stood, putting your knife down and took away the heavy bowl full of fruit that could be sent to those who were placing food on the tables for the guests, leaving you to wander from the small courtyard back into the empty court, sticking to the walls and columns, hiding in the shadows as you walked up the stairs on the closed-off balcony. 

You could hear voices as you grew close, hushed voices, one more frustrated than the other. You came just close enough to hear a female voice hiss in wrath through the vacant hall.

“How dare you.” She hissed so low, you had thought they had been behind you. You stopped still in your tracks, pausing to listen in closely. “You may be offended, but you know she is important to me.” Another voice was followed, male and a velvety timbre, more smooth and calm in their tone as they spoke back.

“She is my handmaiden - a girl who came to me when she was ten!” She retorted back, her voice rising and never falling from her anger. “You never think, do you? I would be more than surprised if you had any sense in that thick head of yours, I think you share it with your cock.”

“You think this is some game?” She seethed, “You could’ve gotten her pregnant. What then? You would want your wife to be happy about you having a bastard with a lowborn? The bitch of a wife could have her killed.”

“Let you believe and think over these predictions, sister, you’re just like father, thinking over things that have rare chances of happening.”

Sister? Your eyes widened in realisation: it was Shesmetet, and so he was speaking with Amvalma. Oh, Gods, they could’ve been talking about someone you knew, or even-

“Do not bring her into this! She doesn’t deserve the heartache, the humiliation or even something much worse if Iseka finds out.” Amvalma warned. 

“I don’t care about my betrothed, her duty is for marriage, and there is nothing I find from the situation or her joyful.” Shesmetet heeded, “I do not care anymore, nor should I have the one I love taken from me for some other.”

You neared to the gap between the columns, trying your best to keep quiet and be unseen. “What are you trying to say, you blind fool? You love her?” The Star of The Sea had squinted her golden eyes towards her brother. 

“I’ve had enough time to spend with her through my evenings to know that she is unlike any other human I’ve met before, and I have chosen what I must do, regardless of what the consequences. I’m going to tell father, I’m calling off my marriage to Iseka personally.”

The bowl in your grip felt heavy like iron, your grip loses the grip of the bowl and soon you were squeezing your eyes shut at the loud clatter that crashed and echoed all along the walls of the golden hall, the two siblings head darting to the commotion, finding you there among the columns, a timid look in your eyes.

“Forgive me, I-I.” You flustered, trying to gather the broken pieces, failing at doing so, and hoping that if you were quick enough you could flee and get out before they could catch up to you. Your body moved to race down the stairs, but Shesmetet was there to move to the bottom of them to approach you, murmuring your name ever so softly along his lips.

“You realise father will have your head?” Amvalma remained in her spot, watching the scene unfold. The Jade Prince came to hold out his large hand, and gingerly you took it, meeting his strong arms as he embraced you, capturing your lips to his in a passionate kiss.

“I don’t care, I only care for one person, one who made me change my mind on humans because there is one good one in the world.” Shesmetet smiled, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Father will denounce you of your titles.” Scoffed Amvalma, crossing her arms, “You need to think this through.”

“I denounce them all then,” Shesmetet declared, to you in fact, still he stared down at you like a cheerful boy who was given the best gift in the entire world. “I would rather live in the ends of the earth with this one than to live as a chest pawn.”      

“Think this through,” You brought his attention back him, stroking up his smooth bare arm, “you will be letting go of everything you have and own.”

“I know, but as long as I get to spend a lifetime with you,” he grinned, kissing your forehead with ease due to his height, “that is all that will matter.”

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 33: Aftermath

Im sorry this one took me so long! Schoolwork and the election really wiped me out! But I hope you enjoy and as always - let me know what you think!

(also this moodboard will hopefully make sense a lil ways through this one - was super fun to make so I hope you like it)

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

With each step down the stone staircase, a slight clicking sounded from Rowan’s hip, the four stone collars jostling against each other as he walked. With each step he took away from Aelin, he felt something in his chest twisting. Something bright, and strong, and full of fire. Something new.

The carranam bond.

Rowan had never heard one described before, and he was taken aback by the strength of it, the potency. It was like a…tether. That connected him to her. An artifact of Aelin’s scent, like a key, buried in his chest.

It was strange, to be given another magical connection after so many centuries. He was used to the feel of the blood oath on his soul, the way it writhed in his veins. An acidic, curling smoke. The strength of it. The inevitability of it. Maeve always made sure that their oaths to her were born of pure submission.

That bond smothered his will, and dulled his senses. That bond had put him to sleep for two hundred years.

This bond was a jolt of electricity. An awakening.

The stone corridors were quiet all around him, but not with death. With healing. Rowan could sense the presences of his…cadre, as Aelin liked to call them, deeper in the fortress. Small flickers of darkness at the edges of his senses.

And with each of his steps closer to them, Rowan couldn’t help but think that this new bond was almost like how he had felt with Lyria. Couldn’t help but draw comparisons, and similarities.

Before her death, and the mating bond became an aching chasm in his chest, it had been a soft, warm presence just over his heart. A place where he could feel his mate close. Where he could sense her.

Rowan always felt when she was in pain, when she was in danger. And it gave him the vaguest sense of her location, almost like a scent trail.

This new bond, his carranam bond with Aelin, was strikingly like that. Unnervingly so.

Aelin hadn’t replaced Lyria. She hadn’t filled the hole the mating bond had left within him. But with this carranam bond…Rowan found that it was harder and harder to feel that hollow ache. To feel the place where his body remembered her loss.

And Rowan wasn’t exactly sure whether he was glad of it.

Rowan was hovering just before the entrance to the corridor where he had spent most of that morning – shoulder to shoulder with the demi-Fae, sweat dripping down his limbs, the air drenched in copper. Now, it was empty of all but the dead. The stones were slick with blood, the walls spattered with gore. Rowan could hardly walk without stepping on hands and toes and torsos, cold and hard and bulky in death.

But Rowan did so anyways – making his way through the pit of bodies to check for a smothered breath or faint heartbeat – any hint of life. He found none. Someone had clearly already gone through and collected the injured, then probably moved them to the dining hall, or the inner courtyard, to be attended to. Where the survivors had gone, Rowan did not yet know.

He stood and sighed, making to leave the corridor.

There was much to be done. The bodies would have to be burned. The gate to the tunnel was mangled, it would have to be reinforced – and soon, in case of a second attack. There were the injured to heal, and prisoners to organize.

And Rowan was utterly uninterested in all of it. All he wanted was to go back; to follow that tether to its source. To curl up beside Aelin and sleep for a century or more.

His feet were slow as they mounted the stairs, making for the sentry station where he knew he would be able to find Malakai. But before he made it very far, a familiar, bronze-skinned shape nearly barreled into him.

“Hey – oh, it’s you.” Fenrys, now in human form, stepped to the side and out of the way of Rowan’s path. Though he had fought as his wolf, the younger male was drenched in half-dried blood, his skin mottled with newly forming bruises. It didn’t matter that it was a different form – it was still you.

Rowan’s greeting was guarded. “Fenrys.”

“Rowan. Where’d you get off to? You missed almost all the fun!” Even with his hair matted together with someone else’s blood, the boy was practically chipper.

Rowan frowned, raising his eyebrows. Fun?

Fenrys waved his hands derisively. “You know what I mean. Did you leave to go help the princess? Is she alright?”

Though he was only asking from general curiosity, there was an anxiety in his tone that unsettled Rowan. He didn’t know what they wanted with Aelin, didn’t know if Maeve had sent them, couldn’t be sure of anything. Though he had fought with them for years almost beyond count, he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.

Rowan followed Fenrys’ question with one of his own. “What happened after I left? Where were the survivors taken?”

“Lorcan’s in charge. Last I saw, he was up on the battlements with an older demi-Fae who seemed to be a leader. There were forty or so soldiers who were still standing when their commanders fell, and they surrendered fairly painlessly. Lorcan had them taken to the dungeons to await questioning, but none of them seem particularly talkative.”

So Lorcan had taken charge. Something inside Rowan unfurled, a hidden tension flowing from his limbs. “How many dead?”

“Most survived. Seems that Adarlan was seeking to capture, not kill. I think last count was twelve, though that might increase before night falls.”

“Wounded?”

“Our side? Most. I think Gavriel is attending to them in the mess hall. There are a few dozen Adarlanian soldiers too – but I think they’re being kept separately.”

Rowan just nodded, satisfied. But before he could turn to depart, Fenrys’ hand shot out, stopping him.

“Wait – you never answered my question. Is the princess alright? We…we passed her on our way in and she…she didn’t look very good.”

Fenrys’ eyes were surprisingly earnest. But instead of compassion, Rowan felt a chill pass through him. Fenrys had seen Aelin. They all had, on their way into Mistward. For some reason, Rowan had never thought that through before – that in order to reach the fortress, his cadre must have passed by Aelin. And left her there.

“You saw her?”

Fenrys seemed to hesitate at the coldness in Rowan’s tone. “…Yes. She let us through that strange black smoke. It was phenomenal actually – she made this…this bridge. Of golden light. A tunnel, that gave us a way through. Otherwise we never would have been able to make it.”

There was awe on the young male’s face, wonder in his voice. But Rowan did not hear it. “You saw her, and you just left her there?”

Fenrys started, his brow furrowing. “Yes. What else could we have done?”

Rowan was fuming. You could have stayed. You could have helped. He wanted to rage at the male, to shout himself hoarse. But he kept himself in check.

“She will be fine in a few days.” And Rowan turned and left without another word.

He didn’t really expect Fenrys to understand. But Lorcan should have. And Gavriel definitely should have. Had they all just sailed past her?

Gavriel knew exactly what it was like when the people you were responsible for died under your command. Hadn’t Rowan tattooed enough names into the male’s skin by now? It was almost as though they died by your very hand. As if they died because of you. Because you didn’t think hard enough, or plan well enough.

They died because you weren’t good enough to save them.  

Gavriel knew that. And he had nearly let Aelin die for them anyways. To die for him.

Rowan strode out through the gates and onto the yellowed grass, damp with rain. The ward stones towered before him, dark and silent and aged. Even with the death of the creatures, the magic that had fueled them was gone – utterly emptied.

Most likely, they would never spark again.

The loss of their magic, their majesty, weighed on Rowan just as those twelve deaths did. Deaths that he was responsible for. Somewhere, the logical part of his mind told him that there was nothing more he could have done, nothing more he could have sacrificed. But it was a very small part.

Rowan took another step forwards, to rest a hand on the black monoliths. Seeking to confirm with his hands what his eyes and ears were already telling him. But as he moved, the stone collars jostled once again, like a chorus of dull wind chimes.

Rowan lifted one off of his sword belt, examining it closely for the first time. They were perfectly round and utterly black – so dark that it was hard to see the flaws on the matte surface.

Even with the demons dead and gone, the fragments of stone held whispers of darkness about them. And it was more than just a memory of power, more than just a trace. It was almost as if those bodies had been little more than vehicles for the darkness, and it was the collars that held the real power.

Rowan placed the circle of stone carefully back on his belt, then shifted and flew out into the morning light, headed deep into the mountains.

He didn’t have time to make it all the way to the sea, not with Aelin sleeping in their rooms, unprotected, while Maeve’s warriors strode through Mistward. Not when Rowan couldn’t be sure of their motives, or their obligations.

Instead, he headed for the deepest, wildest place he could find with his winds and his hawk’s eyes.

Half an hour passed, and eventually he chanced upon a patch of evergreens hidden in the shadows between two massive peaks. Though it was approaching summer, snow still shone at their tops, the steadily rising sun marking the mountains a blinding white.

Rowan dove through the chill, passing between shelves of rock and soaring through narrow crevasses until the light dimmed, and became scarce, and mid-morning turned to dusky twilight.

The evergreens were undaunted however, monarchs rising up against the faces of stone to tower over the southern hills that lay below. Rowan flew to the base of a particularly gigantic pine, where he shifted in mid-air and landed on a platform of gnarled roots and discarded rusty pine needles.

Rowan breathed deep, then called his power up from within, pulling the last dregs of ice from the well in his chest. The magic came unwillingly, though with it he cast a blade of pure ice. Which he used to dig into the earth, tunneling deep into the nest of roots below.

Once the hole was at least eight feet deep, Rowan let the blade melt and fade into the dry earth. He carefully lifted each collar off his swordbelt and threw them into the deep, then filled the pit back up with hard-packed earth, replacing the bed of pine needles over the surface.

Rowan stood carefully, realizing for the first time that he had let his concentration slip. That he’d perhaps been too focused on the task before him, and not paid enough attention to his surroundings.

For as he turned to leave the hollow, a strange presence flitted at the edges of his senses.

Immediately, Rowan strengthened his shields and cast out his winds, seeking answers. The air did not give them to him. Not really.

The presence felt…different. Unexpected. But surprisingly, not unfamiliar.

It felt wild.

Then it clicked into place. The Little Folk.

Rowan took a hesitant step forwards, just as a pair of eyes peeked over a fallen log, then quickly fell from view. Rowan took another step. And another.

He wanted to speak, to say something. To tell them that the demon creatures were dead, that the wild reaches were safe once more. To tell them who had killed them. But for some reason, Rowan felt that they somehow already knew.

Rowan reached the log, expecting to find it empty. So he was unsurprised to find that the faeries were gone, their presence fading from the hollow. But he was startled by the fact that the log was not completely bare.

Atop the mossy surface rested two circles – crowns, Rowan realized – of red and white.

They were undeniably beautiful. Exquisitely crafted wreaths of the warmest flame and the coldest frost. Rowan’s hand stretched towards the red one first, recognizing spiky red maple leaves and orange petals from marigold flowers. There were strips of yellow from the brightest buttercups, and yet more colors from plants Rowan could not name. All collected and pieced together into this fiery masterpiece that barely resembled the plants they had once been.

Rowan was struck with the memory of the crown Aelin had once made for him, the crown of pure flames. This wreath was the perfect image of her magic.  

He felt his eyes shift, searching out the other wreath. It was quieter, more understated, and yet still indisputably majestic. It was made of leaves of pure frost, wormwood and silver sage and needles of blue pine. And the spitting image of the circlet he had crafted for Aelin.

Rowan felt his brow furrowing, his gaze searching through the close-set tree boughs for any hint of movement, any indication that they were still there. Still watching.

For they had been. The Little Folk had been watching them for weeks.

And while Rowan was discomforted by this discovery, he felt no fear, no antagonism. These were gifts, not threats. A silent thanks.  

And as Rowan held that crown of fire between his hands, it finally sank in. The demons were dead. They had won. Aelin had lived.

Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he raised his head to face the darkness of the forest beyond. “Thank you,” Rowan said. “Thank you.”

···

The harsh stone of Mistward’s walls appeared through the thinning mist as Rowan dove towards the fortress. Now that the barrier-stones were forever silenced, he no longer had to pass through the front gate, and so could glide over the battlement wall and land directly on the stones of the interior courtyard.

With the knowledge that Lorcan had taken charge alongside Malakai, and that they had suffered minimal losses with the enemy forces already contained and subdued, Rowan had lost all interest in participating in the recovery and repairs. All he wanted was to go up to their rooms, bar the door, and drift off into the deepest sleep he had risked in weeks.

But the interior courtyard was far from the empty, silent place it usually was.

A temporary hospital had been set up under swathes of white canvas, where men were lying on cots and sitting on mats, blood pooling beneath bandages while hollowed eyes stared into air filled with the sounds of the dying.

Mistward hadn’t been hit hard, but Adarlan had been. And the wounded waiting to be helped numbered in the dozens.

Fenrys had told Rowan that the hospital had been set up in the dining hall. Otherwise, Rowan would have flown directly to his rooms, instead of risking passing by where he knew Gavriel would be waiting for him.

The male in question looked up just as Rowan entered. There was no avoiding him, no matter how much Rowan might wish to.

Gavriel was standing at the bedside of a young soldier in Adarlan’s colors, though they were hard to see through the pools of blood encrusting the fabric. But as Gavirel wasn’t holding bandage or needle and thread, Rowan assumed that the blood was not the soldier’s.

Gavriel’s brow furrowed as his eyes met Rowan’s, concern and – was that fear? – passing through his scent. But as usual, the male swiftly reigned in his emotions once more.

“Are you alright?”

The question felt loaded, though Rowan wasn’t sure if that was Gavriel’s intention. It didn’t really matter. Rowan didn’t have an answer to give him. So instead of speaking, Rowan just grunted, then moved to stand at the soldier’s other side. Silently offering his assistance.

Together, they reset the soldier’s broken leg, then used their combined magics to bind the fragments of bone and knit the skin and muscle back together. Despite everything, the two of them immediately fell back into a rhythm, into that shared dance of movement and magic and thought.

Soon, the man was whole once again. Gavriel took a wet cloth from the man’s bedside and used it to wipe his hands and face, then handed it over to Rowan, a silent thanks in his eyes. Rowan took it.

“Is Aelin going to be alright?”

A pause. “She’s resting.”

“She has grown these past weeks. Improved.”

Another grunt.

“Do you think it is enough?”

For the first time, Rowan looked directly into Gavriel’s eyes. Something passed between them. “I cannot keep her here forever.”

“No, you cannot.”

There almost seemed to be actual remorse in the male’s voice. Rowan wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep his irritation in check for much longer. “Is that why then?”

“Why what?”

“Why you just left her there? Why you held me down when I tried to help her?”

Gavriel looked taken aback. “You think that I wanted the girl to die?”

“Give me an alternative.”

“She begged us to leave – to save you. I could not deny her her last wish.”

“Even when you knew that would not be what I wanted?” Rowan was very nearly shouting now. “Even after all these years of tattooing the names of the Fae you’ve lost on your own skin? You still don’t understand?”

“If you had seen her face, you would not have denied her either.” The quiet resolve on Gavriel’s face was enough to momentarily disarm Rowan. He changed tack. “What were those stone rings you carried before? I didn’t get a good look – “

“Does Maeve know that you’re here?” Rowan interrupted before the male could finish his question.

Gavriel hesitated, his eyes darkening. But not with anger, with…shame. “No. She did not know when we left. Though she must surely know by now.”

A small measure of sympathy washed through Rowan, working to melt the ice somewhat. Gavriel was loyal through and through. This betrayal had cut him.

“What happened? When – when you got my letters?”

Another pause. “I was alone. Fenrys and Connall were also in the capital, but I didn’t meet up with them until after. I don’t know how Lorcan and Vaughn decided, but they were still in the south – we met up with them near the southern mountain pass.” Gavriel’s eyes were almost boring into Rowan’s by this point, pinning him in place. “I did not say anything to anyone. I just left. But that doesn’t mean that you have nothing to worry about.”

The accusation in his tone was a painful reminder of what Rowan had been suppressing all morning. A reminder of what was waiting for them back in Doranelle. Who was waiting for all of them.

And whatever happened, it would be Rowans fault. Their pain, their punishment. Aelin’s pain – it all would be his fault. But he saw no other way.

Rowan took a slow step back, nodding at Gavriel. All of his anger towards the male had temporarily evaporated. “Thank – thank you.” He choked out. “For coming. For saving her.” Then he turned and left the courtyard, heading up the stairs to finally join Aelin in their bed.

···

Lorcan was nearly at his wits end.

He’d missed most of the actual fighting, instead babysitting Rowan to make sure that the bastard didn’t run off to his own death. So by the time he reached the tunnel where it appeared most of the battle had taken place, the twins had already taken care of almost everything. And now he was stuck organizing the repairs and recovery of this insignificant backwater fortress.

Bodies had to be collected and burned, sentries needed to be sent out to confirm that there were no other forces lying in wait for a second attack, workers needed to be organized to clear away the rubble and gore. He needed to ensure that the prisoners from Adarlan were well locked up, and had to arrange for them to be interrogated.

But all the while, as the morning passed into mid-day, Lorcan couldn’t get that image out of his head. The picture of his second, of Whitethorn for gods’ sake, screaming bloody murder as that princess fell into darkness. The look on his face when he wrenched himself free of their grip and ran to her. The image of them in each other’s arms, while the world burned to ash at her hand.

When they arrived, Lorcan had left her for dead. He’d dismissed her – just like that. The darkness surrounding those creatures was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The feel of it on his skin…Lorcan shivered. His powers did nothing against it.

Only fire could destroy them, and the princess had burned out. Or so he’d thought.

He’d tried to convince Whitethorn that the girl was dead, that there was nothing to be done. But the male refused to listen. And then, when she rose through the darkness – it was almost as though she brought the dawn with her.

That power…it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Apart from his queen, nothing could match the girl. Nothing and no one. Not even him.

He almost didn’t even blame Whitethorn for going after her.

But only a very small part.

Mostly, Lorcan felt…betrayed. There really was no other word for it. And betrayed for love, of all things.

Everything was about to change. Nothing would ever again be the same between them, or within his lieutenants. Never again would they rove through the countryside together, drinking and fighting and bedding women. Never again would Rowan be able to look at the horizon without some measure of longing in his eyes.

Rowan Whitethorn had fallen in love. After all these centuries, and with that foreign bitch of all people. Whether the bastard knew it or not, he had fallen in love once more. And it would probably break him all over again.

Lorcan cursed violently, and a sentry in the corner of the room jumped in fright.

He didn’t know where Rowan was at the moment, and frankly, he didn’t much care. Lorcan wasn’t sure he wanted to see him. Didn’t know what the hell they would say to each other.

Not that Rowan’s help wouldn’t be appreciated. The older demi-Fae male in charge of the fortress – Malakai, Lorcan thought his name was – wasn’t particularly helpful. Rowan was Lorcan’s second for good reason, and his other lieutenants were already occupied.

Fenrys and Connall were running forays into the perimeter, ensuring that there weren’t any more parties of soldiers lying in wait. Gavriel had been dispatched to help the small group of fighters who had skills in healing, and Vaughn was helping to repair the damage done to the escape tunnel. It had caved in in places, and the gates were badly damaged.

They were all here, doing their duty. Helping Rowan save all of these gods-damned ungrateful bastards. Risking their lives, and most definitely risking their liberty. All because of Rowan. And where was he? Absolutely nowhere to be found. Probably off with that fire-breathing bitch.

At some point, Connall returned with the information that there weren’t any soldiers within fifty miles of the fortress, and the caves that had served as their camp all these weeks were emptied.

Lorcan then sent the wolf to the healer’s compound to inform the head healer there that the threat had been dealt with, at which point the older demi-Fae commander spoke up and said that the healers had been moved into the mountains for safety, and Lorcan had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from snarling at the male.

Then Connall was gone, Fenrys was arranging for the traps in the woods to be taken apart, and the elderly demi-Fae had left with some mumbled excuse about following along behind Connall to meet up with someone to tell them the news. And Lorcan was alone. Which he found was actually not that much better than having company.

What did Rowan think was going to happen?

Did he think that Maeve would let them be together? That there was some happy future in store for them?

The second that that little girl made it through Doranelle’s gates, she would likely be trapped there forever. Maeve would never let a power like that slip through her fingers – and with the way the girl looked at Rowan? The princess was doomed.

Maeve would force the girl to swear the blood oath, one way or the other. Then, once the girl was hers, Maeve would undoubtedly keep her and Rowan separated as much as physically possible.

Because they were carranam, and together…together their power was more than anything Lorcan had ever seen. Even Maeve –

No, his queen was the most powerful being in all of existence. But still, the two of them together could prove a threat. And Maeve would not stand for it. So they must be kept apart.

Lorcan’s teeth slammed together. Why had that jackass allowed this to happen?

His team of commanders had been near-perfect. They worked together almost seamlessly, each with their own specialties. There was order, and structure. Even Fenrys, who was a right pain in the ass most of the time, fit within their hierarchy well.

But now…now it would all fall apart. Rowan loved that girl, and everything was about to change. He would defend her above all others, would protect her in the face of any threats, would never put her in any danger – even if it proved necessary in order to meet their objective.

That bastard’s cock was going to fuck everything up. And Lorcan didn’t see any way to stop it.

Then Vaughn reappeared, with the news that he had just gone down to the dungeons to check on the prisoners, and found them all dead in their cells. Poison.

Lorcan muttered a violent curse, and stood.

···

Gavriel was exhausted to his very bones. Night had now fallen, and they had lost three more men over the course of the afternoon. Three men whose deaths he had not been able to prevent.

Many more Adarlanian soldiers had died, but Gavriel couldn’t bring himself to much care about them. Particularly after they started bringing out the cyanide. Lorcan had told him that they had lost all of the prisoners in the cells, and to try his best to save the few soldiers from Adarlan who were still in his care.

Gavriel told the male not to get his hopes up.

He had spent the entire day at work, stuck in some courtyard, surrounded by the moans and complaints of broken men. There were a few demi-Fae sentries who had some healing magic, but far too soon their powers were exhausted, and Gavriel had to send them off to rest.

He couldn’t completely heal all of them – it would have surpassed his strength. But he ensured that no one died that wasn’t already marked to enter Hellas’ realm. Obviously, the soldiers’ goal had been to overwhelm and capture, rather than kill. The fortress was very lucky to have escaped with so little death.

Still, what he wouldn’t have given to have Rowan’s help. Or Lorcan’s. Or anyone’s, really. But they were all busy. And Gavriel would have rathered face a dragon in single combat than to go up to Rowan’s rooms and ask him to come down and help. Especially after their discussion those hours earlier.

It had been so strange – the cold male had felt almost…vulnerable. In a way that Gavriel had never seen before. And the look on his face when the barrier fell, and the princess was consumed by darkness…Gavriel would be haunted by that look for as long as he lived.

Just as he had known the second he saw the princess’s pleading, desperate, dying face before the ward-stones, begging them to go save Rowan, that she had loved him, in that moment he had known the same for Rowan. The prince loved that woman. And now there was nothing that any of them could do about it.

All they would be able to do was wait, and watch, and discover how it would play out.

But there was something, something more. The two of them were closer, more comfortable with each other. And they were obviously sleeping in the same bed. But there was also this strange hint, a trace, of the girl’s scent on Rowan. Mixed in with his.

Perhaps it was just the settling of that new bond between them – the carranam bond. For some reason that didn’t quite sit right with Gavriel.

Though that was another image it didn’t seem likely he would ever be able to erase from his mind. The way they looked together, staring into each other’s eyes while the entire world burned to ashes around them. The way their power felt as it rushed over his skin, an avalanche, a tsunami. The explosion of a star on the surface on the earth.

The fact that they were carranam changed everything. Now, if Aelin joined their ranks, it seemed unlikely that Rowan and the princess would be allowed within fifty feet of each other. Maeve disliked a threat almost as much as she hated betrayal. Or disloyalty.

Gavriel’s stomach turned over. He knew far too well what they would be facing upon their return to Doranelle. He forced his mind away from the unpleasant memories. He had made his choice, and he would stick by it. He had known the consequences when he decided to come.

And he would not regret it. The girl and Rowan had both lived. Even the majority of the demi-Fae had survived.

Though he would regret leaving Aelin alone at those gates for as long as he lived. Rowan was right, he should have stayed. No matter how worried he had been for his friend, the princess had needed him. And he had almost let her die for them.

His daughter. The words were an uncomfortable weight. Full of doubt. At first he had desperately shied away from them, aching for them not to be true, for them to be anything but. Now, he was less sure.

The princess was growing into a powerful female, a leader and magic user worthy of renown. Wouldn’t it be understandable to want to belong to her, in some small way? To want to be hers?

Shame joined the guilt writhing in his gut. It was a betrayal to his queen to want to belong to another. For it wasn’t really as a father that he wanted to belong to the princess, it was as a soldier. A lieutenant.

Aelin’s power was a beacon, and just like Rowan obviously was, Gavriel felt himself being drawn to her.

So, as Gavriel moved between the dozens of patients sleeping before him, searching for bandages to change and fevers to lessen, his thoughts kept whirling back to that essential, all-consuming question. What would happen when Rowan brought the princess to Doranelle? And would Rowan be able to survive another loss of this magnitude?

The night slowly passed into day, and just before dawn began to peek her head over the mountains, Lorcan appeared.

He was obviously trying to sneak out before the fortress woke up, now that the majority of Mistward was once again up and running as normal. And though Gavriel doubted the male would ever admit it to himself, to leave without having to see Rowan. Without having to deal with whatever it was that was shifting like quicksand beneath their feet.

Gavriel stood and walked over to meet Lorcan, who was now standing over by the entry gates, buckling on his swordbelt.

They stood in silence for a moment, but then, “What do you think will happen when we return? What are you going to say to her?”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed, knowing immediately what Gavriel was getting at. “I’m going to tell her the truth of what happened. What else.”

Gavriel’s brows furrowed. “You know as well as I –”

“That changes nothing.”

“It changes everything, and you know it.”  

“Just because Rowan went and fell for – ”

“He hasn’t been at peace for centuries, Lorcan. You would deny him that?”

“No. But there isn’t exactly anything that we can do to stop it. I would worry less about that selfish bastard, and more about your own skin, Gavriel. Rowan and that bitch are going to get what’s coming to them, and so are we.”

Gavriel only nodded. “I knew that when I decided to leave.”

Lorcan’s face darkened. “Tell Rowan I said goodbye. And that…that by the time he returns to Doranelle, I will have submitted my report. I can’t hide this from her – even if I wanted to.”

Gavriel nodded again, then clasped Lorcan’s arms in farewell. “I will meet you on the road, Commander.”

Lorcan’s gaze shifted slightly, an acknowledgement that he heard the silent words in Gavriel’s promise. I am coming too. I will not let you enter Doranelle alone.

But the male just jerked his head once, turned, and ran into the mist.

Dawn passed into morning, and Fenrys, Connall, and Vaughn all also departed, with similar words of farewell. But Gavriel lingered – wanting to see the girl one last time before he left, wanting to ask her the question that burned on his lips.

Before morning could give way to midday, an opportunity presented itself. Rowan and the princess were walking down through the fortress and the courtyard, heading out over the grounds. So Gavriel headed towards the back gate in order to intercept them.

Rowan was stony faced. Aelin was smiling.

I thought you’d be gone by now.” The accusation in Rowan’s icy voice was difficult to ignore.

“The twins and Vaughan left an hour ago, and Lorcan left at dawn. He said to tell you good-bye.”

Rowan only nodded absentmindedly, dismissing Lorcan’s message without much thought. “What do you want?”

Gavriel frowned, looking them both up and down. “Be careful when you face Maeve. We’ll have given our reports by then.”

Rowan didn’t react, though the princess started slightly. “Travel swiftly,” he said, an obvious dismissal, and continued walking past the gate and into the waiting mists. The princess, however, lingered.

Her eyes were cautious, and they studied him carefully. Then she said, softer than the mists brushing his cheeks, “Thank you.” Gavriel blinked, and he heard Rowan freeze suddenly at his back. “For the warning. And for hesitating that day.”

She extended a shaking hand towards him, wrapped in gauze and purple with bruises. Gavriel looked at it for a moment before shaking it gently in his own. Her warm golden eyes met his, and then all of sudden he was asking the question, the question on which his world now turned.

“…How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she replied, casually as anything, and Gavriel was releasing a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He didn’t know if it was from relief or sadness or surprise, though nevertheless, it was a release.

Aelin Galathynius was not, and could not ever be, his daughter. She was too young, by a number of years.

In order to fill the strange silence that had fallen, Gavriel made some comment about how that made her magic even more impressive. Aelin winked at him, then turned to follow Rowan into the trees.

Gavriel could feel the male’s confusion from a dozen feet away, but he didn’t much care. Rowan could be confused for a bit. He deserved as much for what he had put them all through, and what he was going to put them through, over these few weeks. And Gavriel was far too confused and conflicted himself to much care about the younger male’s feelings at the moment.

He was relieved at the news, but that worry was still there. He cared about the girl now, and that wasn’t something so easily undone. And it was not only because of his own burgeoning affection.

Gavriel couldn’t help but worry for the girl on Rowan’s behalf. Particularly because of the look Rowan was currently giving her – that flaming, all-consuming look. Like he was the moon, looking at his own personal sun. Knowing that soon, it would all come to an end.

So as the pair of them began to disappear into the trees, Gavriel murmured, “Good luck, Rowan.”

Then he shifted, and ran off to join his fellow warriors. To head for the capital, where Maeve was lying in wait.

To head for Doranelle.

…

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…

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[eli-kittim]

Christ The Terminator: Half Man Half Machine

“I’ll Be Back”

By Author Eli Kittim

End-Time Visions of the Messiah’s Robotic Enhancements

What if Jesus paid a steeper price for our salvation? What if Christ is “revealed at the final point of time” (1 Pet. 1.20 NJB)? What if his sacrifice “in the end of the world” (Heb. 9.26b KJV) is more costly than previously assumed?

In his vision, the prophet Ezekiel saw certain heavenly creatures who “were of human form” (1.5 NRSV). Notice what he says about their legs (1.7):

Their legs were straight, and the soles of

their feet were like the sole of a calf's foot;

and they sparkled like burnished bronze.

As you read further, you will come to realize that this imagery runs throughout the entire Bible. Remarkably, Ezekiel’s description sounds very much like modern bionic prosthetics, which redefine and enhance human amputees. Let’s not forget that the heavenly figures whom Ezekiel had seen were supposedly human. Two other interesting clues were that “their legs were straight” (unlike human legs that bend) and that “their feet were like . . . burnished [Hb. קָלָֽל׃ qalal] bronze [Hb. נְחֹ֥שֶׁת nechosheth].” This is a running theme throughout the Bible whose imagery is associated with the end-time Messiah! Similarly, in Revelation 1.13-15, John describes his vision of Christ as follows:

I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with

a long robe and with a golden sash across

his chest. His head and his hair were white

as white wool, white as snow; his eyes were

like a flame of fire, his feet were like

burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace,

and his voice was like the sound of many

waters.

Notice the imagery pertaining to Christ’s “feet [which] were like burnished bronze [Gk. χαλκολιβάνῳ].” By comparison, in Daniel 10.1 we are told that “In the third year of King Cyrus of Persia a word was revealed to Daniel.” Remember that, in the Bible, Cyrus represents the Messiah (see Isa. 45.1). Daniel sees a vision of the end times, described by a glorious man who looks awfully similar to John’s “Son of Man” (Dan. 10.5-6):

I looked up and saw a man clothed in linen,

with a belt of gold from Uphaz around his

waist. His body was like beryl, his face like

lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his

arms and legs like the gleam of burnished

bronze, and the sound of his words like the

roar of a multitude.

Daniel gives us additional information by saying that “his arms and legs [were] like the gleam of burnished [Hb. קָלָ֑ל qalal] bronze [Hb. נְחֹ֣שֶׁת nechosheth].” In other words, it wasn’t just his legs, but his arms as well were seemingly made of burnished bronze! It sounds like a combat soldier who had lost all his limbs and was wearing a metallic or robotic prosthesis. And Daniel employs the exact same Hebrew words for “burnished bronze” that are used in Ezekiel’s vision. Furthermore, in Revelation 2.18, Christ himself identifies with this biblical image, demonstrating categorically and unequivocally that it refers to him and him alone. Christ says:

And to the angel of the church in Thyatira

write: These are the words of the Son of

God, who has eyes like a flame of fire, and

whose feet are like burnished bronze.

Chalkolibanon: The Messiah’s Feet Were Like Burnished Bronze

καὶ οἱ πόδες αὐτοῦ ὅμοιοι χαλκολιβάνῳ

https://biblehub.com/greek/5474.htm

The Greek word chalkolibanon is translated as “burnished bronze” and refers to “a fine metal,” such as “fine copper, bronze or brass,” similar to what the Hebrew term for bronze (i.e. nechosheth) represents.

https://biblehub.com/hebrew/5178.htm

These images that are therefore uniquely related to Jesus strongly suggest that they’re part of his human makeup and physical appearance. Why else would the Bible contain these metallic images? All these prophets from both the Old and New Testament seem to suggest that the Messiah’s “sacrifice” entails the loss of his limbs, which are replaced by modern metallic substitutes, turning him into a kind of Cyborg. An article from the Australian Academy of Science expounds on this type of modern technology:

What’s different about the new generation

of prosthetic limbs is their union with bionic

technology, and the way they combine

fields of study as diverse as electronics,

biotechnology, hydraulics, computing,

medicine, nanotechnology and prosthetics.

Technically, the field is known as

biomechatronics, an applied

interdisciplinary science that works to

integrate mechanical elements and devices

with biological organisms such as human

muscles, bones, and the nervous systems. 

https://www.science.org.au/curious/people-medicine/bionic-limbs

Incidentally, a wide variety of materials are used to create artificial limbs, including aluminium bronze and titanium bronze alloys, which are shiny metals. Copper, iron, silver, and gold have also been used in the past. Surprisingly, these are the exact metallic descriptions that we find in the aforesaid passages of the Bible (cf. Dan. 2.32-33: “head of . . . gold . . . arms of silver . . . thighs of bronze. . . legs of iron . . . feet partly of iron and partly of clay [human]”).

Robotics for Human Augmentation in the Visions of Daniel

Dual fulfillment is an important principle of Biblical interpretation. It’s associated with the concept of messianic typology in the Hebrew Bible. It refers to the notion that there are certain prophecies in the Bible that may have both an immediate and a long-term fulfilment. The gigantic statue of a man made of four metals, in the Book of Daniel, is such a prophecy, that might be a clue to the endtimes Christ. It has a short-term fulfillment in terms of the succeeding world-empires that will arise and rule on earth. However, Daniel 2.44 suggests that the prophecy also refers to the end of days (a long-term fulfillment) when God will set up his kingdom once for all! Daniel 2.31-33 (NRSV) explains Nebuchadnezzar’s dream as follows:

You were looking, O king, and lo! there was

a great statue. This statue was huge, its

brilliance extraordinary; it was standing

before you, and its appearance was

frightening. The head of that statue was of

fine gold, its chest and arms of silver, its

middle and thighs of bronze, its legs of iron,

its feet partly of iron and partly of clay.

Let’s not forget that Daniel addresses the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar as if he’s the the king of kings, the Messiah (2.37-38):

You, O king, the king of kings—to whom the

God of heaven has given the kingdom, the

power, the might, and the glory, into whose

hand he has given human beings, wherever

they live, the wild animals of the field, and

the birds of the air, and whom he has

established as ruler over them all—you are

the head of gold.

There are messianic overtones, here, that go far beyond the historical context of the passage and suggest a future fulfillment. The dream features a towering statue of a man (Daniel 2.32-33):

The head of that statue was of fine gold, its

chest and arms of silver, its middle and

thighs of bronze, its legs of iron, its feet

partly of iron and partly of clay.

Once again, we get the feeling this is more of a machine than a man. Notice that the legs were made of iron and bronze. What if Daniel 4.13-15 represents God’s judgment on the Messiah? (cf. 2 Cor. 5.21; Gal. 3.13):

I continued looking, in the visions of my

head as I lay in bed, and there was a holy

watcher, coming down from heaven. He

cried aloud and said: ‘Cut down the tree

and chop off its branches, strip off its

foliage and scatter its fruit. Let the animals

flee from beneath it and the birds from its

branches. But leave its stump and roots in

the ground, with a band of iron and bronze,

in the tender grass of the field. Let him be

bathed with the dew of heaven, and let his

lot be with the animals of the field in the

grass of the earth.’

Conclusion

There’s a running narrative throughout the Old and New Testaments that includes thematic parallels and verbal agreements between the visions of various prophets. The terminology has not only been surprisingly consistent from prophet to prophet, but its meaning has also been uniform from one language to another. For example, both Ezekiel and Daniel use identical Hebrew terms to describe what appears to be a Messianic figure, whose feet were “like burnished [Hb. קָלָֽל׃ qalal] bronze [Hb. נְחֹ֥שֶׁת nechosheth]” (Ezek. 1.7; cf. Dan. 10.6)! Astoundingly, the exact same meaning (i.e. χαλκολίβανον; burnished bronze) as applied to the Hebrew Old Testament is employed in the Greek New Testament (Rev. 1.15; 2.18) to convey a similar idea. This suggests that the Biblical books are inspired and in dialogue with one another.

Accordingly, the arms and legs of the purported Messiah do not appear to be human. Rather, they appear to be robotic metals for human augmentation, what we today would call modern bionic prosthetics in redefining and enhancing human amputees. The consistent thematic material (i.e. the canonical context) in the visions of the prophets, especially those of Daniel, is exegetically significant and cannot be simply explained away. What if Daniel 4.14 represents God’s judgment on the Messiah to cut off “his arms and legs”? (cf. Dan. 10.6):

Cut down the tree

and chop off its branches.

Given that the “tree image” in Dan. 4.10-12 is of paramount importance and immersed in messianic metaphors (cf. Jn 15.5; Rev. 22.2), it could certainly represent the Anointed one. All these prophets from both the Old and New Testament seem to suggest that the Messiah’s “sacrifice” entails the loss of his limbs, which are replaced by modern metallic substitutes, turning him into a kind of Cyborg or Bionic Man! The same shiny metals that are referenced in the Bible are the exact same alloys used in prosthetic limbs and modern robotics for human augmentation (i.e. human-enhancement technologies). A close reading of these end-time visions suggests that the Son of Man is part man part machine. This is called “transhumanism,” the merger of humanity with artificial intelligence. This would imply that Christ’s suffering on Judgment day is far more intense than previously thought, which also reflects the profound depth of his love for us!

[fan-clan-fun]

Table Rock Lake Clans

Among the shores of Table Rock Lake, three crepuscular clans stand together. They worship a pantheon of gods that bless them with their suffixes and as far as relations go, they’re fairly friendly towards each other.

I’d like some constructive criticism and some prompts to spur on worldbuilding. They sort of have a story, but only because I can demonstrate my worldbuilding… I’m a worldbuilder first and a writer second, I’m just like this.

Yay more clans! Also thats a big mood if I ever saw one, I too am best at worldbuilding, the writing? Not so much...

HOLLOWCLAN

The clan taking up most of the shore. Their camp is on an island hollow that’s only accessible by swimming. They’re stocky with rudder-like tails (some not even having one at all), normally have diluted colors, lots of white, and lighter shades of eyes (sage green, light blue, pale yellow, etc). Deafness is somewhat common, so there’s a bit of a stereotype that they’re loud. The beauty standard is a gray classic tabby with 40% white spread asymmetrically on a broad-shouldered cat with dainty paws.

I appreciate how detailed the understanding of their appearance is. Im assuming the tailless is the manx gene? I also like the idea of a hidden camp acessible only by swimming, its extra safe.

The most well-off of the clans, they’re very relaxed, but rather distrusting when it comes to outsiders. Probably due to being duped in the past by loners and rogues and allegedly a kittypet at one point.

Thats understandable, and also explains their isolated camp. If they feel unsafe, they would want to have as many precautions as possible, and it would make them less likely to bring in new cats to join as it would reveal their secrets.

Hollowclan cats tend to name their kittens after aquatic animals (Minnow, Swan, Heron), colors (Silver, Amber, White), and phenomena (Ice, Lightning, Cloud). Suffixes are commonly -leg for skilled swimming and -tail for good jumping.

THICKETCLAN

The clan in the most dense part of the forest up the stream connecting them to the Great River. Their camp is in a clearing with logs and stumps and hollowed bushes being the dens. They’re BIG kitties, think maine coon or norwegian forest, with many ticked tabbies. Reds and blacks are very common, with brown showing up every so often. Dilution is fairly rare. Eye colors stick mostly to deeper colors (umber, moss green, copper, amber) The beauty standard for toms and mollies are different. Deep red ticked tabby toms with 20% or less white is quite handsome, whereas brown tortoiseshells with 20-40% white is very beautiful. Long fur is also desirable, with broad shoulders and (especially for mollies) hips.

They sound lovely! As for the ticking, it sounds like they would have great camouflage. When you mention black, do you mean genetic black (which manifests as brown or gray tabbies) or solid black? Either way they sound lovely. Big buff boys and gorls are my absolute favorite.

Thicketclan has a noble pride associated to them, believing themselves to be descendants of the bobcats that prowl the lands. Many of them can speak Lynxish and it’s rumored some kittens are half cat, half bobcat, though that’s still up for debate.

Oh this is really really cool. It makes sense that Lynxes would have a similar language, and it could easily be hybridized. I can imagine that cats from this clan might slip into Lynxish to speak about sensitive things at gatherings or among other cats. It also fits with their appearance, particularly as big cats with ticked fur, and maybe ear tufts? Ear tufts are just so cute.

Thicketclan cats normally name their kittens after birds (Crow, Oriole, Bittern), trees (Maple, Birch, Oak), and patterns (Brindle, Speckle, Spotted). Suffixes are commonly -whisker for skilled hunting and -tail for great climbing.

GROTTOCLAN

The clan taking up the less densely wooded area and the tunnels below that. Their camp is a hollow that’s hidden by bushes and shrubs. They’re very skinny and short-furred with weirdly long legs and tails. There is very little red among the cats, but they do have pointism that pops up often, so much so that they don’t name white kittens until their apprenticeship. This also means they have the most diverse eye color, as they have really dark (bronze, orange, gold) and really light eye colors (ice blue). They often don’t have too much white, but sometimes a white cat pops up. They desire a lean, low figure with a sloped face and a perfectly symmetrical white of any degree with blue points.

Ohohoho Oriental babies. Sounds pretty standard,  although I am concerned about the not naming their white kits until they are apprentices. What do they call them until then? Hey you? Hey Whitekit? 

Due to forming from a loose collection of oddballs and unwanteds when the first two clans were fresh and new, they have a thing about honesty. It’s somewhat of a refresher to have such an honest group. They do know how to keep their cards to themselves, so not everything is laid out on the open.

Grottoclan cats often name their kittens after ground animals (Weasel, Pheasant, Mouse), bugs (Cricket, Hornet, Weaver), stones (Shale, Granite, Flint) and small plants (Chicory, Nettle, Cotton). Common suffixes are -nose for great tracking and -foot for swift running.

After having read suffixes so far, it looks like you are going for a body part based system, which makes sense, its nicely standardized. 

THE OUTCASTS

A recent collection of rebels, losers, and exiles. They live on the farthest reaches of the territories, closer the Harbor. They have cats from all the clans, plus a few loners and former kittypets among their ranks, so their appearance is quite varied.

In the clans, seers perform the promotion ceremonies, but among the outcasts, their leader performs ceremonies. The warriors themselves choose what their names will be, so long as their prefix remains untouched. Most have abandoned their prefix altogether, like Copper, some have changed their name to something unusual, like Morning Glory, and others have picked a name that, while still having a meaningful suffix, isn’t part of the suffix list, like Emberbark.

It seems like they are a more individualistic clan, in that they make their own decisions. Names are so personal too, so its interesting to see how that interacts with the rest of their culture.

If they were to become a clan, they’d probably be called something along the lines of Havenclan (though that might be an endonym). If named by the other clans, they’d probably be called something like Ridgeclan, Rivuletclan, or Beckclan.

Soooo yeah. Those are my clans. I hope you like what I have so far and I’d like to know your opinions and suggestions! Thank you!

They are wonderful so far! I have so many questions, I would absolutely love to hear more, especiallly about the Outcasts!

[evoedbd]

Queer Advice

Summer -  Emily Collins is terrified that Dracula's Brides will need a virgin sacrifice, and she knows exactly who that person would be. Havenfalls finest are LESS than helpful with their brilliant plan to protect their virgin huntress. ((Meshed in Mac having a version of her MC, because she’s the only character who truly NEEDS her MC to reach her full potential.)) *******

“Alright. This is serious business. We’ve found out more of Dracula’s plan and i- SERIOUSLY?” Emily started out seriously, striding into the closed bowling alley with purpose. Once the door swung shut, however, the party lights revealed something that nearly made Emily blow a gasket. A cuddle pile! An honest to whatever god may exist cuddle pile! During what was meant to be a meeting to save lives. Not just A life, but multiple. On a potentially world dominating scale. This was serious business and yet four bodies remained tangled together; a series of semi naked limbs and plaid that became indistinguishable from each other.

 Mackenzie Hunt was the easiest to distinguish amidst the chaos. The Alpha was an absolute beast of a woman, in no uncertain terms. A copper skinned goddess standing at 5.11ft high, with muscles that appeared to be forged from literal copper by an artist of ancient times. Forest green eyes kept careful watch over the bowling alley, even though the gentle smile on her lips betrayed her affection for the others. Her duty as pack leader and town sheriff seemed to weigh her brows down ever so slightly, a fact emphasised by lighter hair against darker skin. Her short, choppy hair was ruffled, suggesting she had been running a little earlier. Or perhaps fingers had been running through her hair, like she now ran her own fingers through Aisha’s chocolate dust locks. Just as Atlas allegedly held the world, Mac supported the tangled individuals on her lap. Even then, she positioned herself so that she could break away and spring up at the first sign of trouble.

 Aisha Collins appeared content enough with her head resting on the arm of the couch. Aisha looked so similar to Emily one might mistake them for twins, with their high angled jaws and blazing blue eyes. Aisha had grown into her grace, keeping her head held a little higher than Emily, which made her features seem finer. Her sharp edges were softened, as if the world around her was constantly caressing them into tranquillity. The cargo pants she wore hid her lanky legs, even as they tangled with another pair of fine legs clad in designer jeans.

 Annabelle Shepard lay facing the other direction; legs tangled through Aisha’s. Her chest rose and fell with the gentle contentment of peaceful slumber. It was easy to forget how fierce the young woman could be when one looked at her soft face. From gentle curves to large, expressive eyes, Annabelle was disarming. When awake, her cheer was almost infectious, yet she held a certain bite to her. An unnameable quality that exposed the truth of the hardships she had faced. That made you respect her without even knowing her. Her lithe arms remained folded against her chest. As always, her arms were covered by long sleeves with buttoned cuffs. The few times Emily had seen Annabelle’s bare arms, she had been greeted with thick, unsightly scars. They were vicious and deep, as if she had been savagely attacked by a rabid animal.

 Damien Ryder took the weight of the cuddle pile. He supported Annabelle’s sleeping form, with his nose tucked into her hair. His arms wrapped around Anabelle, with one of his hands holding Aisha’s legs. The tussles of his signature jacket tickled over plaid and denim, offering something for Aisha to twist around her fingers in her half-conscious state. Looking at Damien, the most striking thing about him was the pain. It darkened his ginger ale brown eyes; dragged on his broody brows. Even in a relaxed setting, his squared jaw seemed hardened and his lips downturned. That along with his shoulder length fawn hair gave Emily the impressions of a western outlaw. All that was missing was the twig of barley for him to chew on.

 “Pack thing.” Aisha sleepily explained, waving her free hand in a dismissive manner. It seemed as if she believed that nobody would understand it, so she did not bother explaining. There was a gentle cheekiness to her tone; a happiness which Emily couldn’t bring herself to attack. It was with a long-suffering sigh she directed her attention towards the literal devil in the room.

 “You just want time off work.” JD accused, a smirk touching their lips as they leaned back against the bar. Jordan Davies was the epitome of teenage angst turned into professional anarchy. Lanky and long, JD was only a smidgen taller than Emily, yet appeared to be half the weight. Beneath the biker’s leather jacket and baggy red singlet, Emily was positive she’d find nothing but a ribcage. That leanness was matched in JD’s youthful face. Mischief twinkled in ember coloured eyes, as always. Nobody could look at JD’s troublemaker getup; numerous piercings, and flame orange hair without feeling as sinful as if they were sneaking out after curfew. Something about the Jersey Devil invited chaos and trouble of the best kind. The kind where you’d wake up hungover, married to a goat and wondering where your trousers were.

 “It would mean you’d have to actually do your job, Jordan.” Razi commented, an amused smile forming beneath his elegantly groomed facial hair. Razi was a picture, with only one stylish lock out of place. With his broad, defined features and luscious dark hair bound into ponytail, it was amazing he settled for a bowling alley in a backwater town. Mythical blue eyes shone; sapphires gleaming against his bronzed skin. As usual, the hunky Djinn wore a silken button up shirt, with the sleeves folded up to his elbows and dark suspenders. The half-popped buttons showed off his defined chest, along with the many hairs curling across his skin. When the light caught those hairs the right way, Razi appeared to glow, adding to his calm mystique. This, along with his dazzling smile, was truly what made Emily think the only way to describe Razi was “An exotic gentleman.” ... yet Razi’s sister called him the ugly duckling. If that was true, Emily doubted the world was ready for the Nassar family.

 “Come on, Razi. Hikari has that locked down.” Aisha called teasingly, her lips peeling into a troublemaker’s grin to match JD’s. Emily could only wince in sympathy as she looked over to the poor demon, who was struggling to rearrange the bowling balls without breaking them.

 Hikari barely passed for human, being half Fae and half, well, Satan. Her soft, youthful features were only hardened by the copious amount of eyeliner surrounding her neon pink eyes. Darkness was a theme for Hikari, with her full, blackened lips and tiny black horns which sprouted from her coloured hair. Her long hair was perhaps the most colourful thing about her, fading from pink to purple the lower one went from her scalp. Two tiny buns sat on top of her head, little spirals of colour that were almost disarming... almost. Nothing could disarm Hikari’s attitude or sharp tongue.

 “Look! This is serious! I was doing my homework on potential rituals which the Brides may preform to resurrect Dracula and it turns out that, aside from me, they may ne-“

 “Wait... don’t tell me. A virgin sacrifice.” Aisha snipped in, appearing awfully amused when she spoke. When the entire group remained silent, powerful blue eyes widened in absolute alarm.

 “Seriously? I thought that was bogus... talk about cliché.”

 “Well, Van tried to correct things apparently, but nobody took him very seriously. If he were around, Vanessa is convinced he’d have a lot to say about the current state of things.” Emily informed, her own brows pinching as she went to speak again.

 “Of all the things to get right, eh?” JD laughed, only to grow silent at the look on their friend’s face. For all JD’s chaos, they knew when someone was hurting, and they knew when their common brand of humour wasn’t going to add to the situation.

 “Not any virgin. The closer to the intended, the better. We already know I’m the intended, with that kidnapping proposal and me being the only human Collin’s woman in town. The virgin sacrifice, well I think I know who that is. I assume it can’t be any of you. Or Diego. I already know it can’t be Grace-“

 “Definitely not Grace. We can both confidently confirm that.” Aisha agreed, causing both her and Emily’s faces to flush furiously. Grace’s prom night had not ended with her date dropping her off, rather with Emily and Aisha chasing a teenage boy out of her room with a mixing spoon and a coffee mug. It was an uncomfortable enough moment that all the Collins women did their best to avoid discussing it, yet none of them could ever bleach it from mind. Aisha had seriously considered trying it once she became a wolf. Thankfully, Mac had convinced her not to test out her new powers. JD also refused to erase the memory, finding it too hilarious to see Emily and Aisha squirming.

 “I don’t get along with any other family members. Don’t have any friends outside of Havenfall. The only other person I am close to is Vanessa. What do I do? She’s already in the crosshairs, if they catch onto this...” Emily appeared to dissolve into panic, her brows contorting. All the way from her shoulders to her hands appeared to vibrate, blurring subtly due to her trembling.

 “If you don’t want her to be the virgin sacrifice, just have her lose it.” JD suggested rather casually before they took a swig of their drink. Emily could only gape, her eyes almost bulging out of their sockets as she did her best impression of a guppy fish. Mouth agape, lips flapping as she tried to find the words.

 “Wow. Just wow. Is sex literally the only solution you can offer, JD?” Emily demanded, almost on autopilot. She was in shock. The idea was ludicrous! Insane! Utterly bonkers! She couldn’t just go up and offer to sleep with Vanessa! The huntress was already so shy about most interactions, given that she had never even had friends, let alone a boyfriend or girlfriend. If a compliment left her utterly flustered, and proximity took her breath away, then what would suggesting making love do? No, it wouldn’t be making love. Vanessa couldn’t be in love with her. It’d be sex. A physical convenience. It’d rob the hopeless romantic Vanessa of her first experience with love if she agreed to it.

 “I’m just saying. A good shag would solve several problems for her.” JD pointed out, once more grinning like a cat who had gotten the cream via nefarious methods. Emily was ready to burst. To smack the demon over the head with a bowling ball. Better yet, ask Hikari to do it. The Scene Demon would probably love to dish out some payback to JD.

 “And who would you suggest we get her into bed with? You? Diego? Razi?” Emily demanded harshly, bringing a hand up to pinch at the of her nose. Her thumb rubbed over the small scar beneath her glasses, which bounced over her knuckles as Emily attempted to purge the images from her mind by rubbing at her eyes. Picturing Vanessa with JD did not bring images of love, only an image of the Huntress kicking a demon’s flaming backside out of her van. For Diego, she could only picture a holy sword shooting out the van to decapitate the vampire, or a stake plunged into his heart. Hardly romantic. Razi... might at least be allowed to speak, but he’d wind up with the door slammed in his face.

 Emily was so caught up in her musings that she missed the look shared between Aisha and Mac, yet she did not miss the words her cousin spoke.

 “Actually... you’re the best candidate.”

 “What? Why me?” She almost shrieked, feeling as if she’d been sucker punched in the gut. Was it because Vanessa was her bodyguard? Did they just assume that it’d be acceptable? Was this how boys felt when paired with their female friends? Pressure? A touch of violation? Great. First it was a girl and boy couldn’t be friends, now it was automatically that if two women were close, they had to be lesbians. Would the clichés and stereotypes ever truly die?

 “You’re the only single human woman here.” Mac pointed out. Ok. Emily could concede to that logic.

 “Huge flaw in that, guys. You’re all just assuming Vanessa is gay!” Emily stated the obvious. Instantly, she was met with various looks of amusement and pity, all of which made her brows feel heavy and her lips ache with the urge to tip into a scowl. Honestly, for a group of outcasts and Queers, their lack of consideration was astonishing.

 “Or kinky. Come on. The leather? The whip?” JD unhelpfully added, miming a whip with their left hand when Emily fixed her glare upon them. The human felt her brow twitch even as she opened her mouth to snap back at the overly satisfied demon. Before she could even utter a single sound, a snort from her cousin cut her off.

 “It’s true. No Straight woman would wear that much leather.” Aisha added, smoothing out the moment with logic.

 “That’s a value judgement!” Emily scolded on instinct. A rather calm, deadpan stare was the only response. It only got worse as Emily felt her cheeks flush a brilliant cherry tomato. A flush which she was convinced spread to her collar given her spike in body temperature. She wasn’t stupid enough to blame it on the room heating up, not when she was the only one suffering. Okay, so maybe Aisha had a point... slash the maybe. Emily had to concede. She’d never met a woman who kept her nails short and wore so much leather who wasn’t somewhat inclined towards women. Thinking back over their interactions, Emily remembered when she had raised the question about dating history. Boyfriends? Girlfriends? Vanessa had stated explicitly she had no time for girlfriends... ok. So that had to be a hint, right? Vanessa had been so flustered even saying it. As if she expected backlash. So maybe she was a little bit gay? A little. But that was only one half of the sexuality equation.

 “She stares at your ass when you walk away. Seriously, she wants a piece. The biggest piece. I can see the gay from across the bowling alley.” Hikari’s voice rung out, drawing Emily’s focus to the approaching Fae daughter of Satan. Hikari had a look of utter condescending disbelief on her face, as if she was utterly flabbergasted that Emily could be so stupid. The intensity of that look sure made Emily feel more foolish than she had ever felt in her entire life, even if she was unsure why.

 “She looks at you like you’re chocolate cake, but she forgot to bring a spoon to eat you with.” Razi continued Hikari’s logic in a much gentler fashion.

 “Are we forgetting the little issue my last partner had? It’s called a penis!” Emily strained the word “little” with her voice and her fingers, thumb and forefinger held apart to depict the size.

 Mark had started out a wonderful partner. A caring man who was decent looking. He had a good job, solid family and had been involved with his church. Early on, Emily had thought he could be the one. Or rather, the best she would ever land with her background. When she had brought him to the bowling alley to meet her friends, however, things had gone south. Fast. Mark had torched his pristine image within minutes by his relentless attack on JD’s lifestyle. Mark exposed a traditionalist streak; which Emily couldn’t overcome. At the time, she hadn’t understood why everyone found Mark’s shouts that JD was going to hell so funny. She’d been busy dumping the tool.

 “Ahha! So you admit it was small.” JD cheered, leaping on the chance to have another dig at Mark. The Demon’s grin was victorious; so full of malicious glee that Emily couldn’t even bring herself to defend her ex. Not that she would ever feel inclined to.

 “So not the point.” Emily groaned, dropping her face into her hands. Maybe if she pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough, she could repel the building shitstorm which was her massive headache.

 “Does it matter?” Hikari demanded in an almost aggressive manner. Shocked, Emily removed her hand and stared at the Fae daughter of Satan. The Faemon appeared impassioned, her neon pink eyes blazing with such intensity it could be compared to a blast of heat straight to Emily’s face. As if she’d stepped from an air-conditioned building into 116 degrees.

 “Like, seriously. Who cares if you’ve only been with men in the past, they ain’t the shit.” The Faemon continued, earning an almost amused snort from Emily. JD smirked, Razi coughed. An actual laugh came from Aisha, whilst the rumble of a chuckle echoed softly from Mac.

 Emily had always known she found both men and women attractive, yet no woman had ever fit the bill of Girlfriend material. Usually because they were straight. Men had always been easier when it came to dating, thus Emily had learned how to handle her foolish crushes and attraction to men. Women not so much. They still left her tongue tied, overwhelmed her thoughts when she found one she deemed attractive. She still couldn’t flirt in any capacity, and she absolutely could not contain her thirst.

 “If you actually connect with Vanessa, go for it. She’s cute, she’s single as fuck and into you. Are you seriously telling me a vagina is getting in the way?” The Fae continued, driving her words home with several firm pokes to Emily’s shoulder. The human could only blink. Hikari had an excellent point.

 Vanessa was gorgeous. There was no getting around that. All lithe muscle in a highly feminine frame. Dark hair spilling down her back; hair which seemed to absorb the light in a lilac black cascade. Breathtaking violet eyes, which shone with every single emotion Vanessa ever felt. Yes, Vanessa was physically stunning, yet there was more beauty to her than just her appearance.

 Vanessa was just so earnest. Everything about her was so sincere and true that is knocked Emily off her feet. Vanessa’s bravery; her capacity to make Emily believe in the impossible with her blistering passion and steadfast loyalty. It was inexplicable. Emily was forever awed by Vanessa as a Huntress, as well as a person. Whilst Vanessa’s heroism was undeniable, so was the woman beneath the legend. The tender concern in Vanessa’s eyes was almost blanketing; a warm comfort in the night. Vanessa’s genuine smiles transformed Emily’s heart into a prism of light, reflecting the warm glow of happiness throughout her entire chest. Watching Vanessa’s wonder as she was exposed to new things was addictive. To Emily, it felt like watching a whole new world birthed from nothingness. The gentle warmth and pride Emily was a constant undertone for her excitement to engage Vanessa. To learn more. Every scrap of information given by Vanessa was a treasure; a clue leading Emily deeper into a labyrinth. The journey alone was worth more than any treasure. Each moment a glistening point of connection that Emily felt content to exist in. Vanessa’s laughter... melodic. An angel’s song. The sound alone made the world fade away and infused Emily with a sense of unequalled joy. Such a pure, sincere sound as a happy Vanessa gave Emily’s heart wings.

 “They sell solutions for that.”

 And with Aisha’s comment, Emily’s joy came crashing down. She plummeted, feathers falling from her metaphoric wings with every flap of logic and confusion tangling around her. One moment there was an argument that just because Vanessa was a woman it didn’t mean Emily couldn’t like her, or even, lord forbid, LOVE her. Then, the next moment Aisha was starting to talk about changing Vanessa? It was in jest, clearly, yet that didn’t stop the violent impulse to shout surging within Emily’s veins. Vanessa was PERFECT the way she was. Why would Emily need a silicone attachment to try to deceive her when... Ok, so maybe she was completely into Vanessa. But with angels song and happiness, why would Emily want to ever leave? Or violate that trust?

 “I wouldn’t tolerate the townsfolk bothering you two, you have my word.” Mac chimed in, noticing the increasing furrow in Emily’s brow. That was enough to break Emily out of her outrage. Mackenzie was being sincere. Worrying for Emily as if she were one of the pack. That was enough to draw a soft smile to her lips, a gesture of gratitude to the Sheriff.

 “Seriously. Humans are so hung up on this shit.” Hikari huffed in annoyance, pausing to blow on her bubble-gum. The bubble grew for a second, then the pronounced pop rung through the silent air. A gunshot before Hikari delivered her perfected opinion on humanity.

 “Losers.”

 “Gods, are all supernaturals Queer?” Emily didn’t even realise her question had been out loud before she noticed the group pause.

 Razi appeared to have been stuck by lightning. His utter shock at the question was reflected by his parted lips when he went to speak. Instead, no words escaped, and his elegant jaw snapped shut. Hikari simply resumed blowing bubbles, evidently indifferent to the question. JD let forth a bark of surprised laughter, followed by a series of eyebrow wiggles at their shocked boss. The Djinn took it in good humour, simply sighing. Meanwhile, Mac and Aisha shared a knowing look; a secret amongst the pack perhaps. Annabelle appeared rather amused as she cast her sight on Damien, who coughed subtly when faced with the weight of his pack’s stare.

 “Most are open. Even the ones in typical relationships.” He strategically answered, his eyes lingering anywhere save the almost smug grins of his pack.

 “Its a small community, we don’t judge.” JD chipped in. If the devil was burdened by the focused attention of the room, they didn’t show it as they leaned against the bar. In response to the silence which followed, they gave an all too casual shrug. That irritating silence was broken by Emily, who let out an unspeakably pained groan as her head to fall forwards into her waiting hands with a rather pronounced thud.

 “This conversation has veered so far off track it’s stuck in the gutter.” Emily’s voice was muffled by the palms of her clammy hands, which were shielding her face. In another universe, the one flashing behind her closed eyes, this conversation had not taken such a turn. They had remained logical and avoided all embarrassment as they came up with the perfect plan to protect Vanessa. There wouldn’t be a literal pile of attractive Supernaturals snuggling on the beaten down old couch. No devilish devils or sexy, well dressed Djinns making jokes. This wouldn’t have dissolved into a discussion about sexuality... and Emily’s temples wouldn’t be throbbing in time with her marching band for a heart.

 “I get it, this topic is uncomfortable. That doesn’t change the fact it would reduce Vanessa’s eligibility to practically zero.”

 Whether Aisha was genuinely trying to help, or was teasing was uncertain. Her deep eyes held the gentle understanding of a mother; matured and nurturing with a underlying protectiveness that was enough to knock an elephant off track. However, the subtle tilt of her lips betrayed amusement. Restraint. The entire wolf pack seemed to somehow snuggle closer together.

 “Look, I’m not about to go up to my friend and be like Hey, so you’re a virgin. Let’s change that so Dracula won’t sacrifice you. That is so tacky, even a porn film would reject that script!” Emily practically exploded, turning to make endless gestures to emphasise her points. Hands and hips became a second language, crudely mimicking out points in a manner equally as explosive as her booming voice. Honestly, the AUDACITY of these people! If Emily had cared a little less or was just a little braver, she’d have already bitch slapped all of them.

 She paused, taking a moment to breathe. Deep breaths. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Her thumb sought out the small scar across the bridge of her nose when she pinched it, almost as if the gesture could contain the storm about to explode from within her.

 “She deserves someone she wants to share her life with, not just some convenient exchange.” Emily concluded, pouring every ounce of sincerity into her words. It was true. Vanessa was a romantic, behind everything. For such a vulnerable thing as physical intimacy, Emily wanted Vanessa to have the dream. The perfect first time. Candles and romance with the person she was in love with. The person she wanted to spend eternity with. Emily couldn’t even imagine a world where she took that away from Vanessa. A world where duty claimed the last piece of Vanessa; the piece only protected by lack of time. It was Vanessa’s ONE true freedom. The only part of her life that the Order hadn’t dictated or infected. How could anybody ask Emily to take that away from Vanessa? How could they even THINK it?

 “It’s clear you care about her. That must count for something.” Mac’s gentle tones drew Emily out of her internal raging. When Emily turned her gaze to the Alpha Werewolf, she met kind forest green eyes. Mackenzie Hunt understood, at least enough to sympathise with the Collins girl. Mac bore the weight of her power so well that it was all too easy to forget Mac was only a couple of years older than Emily. As far as werewolves went, Mackenzie Hunt was a young Alpha. Barely more than a pup. Yet, she saw Emily’s struggle. Even without a word of it, she offered her full support. Her approval. Even without being a wolf, Emily could feel the power in it. The warmth that emanated from the Alpha’s care.

 “Yeah. A better time.” JD added in a remarkably sincere tone. For a split second, Emily almost believed it. Then, the devil’s lips curled. Moment ruined.

 “I’m not listening. La La La.” Emily announced, lifting her hands in a weak effort to cover her ears. Still, she couldn’t help letting her mind wander. What if they didn’t have a choice? Would Vanessa be willing to accept her? Could she even live up to even a single dream or fantasy Vanessa had? Vanessa’s lavender tinged grey eyes were so expressive. Would those purples tinges darken to black with lust? Could Emily hold her gaze, or would Vanessa’s gaze devour her soul? How would Vanessa’s soft skin feel beneath her lips? Would hardened abs twitch underneath loving a kiss? Would Vanessa even want that? Could she have the patience to allow Emily to truly make her feel divine with gentle explorations and sincerely sweetened words? Or would she be inclined to take the reins? How would those battle forged hands explore if given freedom to do so? What would she want? Maybe the whip...

 “You’re blushing.” Aisha’s amused tones dragged Emily’s mind from such a salacious place. She had to get out of the bowling alley, before things became even more awkward. Before she started imagining things more explicitly. She lowered her hand to her pocket, wiping clammy palms against the coarse material before she pulled out her phone. A lifeline to save her from humiliation.

 “Oh look, I got a text! Gotta go!” She stumbled over her blatant lie in a rush to get the words out. Her phone had not chimed. Without waiting, she broke into a brisk walk towards the door.

 “To ensure Helsing’s safety!” Came a quip from behind her. Emily didn’t hesitate in raising her middle finger over her shoulder, shouting out to the chorus of laughter chasing her into the streets.

 “LA. LA. FUCKING. LA.”

[duskowithapen]

Day Three: Magic

Writer’s Month 2020

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: None

You Remind Me of the Babe (The Babe with the Force)

‘Their breath – unnecessary as it was – caught in their throat. Against their current programming, a series of beeps left their throat. He is beautiful. Lovely sleek lines were highlighted by the glare of the dual suns, the silvery metal nearly blinding them until they reduced the light input for their eyes, a solid build but obviously built for speed… Motto glanced over and groaned. “Oh please, don’t go fallin’ in love with another ship AySo.” – Basically, AySo meets the Child – AKA the Magic Baby. And falls in love with a ship. Go figure. Writer’s Month Day Three: Magic

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AySo flicked at their dreads again and swore. “Stupid kriffing pieces of scrap, should tear them off and melt them down, all they are bloody good for, the—” A hand connected with the metal panel over their ear, setting off alerts. Spinning around with spanner in hand, they shifted their mouth down five degrees into a scowl.

Motto stared down at them with crossed arms. “Don’t you go swearing like that around my droids, kid.”

“I became a mature adult fourteen standard years ago, Motto,” Ayso said, spinning the blue circle of their iris in a mockery of the normal organic eye roll, “And I have heard you swear worse when you get stuck inside an engine.”

They absently dodge the next swipe, grabbing a spare wire to secure their dreads. Motto nodded at the movement. “Haven’t seen a Uraei have to tie back their dreads before – it’s like watchin’ a Twi’ tyin’ back their lekku.”

AySo’s hands froze on the dreads. “Normally one would not,” they say quietly, “But mine are damaged and do not move the way they used to.” A small line of binary ran through their processor – they do not look the way they used to. It called up an archived image from twenty-nine years ago of themselves with 1.25-metre-long dreads tangling around their hips, desert sun making the copper scales shine. They were white now, with burned black tips, and only 35cm from base to tip. They did not move anymore. *Uraei Dreads – With a similar fashion and purpose to the Twi’lek lekku, dreads are scale-covered tails with a limited muscular and nervous system allowing movement. The average Uraei can have between fifty to twenty dreads, never exceeding a two-centimetre circumference. Ranging in various metallic colours, including gold, silver, bronze –*

Motto’s voice snapped them out of the stream of data. “I came over to tell you we’ve3 got a new customer comin’ in. A bounty hunter with a damaged Razor Crest. I’d advise coverin’ up your identifying bits if you’re gonna be helpin’, just in case.”

“Of course, thank you for the warning.” Ayso pulled the bandana away from their neck and tucked their dreads beneath it, ignoring Motto’s curious glance at the copper wires under their scales running up and around their neck. A pair of welding goggles covered their eyes – too obviously mechanical, unlike the wires which could be considered a ‘fashion choice’.

AySo did not want to take the risk of being identified while their ship was out of commission. If the Hutts found out that they were here… The sound of engines heralded the approaching ship, and they joined Motto as it touched down. A humanoid in armour (*Mandalorian: Connected via Creed rather than blood, the Mandalorians are a tribe of exceptionally skilled warriors--*) stepped down the ramp.

Their breath – unnecessary as it was – caught in their throat. Against their current programming, a series of beeps left their throat. He is beautiful. Lovely sleek lines were highlighted by the glare of the dual suns, the silvery metal nearly blinding them until they reduced the light input for their eyes, a solid build but obviously built for speed… Motto glanced over and groaned. “Oh please, don’t go fallin’ in love with another ship AySo.”

But how could they not? The Razor Crest was an impressive piece of machinery – one of the best remnants of the Old Republic, unidentifiable to most modern systems. Originally a patrol ship, they could see how two mounted turrets had been added later, perhaps by his current owner. They felt their lips shift downward by ten degrees. The carbon build up around the engines needed to be removed at least 22.5 standard weeks ago. The landing gear was uneven by a difference of a metre. Given the sound of the engines, there was damage to the fuel lines, and possibly more carbon build up on the inside. The poor ship was a mess. Their frown turned upon the Mandalorian, who’s helmet was tilted down at Motto.

“No droids,” Came the modulated voice, and AySo tilted their head. Their vocal emotion analysis program wasn’t working properly due to the modulator, but was that… annoyance?

“It’s gonna take longer then – I’ve only got the one assistant. And it’ll be more expensive.”

AySo ignored the rest of the conversation, allowing their recording system to save it for later analysis. They walked up to the ship and placed a hand on the hull. He needs a clean, they beeped to Fiver. Please bring me the cleaning kit. The droid beeped an affirmative to them before trundling off. Glancing around the bay, they couldn’t see the flash of sun off metal (*Beskar: The sacred metal of the Mandalorians and one of the hardest metallic substances – *) so the client must be gone.

Motto walked over with hand on her hips. “This is gonna take some work,” she sighed. “And the Mando doesn’t want the droids near his ship, so it’s just you and me.”

AySo raised the thin line of copper scales over her eye in the organic manner of surprise. “Do I not count as a droid? I am, afer all, more mechanic than organic.”

Waving a hand, Motto said, “You’re not a droid though, are you? And what Mando doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Where do you want to start first?”

“I believe I will begin with the engines,” AySo said, adjusting the harness they wore over their jumpsuit, “I am the best suited to moving on higher, uncertain ground. We could not like a repeat of last week.”

Without waiting for a response, they threw a guide rope up and over the outside of the engine casing and began climbing up the hull. Their hands and feet weren’t scaled like the rest of their body, but the skin was tough and weathered. It was a matter of 40.73 seconds to reach the first engine. “I will need more washers, a replacement fuel line, some wire, and the welding kit, Motto,” They called down. “But it should not take me more than four standard hours to finish this engine.”

“I’ll have Sixer bring it over,” She called, already started on the carbon scoring. “The Mando’s gone to find some work at the cantina, so we’ve probably got a few hours till he comes back.”

As it turned out, they did not have ‘a few hours.’. The Mandalorian returned within 30 minutes of the two beginning the repairs. AySo was largely ignored by the client – it was likely that he did not see them, as they were sitting inside the main body of the engine. There was also damage to the hyperdrive connection, and they hastened to repair it before Motto noticed. She didn’t like it when AySo did more repairs than the client was paying for, but they simply stored the subsequent soundbites in a file titled Reasons Credits are Required According to Peli Motto. AySo was well aware of the necessity of credits – they had spent approximately 29 200 hours reorganising funds in order to help various militaristic groups over the years. They just could not see the purpose in punishing the ship for the owners’ inability to properly manage their funds – an illogical concept, according to Fiver, Sixer and Eighter, but one that AySo adhered to.

It was not until they heard Motto enter the ship that AySo moved from the engine. They tilted their head and diverted more processing power to the subsonic implants in their ears. They registered the sound of Motto’s footsteps on durasteel, the squeak and uneven rumble of Sixer’s tread, the near-silent pings of metal shifting and settling as the planet cooled, an unknown high frequency noise -- *Noise Identified: Colloquially known as ‘coo’, made by infants of various species* Their mouth tilted down five degrees. What was an infant doing in a bounty hunters ship?

They used the guide rope to descend, meeting Motto as she exited the Razor Crest. In her arms was a small creature with green skin and comparatively large ears wrapped in brown fabric. AySo’s eyes glowed, two additional circles appearing in their eyes as they scanned the – *Species Unknown* Hmm. Interesting.

Motto was talking to the infant. “I’m gonna look after you, and then I’m gonna charge that Mando extra for babysitting!”

“Motto.”

At the sound of her name, she looked up and smiled. “AySo! Look what I found on Mando’s ship!”

“I can see that.” AySo took a step back as two very small hands reached out in their direction. “Will you be needing any assistance?”

The infant reached out further, making vaguely distressed noises. It tugged at something in AySo’s chest, and they rubbed the area. *Personal Reminder – Perform full diagnosis – possible damage in middle thorax – pulling sensation indicative of loose wire or misplaced/strained muscle*

“I think it wants you to hold it!” Motto said with a smile.

“That… would not be wise. I have no experience with infants.” AySo took another step away as the creature began to -- *Noise Identified – cry of distress, commonly occurring with younglings of various species when in need of comfort, sustenance, or REM sleep*. “I believe it requires something.”

“It requires you AySo,” Motto rolled her eyes. “Just take the damn baby!”

Apparently AySo didn’t move fast enough, because the infant made a gesture and suddenly their sensors were no longer registering the floor. They accelerated forward at a speed of twenty kilometres an hour before being brought to a stop before the infant. It was no longer making the distressed noise, but one identified as Pleased/Happy. It waved its hands once more, and AySo shifted her feet – now on the ground – to a firmer footing.

“Ooo, Mando has a magic baby!”

“Magic is unquantifiable and thus impossible,” AySo said automatically. “I believe the infant would like to be held by me.”

“Obviously genius. Take the magic baby already!”

Deciding to ignore the continued moniker of magic baby, AySo rapidly scanned the Holonet for information on infant-holding. *Rest the infant against your head and shoulder, supporting the infants’ neck and head with your hand. Place your other hand under the infant’s bottom.* The infant did not seem to require additional neck support, but appeared to enjoy being held against their chest. It did wiggle however, causing AySo to hastily shift their hold when the infant decided to face away rather than towards their shoulder.

Motto was absolutely no help. “You really have no idea what to do with a baby, do you?”

“I am a mechanic,” AySo said with enough voice modulation to suggest. “A cybernetically, mechanically augmented individual. I do not interact with infants.”

“Well this is a magic baby, so you should be fine.”

“It is not magic Motto.” AySo took advantage of the infants distraction – Sixer and Eighter were switching cards on the barrel while Motto was preoccupied – to perform a deeper scan. “It is a physically-male presenting creature of an unknown species, approximately fifty years old and…” The scan had pinged a file. Jedi Master – Old Republic – Yoda. The image was of a similar creature to the infant, but of a more advanced age. “He is a Jedi – no, he has the capabilities of a Jedi.”

Motto’s face, after a moment of processing, conveyed a sense of not understanding.

AySo sighed. “He reminds me of the Jedi Master Yoda.”

“What Yoda?” Motto frowned.

“Master Yoda, wielder of an energy commonly referred to as the Force.”

“The Force?”

“Motto, if you are going to continue repeating my words, I will refrain from trying to explain.” This was an unfortunate habit of hers. While exceptionally skilled in mechanics, Motto did not keep up with other news.

“Is the Force magic or what?”

“The Force is the manipulation of energy. Wielders such as Yoda and this infant are similar to power converters, if the files I have are to be believed. They are able to shift this Force – a metaphysical entity and energy – into a means to manipulate matter and minds.”

Motto shrugged. “Magic sounds more interesting.”

Spinning their iris, AySo drawled in Motto’s voice print, “Fine. It’s a magic baby.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Motto shivered. “It’s creepy hearing my voice come out of someone else’s mouth.” Her face lifted – mouth tilting upwards by a fraction of a degree, pupil expanding by two millimetres – “Since the baby seems to like you so much, you’re on babysitting duty!”

AySo blinked, briefly viewing the world through the misty lens of their nictitating membrane. “I cannot babysit. There are still repairs to be done.”

“You’ve got your harness,” Motto gestured, “Just strap him into that and you’ll be fine.”

Another blink. “I request a portion of the extra payment.”

“Fine. Just try and finish those repairs before Chenini rises – I don’t care how many times you tell me you don’t need sleep, you’re gonna sleep.”

“I shall endevour to complete the repairs quickly.” AySo strapped the infant to their harness with some of the extra wires – the insulates ones, so that they do not injure him – and climbed back up the Razor Crest. The infant cooed as they ascended, looking up at their face. His eyes were wide and dark, in a manner similar to theirs, and reflected the stars.

“Please alert me if you require something,” AySo murmured at a fraction of their normal vocal volume, “And I shall provide it promptly.”

The infant made another noise -- *Noise Identified – contentment* -- before shuffling closer to their chest.

“According to Holonet searches, infants require vocal communication with adults in order to gain their own understanding of language. I shall describe the process of engine repairs to you – perhaps you will become a mechanic.” After a moment, they tapped the infants head with a careful finger. “I cannot continue to call you the infant, as you deserve a better moniker than simply a designation. Perhaps… perhaps I will call you Magic Baby.”

Magic Baby cooed in response.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Magic Baby. I am CAI – AS097, but I refer to myself as AySo.”

[tyrantisterror]

TT Talks About (Some of?) the 5th Edition D&D Dragons

As requested by @bluedaggers, and with the aid of @schafpudel and @riftwitch, enjoy this followup to those times when I talked about (some of) the 2nd and 3rd edition dragons.

Under a cut because it’s gonna be long.

So let’s start with the core ten first.

The Core 10 look very similar to their 3rd and 4th edition counterparts.  It’s clear Wizards of the Coast is trying to solidify their looks into something easily distinguishable.  The cat/wolf-like aspects of their limbs feel a bit more pronounced this time around, though that might be up to their posing.  Red, our boi, the Dragon-iest of dragons, is lookin’ pretty good.

Green’s lost a bit of that sauropod-y vibe that made it feel so unique in 3rd edition, in favor of getting a bit more cat-y in the limbs, but it’s still a very solid dragon.  Love that crocodile-y snout.

Black Dragon, on the other hand, feels a little diminished.  I really liked the swamp dragon vibe of the 3rd edition art - it had the same vibe you get from an anaconda or a gator, whereas this guy’s build and proportions trade that for being, like, big and beefy, which is what most of the other dragons are doing.  It’s still got that fun skull head and the forward sweeping horns, but it’s the first design to feel like a downgrade instead of a tweak.

Blue’s looking good - kept the Baragonp-y bits, added some needed bulk, and has a more organic vibe than its 3rd edition counterpart.  No real complaints here.

White dragon is REALLY emphasizing the dog/cat anatomy aspect, even by the standards set by the 3rd edition dragons.  I like the sense of mass it has, and it manages to fill the White Dragon’s role as the least impressive of the chromatics while still feeling like a big badass dragon.

Whole shit that is a lot of dog in that fucking dragon.  That’s a big beefy dog with wings and a snake head & tail right there.  Silver Dragon was towards the bottom of my ranking of the core 10 3rd edition dragons, and while he’d probably end up in a similar spot if I was ranking these guys, I think they made some improvements - that more rounded, eel-like head gives him a bit of well needed personality.  Still, that’s is a LOT of dog in this dragon.  A whole lotta dog.

Mmm... not a fan of new Gold.  They made the face a smidge better than third edition Gold, but made the body significantly less serpentine, which was part of 3rd edition Gold’s appeal.  Ultimately a lateral move for my least favorite of the core 10.

Y’know, it’s weird coming from me how often I use this detail in my own monster designs, but I liked Copper Dragon a bit better without exposed teeth.  Copper is still a good looking dragon here, don’t get me wrong, but the smooth sleekness of 3rd edition Copper was part of what made it stand out, and the more rugged, spiky look of 5th edition Copper ultimately means it feels less distinct among its peers.  Still a good dragon, but something unique was lost.

Holy shit Brass, who are you trying to impress?  Mother fucker’s wearing a Victorian ball gown to their high school prom.  I honestly love this, they kept all the cool design features of 3rd edition Brass and then just took them to over the top epic levels.  Dethrone Silver and put this fucker in charge of the Metallics, it’s earned the right.  

Bronze looks fine.  Slightly better in terms of reptile to dog ratio than most of the other dragons, but otherwise just kind of standard. 8/10

Now for the weird ones!

I need to make more turtle monsters.  This dragon turtle is really rad, combining bits of dragon, snapping turtle, and sea turtle to make a really fun and distinct sea monster.  Very good.

Aww, the pseudo-dragon is adorable!  I wish they had altered the proportions a bit to make more sense for a tiny dragon - its eyes are REALLY small for a creature the size of a cat.  But still, very cute, and that big chin is endearing.

The Fairy Dragon is also really cute, though again it seems like a design with the proportions of a big dragon that was just shrunk, rather than a design that actually takes into account how tiny creatures are built.  Still, I love that little shit-eating grin, and the cotton candy color scheme is nice and whimsical.

In almost pointed contrast to the core 10, the Wyvern’s body seems to be emphasizing its reptilian aspects and downplaying its bird/human/bat ones, with that flaring cobra neck and distending snakey yet also crocodillian jaws.  I dig it!  I don’t quite dig that D&D’s most famous “a dragon, but canonically shittier” monster is also one of the few dragons that really plays into the reptile traits, but on its own I dig the design.

Then we have some guard dragons, which combine two of my favorite animals - snakes and lizards - with one of my least favorites, a dog.  They’re pretty good snake dogs though.  I like this one’s color scheme especially.

This is a different guard drake supposedly but their designs are VERY similar so my feelings aren’t too different.

This Guard Drake, though, is super keen.  The snake/dog/lizard blend feels less chimeric, to its benefit, and that big fat tail gives it a pleasant Monster Hunter monster sort of vibe that I like.  A good boi.

[paladin-andric]

15 for 15 Tag Game

Tagged by @corishadowfang! Thank you, I do enjoy doing these!

Rules: Answer these 15 questions, then tag 15 people.

I’ll answer these as Charles, the rather shy dragonoid magician from Blackheart.

1. What is your full name?

Just Charles. I’m not from a noble family, so I’ve no House name. My father’s a pretty important merchant though, so I guess you could call me “Charles of Falkshire” if there was another Charles present or something.

2. What does your full name mean?

“Charles” means “Free man” I believe. About “of Falkshire”? Me and my father are from the City of Falkshire. Started as a tiny village centuries ago. It’s a really big trading hub now!

3. What are your other names/nicknames?

Professor Parsib calls me “The A-Lister” sometimes. Likes talking about how good my grades are. It makes me feel weird though...

4. What is your gender?

I’m a man.

5. What is your sexuality?

I...don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it. Being of my blood, I never saw humans in...that way. Never met another one of my kind either. I guess it’d be nice to find someone someday, though. Possibly have some kids...dad would probably love to be a grandfather. He always goes on about when I was a baby. He’s very paternal, I bet he’d love to do it all again. That’s...if I DO ever settle with a woman of my kind. I’ve my whole life ahead of me to figure all that out.

6. Where are you from?

Falkshire! I guess I already answered this one by accident. Whoops! Well, it’s a city in the mid-eastern region of Geralthin, a Human Kingdom right in the middle of the continent of Deaco. Lots of rolling grassland, large rivers, oaken trees and sunny days. It’s a lovely place.

7. How old are you?

Twenty years old. I’m almost done with arcane college, but I’m probably going to stay a few more years for the additional honors and training.

8. What is your magic form/what species are you?

I’m a dragonoid. That’s the technical term. Most people just call us half-dragons. As you could guess, we’re half-human, half-dragon hybrids. We look like dragons with the muzzles and the horns, the wings, tail, claws and scales...but we’re the size of men, and stand upright just as they do. We’re...frightening, to the general population. Places of higher learning like schools and The Church are sanctuaries for our kind, or so I’ve heard. Full of folks who understand that we’re not all evil, that we can be good or bad people just like everyone else. The college here for example, no one cares who I am...well, sort of. A few folks were...interested. Curious about me. They enjoyed getting to meet something new. They’re very good people.

Well, another tidbit about my kind...there’s four known ways to be or become a half-dragon. First is to be born as one. One parent’s a human, the other’s a dragon. That’s how I was born. It doesn’t happen very often. There’s...quite a stigma about such things. Second is accidental, from mucking about and experimenting with draconic magic and having it backfire on you. Third’s to drink the blood of a half-dragon. It’s incredibly painful and permanent, and can be done to those both willing and unwilling. It’s also very illegal in most places. Final is to be bathed in the blood of a dragon. The dragon must perform an ancient ritual to do so as well. The accidental and half-dragon methods can shatter the wills of most men, so great the pain is. Dragons can do it very quickly and painlessly.

9. What does your human form look like?

Ah, well actually...! I’ve learned that spell! Disguise! It does allow me to become a human...sort of. In a way, at least. It’s illusionary. I’m still me, just hidden behind an enchantment that makes me look like something else. My body and abilities are unaffected. Since I’ve practiced enough, I’ve learned how to control it well enough to choose my ‘self’. My disguise form is a young human man with brown hair, bronzed skin, and amber eyes. Sort of made to look as close to me as possible. With the copper scales I assumed hair and skin of a similar color would be...more familiar to me, as are the amber eyes. I like the other me, but I try not to be him too often. I try to accept myself for who I am, even if other people don’t like it. Still, it’s nice to just be able to go into town, hit the market, and not get anyone yelling or whispering about me.

10. What’s your aesthetic?

Books, candles, magical winds, an alchemy workbench...robes and libraries.

11. Who’s your best friend?

Professor Parsib! He’s an old kobold who left his tribe to learn from a really old half-dragon sorcerer. After being his apprentice for a while, he became a pretty successful wizard before finally settling down at the college as a professor. All the students were really mean to him, joked about him and laughed at him. He said the first day I started my classes was one of the happiest of his life, since I actually took him seriously. We got to talking after class and...started hanging out during our breaks. He’d teach me some extra stuff and treat me to lunch. He’s the greatest teacher I’ve ever had! He’s always so happy that I want to learn from him, and lends me books and all sorts of manuals on magic!

12. Would you ever get a piercing/tattoo?

No...not my thing. With the dragon scales it’d be quite an expensive hassle anyway I imagine.

13. When are you happiest?

In my room, lying in bed and reading books! Lounging alone in general, really. Anything without crowds. Did I mention I enjoy relaxing alone at home?

14. What’s your biggest secret?

When I was very young...a few folks saw me when I snuck outside. They screamed and called me a monster, said so many horrible things...it was awful. Father reassured me, but for a long time after that...I hated myself. I hated myself for being scary, for being an ugly monster. If father hadn’t been so kind and wise...I might have never accepted myself for who I am.

15. What was your first impression of _[insert character here]_?

Parsib? I’d never seen one of his kind before. He was small, he was quiet, he was leaning on a walking stick...and he looked really sad. I felt bad for him, even though I had no idea who he was or why. I started asking questions in class while no one else did, and...he perked up right away. He complimented and thanked me after class and I found out about how everyone was being mean to him. Both of us being outsiders that the world didn’t seem to understand, that dreaded being out and about with others who couldn’t accept us...I felt like I’d finally met someone who really understood me, who knew what it was like to be me. I knew I liked him after that, and we’ve only gotten closer since.

I’ll tag @kainablue, @lady-redshield-writes, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @sheralynnramsey and @candy687! I’m always keen to learn more about your characters and stories.

[lunahpeixvey-fr]

Emperors but...for other breeds

My clan (Maudit) is all about curses! And well...emperors are a very cursed idea. The idea of dead bodies forming into one body with all of it’s heads thinking independent thoughts is...honestly terrifying to me. So I decided to make up ideas for what happens when other breeds fuse with another of the same. Base “emperor” term is going to be fusion! All of them will be under a cut because this could get long as I will explain my choices/how it could come to be. I might elaborate on fusions beyond just this one post. Feel free to use these ideas for yourself but just...idk link to this post? I will also be using group terms coming from my post about them. This took me like 5 hours.

For cross-breed fusions it’s a chimera. Named for both the ancient Greek beast, but also because chimera is now a term used for hybrid monsters of any kind. Chimeras usually happen in Arcane clans, thanks to the radiation that affects mass burial holes (which I believe some clans must have, just out of...probability). They can also happen on purpose in Lightening clans (or clans that are working for Stormcatcher himself). After all, what if you could have the energy of a spiral with the endurance of a snapper and the multitude of food sources as a guardian? These experiments are...usually failures. Those that succeed are hooked up to their machines and those that don’t...we don’t talk about those that don’t. I might have to make another post just for types of chimeras.

For Fae fusions it’s a Gentry (pl. Gentry). Named for a colloquial term for the Fair Folk/Good Neighbors/Faeries and because it sounds pretty. Gentry’s usually happen in Arcane lands, thanks to the overindulgence of sheer magic in the ground and the tiny bodies of faes. I say usually because there are always outliers, but I’m going to stick to the main stuff to make this not longer than the Bible. The tiny bodies fuse into one fusion that looks a lot like the Arcanist. Many limbs, many wings, but this time- many heads. Instead of being individual personalities, the Gentry is now a singular dragon, but as a mish-mash of all of it’s components personalities. It also talks as one, all heads talking in the same monotone buzz.

For Tundras it’s a Taiga (pl. Taigas). Named for the fact that tundra is an actual biome in our world, and Taiga is a very similar biome (there are differences but also I’m gay). These tend to happen in the Southern Icefield. When blizzards of Tundras are huddled together for warmth, not all of them tend to make it. In sadder circumstances, none of them make it. These blizzards become Taigas, giant monoliths of fur and outcroppings of ice-formed spikes. Wandering hopelessly in search of warmth. Taigas are their own independent being, completely a new personality that shares nothing with it’s components besides it’s sheer mass.

For Mirrors it’s a Savagery (pl. Savageries). Named for the obvious savage nature of mirrors, but...not an adj. These crop up around the Wyrmwound, which is doing it’s job and releasing all kinds of dangerous stuff into the air. This stuff affects mirrors the worst out of all of them, and so a Savagery is born from wandering groups of mirrors. It is a beast of teeth and wings. Two sets of wings, of arms, of legs, of heads. Perfectly mirrored except for the teeth. It’s as if the teeth from all of the mirrors combined into those two heads. With their two heads, they think as one, but can talk on their own. Savageries are usually made up of two mirror dragons, but if more dragons are added, only more heads will add on. Savageries can be found prowling the wasteland in search of prey.

For Spirals it’s a Hydra (pl. Hydras). Named for the multi-headed beast of Greecian myth. These crop up in the Windswept Plateau, and are formed when a coven is caught in the Twisting Crescendo. More specifically, when they’re caught in the eye of it. The fusion actually forms as the coven is twisted into each other until their very beings meld. Their minds stay separate, leading it to have a call and response with itself. The Hydra stays there, unable to move from the center. Their long tangled limbs reach out to try to pull in stray dragons, hungry for more company.

For Nocturnes it’s an Entity (pl. Entities). Named for the unnameable, how can you name what has no definition? Born of darkest night and with a tendency to leak goo from their eyeballs, it’s no wonder that these bat like dragons can become fused together. In one terrifying goop-covered beast, an Entity has six wings, and a midsection that comes apart, trailing it’s lower quarters behind it’s top half with trails of goop connecting them. Entities occur when strange chests containing nocturne eggs are allowed to disappear into powder. From the powder, like a twisted phoenix from it’s ashes, an Entity arises. Since the potential nocturnes were never born, the Entity is it’s own dragon.

For Bogsneaks it’s a Residue (pl. Residues). Named for what they are born of. Bogsneaks are made of alchemy, but sometimes that alchemy doesn’t work quite right. Sometimes one adds in the wrong color goo or slime and suddenly everything inside of it goes kaput! Or well, not everything. In the burnt remains, a Residue stirs. Blackened and twisted, with clouds of it’s own ash exhaling off of it with every movement, a Residue is not something you’d want to see on a dark night. Fins run up and down it’s body in every direction, hundreds of eyes all peering around to search for dangers. Like an Entity, a Residue is it’s own dragon.

For Coalts, it’s a Flurry (pl. Flurries). Named for what they look as they swirl throughout the floating ash. Coalts come from the Emberglow Hearth, and so too do Flurries. They are Flamecaller’s Forsaken, fire licking at their heels and their eyes and their feathered wings are burnt beyond repair. Forged together in the lava instead of forging tools, Flurries are cast out from the Great Furnace, a shame on Flamecaller’s shining history. Unable to fly with their burnt wings (no matter the fact they have four of them on average), instead the Flurries take to moving along the ground, their dark coloring blending in with the obsidian and ash covered ground. A Flurry, much like it’s name, thinks in scattered thoughts from different dragons, unable to hold onto one. Hatchlings in the Ashfall Waste are told of beings of lava and ash that crawl below and are greedy to find new Coatls to add to their body. Hoping that maybe they could get a pair of wings that work.

For Ridgebacks, it’s a Manticore (pl. Manticores). Named for the spikes that ride up high on every bit of them, and the weaponized tail they were forced to have. Manticores have the saddest origin out of the Fusions (aside from maybe the Taigas), as they are created on purpose. For their spikes can be harnessed to conduct electricity and if you force many of the singular dragon into a containment chamber and force the bodies to fuse through electricity, you will have a being made of spikes, and a being to which machines can be hooked up to. Ridgebacks in the Shifting Expanse get told to mind their manners or they’ll get sent to Stormcatcher and oh that threat works. For you see, almost every schooling program allows the hatchlings to visit The Lightening Farm, to see not only the creations of bronze and copper and silver, but to also see the Manticores in their eternal torment.

For Snappers, it’s an Oread (pl. Idaeae). Named for the Mountain Nymphs of Greek Mythology. Much like their name, these fusions are made under only intense pressure. Rockslides, cave-ins, everything that comes with living in the Shifting Expanse. A few snappers, doesn’t have to be many, but they are left alone. Underground or under rocks, and the pressure and weight causes their bodies to break and shift together. Turning into a rocky form that’s more stone than dragon. Rocks stay stuck in the massive form. It’s in the shape of a snapper, but much much larger, almost to the size of being an Imperial. Idaeae speak as one and think as one, or at least...that’s what we assume. What we hear is that their very voice causes earthquakes.

For Guardians, it is a Cohort (pl. Cohorts). Named for a section of the Roman Legion (a group of Cohorts is called a Legion). When Guardians are all focused on protecting one thing, one thing that is hopefully inanimate, they will all fuse together around the item, creating a hollow center to protect it with. Armored plates fuse together and a dominant pair of legs move it around, while eyes (covered by translucent protective covering) outcrop everywhere on the Cohort to better protect it’s charge. While it’s a living and conscious being, a Cohort has no mouth, so we cannot tell if it remains individual.

For Wildclaws, it’s a Vocifera (pl. Vociferaen). Named for a word that means to bawl or shout (vociferator). These wildclaws look normal, save for two details. They have four limbs (like usual), and a tail (like usual), and a body (like usual). But the heads keep getting added on, adding to the chorus of screams and shouts. The wings also keep getting added on, allowing this beast to remain flying underneath the weight of all of it’s heads. They call and scream out in the night, each head perfectly clear and perfectly aware of the abomination they now find themself to be attached to. Unlike other fusions, this one does not want any more to get added to itself, but in the Shrieking Wilds...it happens. As plant fiber breaks down bones and vines replace tendons, a Vocifera finds itself more plant than dragon, and more monster than plant.

For Pearlcatchers, it’s a Shatter (pl. Shatters). Named for the broken pearls that decorate its body, Shatters are seen most often in the Hewn City, ruined and wrecked like the city that lay around them. There are Pearlcatchers who lost their pearls early on, who’s oily goop never stopped flowing as it polished their teeth and their skin until they were opalescent themselves. Eventually they fled to the Hewn city, picking up pearls and shiny objects to attach to themselves to do something with the goop that sharpened and sharpened and never stopped flowing. Their teeth have become a unit, a single solid unit as their growls rattle against their closed mouth. Sometimes these unfortunate can become attached to each other, this is called a Shatter.

For Skydancers, it’s a Danse. Coming from the full phrase of Danse Macabe, or Dance of Death (or of the dead depending on how literal your translation is). This fusion is the only bipedal one. Or well...it would be if it had the normal amount of limbs. It’s body stretches unnaturally, as if there were multiple Skydancers attached at the hip all together standing on their hind legs. Their faces and wings have decayed down to bone (with no feathers left on their wings), and only their lower halves still have flesh and muscle. After all, they need to be able to ride the wings. From a distance, they almost look merely like a ballet of Skydancers, but oh is the Ballet morbid as ever. No one has ever heard a Danse speak. This occurs at the crux of the Starfall Isles and the Windswept plateau. Spare trickles of potent magic affecting Ballets of Skydancers and forcing them to join at the hips.

[theinquisitivej]

Review Variety Pack: Singers, Vampires, and Autopsies

When you write reviews, there are some weeks where there’s simply nothing on the schedule that grabs your interest or sparks any ideas that you feel compelled to write down. Then there are the times where you have the opposite problem, and you end up watching more than enough content to fill two or three articles, and you just don’t know what to pick. When this happens, I’m often torn between my desire to cover everything I see to produce more content and talk about as many different things with my readers as physically possible, and the practical limitation of only having so much time each week to properly go into extensive detail of what I’ve seen. Well, on this occasion, I thought I would try something a little different and take a quick look at a couple films and a TV series rather than dedicate an entire article to just one of them. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to the more in-depth format for my reviews soon enough. For now, this approach just allows me to catch up on some of the content I’ve been meaning to talk about, as well as point you all in the direction of a couple of items. There may even be one or two which have flown under the radar for you.

 ‘A Star is Born’

         Okay, so maybe not ALL of these are smaller projects that haven’t received a lot of media attention. But whatever – the deal with this movie is that Bradley Cooper decided to direct the latest in what has apparently been a long line of remakes and adaptations of the 1937 movie A Star is Born. Cooper plays a popular male singer who discovers a young woman with a talent for singing, played by Lady Gaga, who he wants to introduce to the world and drama ensues as they start a relationship and her fame keeps growing. I have no familiarity with the original or any of the other three remakes listed on Wikipedia, so take that for whatever it’s worth when I say I’m glad I saw this film.

         The 2018 A Star is Born seems to be made with the knowledge that the audience has likely heard this song before. Even if you’re like me and you haven’t seen any of the four previous versions of this film, the rise-to-stardom story is so well-established that it’s a safe bet that you’ll recognise many of the typical story beats of this kind of film. You see the future star’s humble origins, their soaring debut, their optimism for their bright future, them getting signed on for a record label and a soulless manager character entering the picture, their image having to be changed as they get pushed further into the public eye, someone close to them criticising them because they believe the star has lost their way, one of the characters taking a bad turn as it starts to feel like the star has lost all control of their life, and so on. It’s a story we know, but A Star is Born appears to be conscious of this fact. Towards the end of the film, there’s a conversation where a character reflects on how the same notes are repeated over and over between different songs. The character remarks that it’s in the different ways that people see those notes and interpret them through their music that new experiences are created.

         And I think that’s what this film does. The story may be similar to half a dozen other examples, but the execution is what engages. There’s a naturalistic direction to the film that you can see through the way characters talk over each other as they conduct their conversations, or the slight documentary-style to the cinematography, or the minimal use of non-diegetic music which makes the soundtrack seem as if it’s coming from the characters themselves as they sing and play throughout the story. This increases the sense of impact to some of the events within the story because the film is selling you on the impression that what you’re seeing is really happening. On top of that, Lady Gaga’s experience as a professional singer not only enables her to sing well throughout the film, but it also helps her to convey the emotions and thought processes being experienced by her character as she sings. She’s able to deliver a dramatic performance alongside her musical performance, and that’s compelling to watch.

         The 2018 version of A Star is Born is not telling a new story, but it manages to tell a familiar narrative in a way that manages to be distinctive and emotionally affecting. If any of the people involved make the film of interest to you, or if the mood takes you and you want to experience a decent version of this sort of rising-star story, then this version of A Star is Born is a decent pick. Now I just have to watch Bohemian Rhapsody and see if the other film about musical celebrities currently out in cinemas does as good a job at hitting its marks.

Final Score: Bronze / Silver

 ‘Castlevania’ Season 2

         Castlevania is one of those franchises that, on first inspection, appears to have a complicated history with dozens of instalments all coming together to form this grand tapestry telling the story of the war between Dracula, destined to reincarnate every 100 years, and the Belmonts, a family of vampire hunters that have dedicated their entire lineage to keeping Dracula and his forces of darkness at bay. And for fans who want to read into it, that expansive timeline is absolutely there, but on a very simple level, every Castlevania game more or less tells the same story. Dracula shows up along with his huge labyrinthine castle, and someone with a whip and a bunch of vampire-hunting equipment rocks up to kick him back into his coffin. Sometimes there are other characters along for the ride to make it slightly more complicated, but that’s the general gist. Also, there’s always some excellent music accompanying the proceedings.

         The first season of the Netflix animated series Castlevania adapted the story of the third game in the series. As it was only four 20-minute episodes, the first season is barely longer than a feature-length movie, and just as it finds its purpose and you feel like you’re getting into it, it ends. It wasn’t anything more than a semi-decent series, but I felt like there was potential when I watched it last year. The animation during the scenes where characters are simply talking to one another was stiff and you’d only see characters shift in place after a sentence or two, rather than exhibit more natural, flowing movement from moment-to-moment. But the action scenes were clearly where the animation budget went, as fights were creative and choreographed with a satisfying flair which showcased the animator’s passion for the source material. Performances were suitably brooding and at the right level between genuine human levels of emotion and melodramatic excessiveness, which is fitting for something Gothic and cheesy like this. At times the excessive gore and general revelling in shock-factor violence grated on me, and none of the characters really captured my interest or felt like I could get behind them until the second half of the last episode.

         Now Season 2 of Castlevania doesn’t fix all of my issues with the previous season, but I am very happy with some of the progress I’ve seen so far. I haven’t finished the season yet, as I’m six episodes in and have two left before I’m done, but I’ve seen enough to say that the extra time has benefitted the writers, allowing them to take the time to further explore characters and focus on conversations and interactions between the different members of the cast. The result is a more satisfying and complete-feeling season.

         Apart from that, my thoughts are more or less the same as the first season. I like their presentation of the series’ established Gothic aesthetic through the impressive backgrounds and character design. I enjoy seeing characters and references from the games and think the showrunners are doing a great job at translating the tone of the games to an ongoing TV series. The excessive gore is a little much at times, and not because I can’t handle it, but because it feels inelegant and unnecessary when they’re already doing such a good job at establishing a Gothic atmosphere. I am enjoying the characters more, even though the attempts at humour feel a little awkward (though I think that’s part of the intentional style of the series, so take that for what it’s worth). All in all, a solid series that has gotten better since last year, but still has several areas in which it could improve. If you enjoy the original games or are a fan of cheesy Gothic fantasy, then give it a watch.

Final Score: Copper / Bronze

 ‘The Autopsy of Jane Doe’

         Watching this 2016 horror movie from André Øvredal, the director of Trollhunter, was how I spent Halloween this year, and it was a night well spent. A father-son pair of coroners are given an unidentified body of a woman that was found on a crime scene and are tasked with finding a cause-of-death by morning so that the local sheriff can give a full statement on the matter. As they proceed with the autopsy, they find more and more things which don’t add up. There are signs of things happening to the body which don’t make scientific sense when you consider the body’s appearance, and to top it off, there’s an uneasy atmosphere around the office as things just don’t feel right. And from there, I’ll keep you in the dark, as one of the most enjoyable elements to watching this film for the first time is trying to work out what’s going on alongside the two main characters as they dig further into this mystery.

         The Autopsy of Jane Doe got under my skin because it taps into the uneasiness you often feel when you’re stuck in an office or medical building late at night and you’re one of the only people remaining. It makes effective use of space to create a suffocating feeling to the autopsy room and the one or two other spaces our characters find themselves in as the film goes on. The use of the right-angled corridor to create suspense as you fear what might come around the corner is commendable. Both of the two main actors, Brian Cox as the father and Emile Hirsch as the son, work well in their roles, selling you on their close, familial relationship as well as the fact that they are professional coroners, so they know what to do and how to handle their nerves around a dead body, but they’re also human enough to get a little uneasy when things start looking weird.

         As I touched on earlier, I was really drawn in by the set-up to The Autopsy of Jane Doe, fascinated to learn more as conflicting pieces of information are revealed to both the characters and the audience. It’s an exciting sensation that I think is unique to horror; it’s the human urge to find out more even when all signs are telling you that you should stop delving into this unsettling area. You have to know the truth and understand what’s going on, even when it takes you to deadly territory. It’s such a recurring feeling that I experience when watching horror, as well as see in the motivations of the characters within horror narratives, that I consider the horror and mystery genres to be close relatives. The Autopsy of Jane Doe is dripping with that sense of horrific mystery as it centres on an autopsy, a procedure that is done when you want to find out the truth behind something but is also inherently unsettling as you are staring face-to-face at death, in all its detail.

         This horror movie has a great premise which is executed with impressive technical ability by its actors, cinematographer, and director (even if it leans on the jump-scare tactic a little too much). For those who like their horror with an air of mystery, then this is a hard recommend.

Final Score: Silver

[anxiety-musings]

Mother

Well... I intended angst, then fluff happened. I did not sign up for this shit! This is also my first piece in months so please, be kind!

Summary: You were once an agent for the British Men of Letters until you moved to America and went radio silent with information you never disclosed. 

Pairing: There is one but it’s a surprise!

Warnings: Fluff - I didn’t want that - I wanted to come back and tear out all of your hearts. I may write part 2 and ruin everything, don’t trust me >:)

Tags: @eyeofdionysus @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @spnashley @manawhaat@bkwrm523 @mysupernaturalfics @aprofoundbondwithdean @faith-in-dean@lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @mamapeterson @writingthingsisdifficult@teamfreewillimagines @oriona75 @littlegreenplasticsoldier @but-deans-back-tho @helvonasche @lovemydean-o-saur @sis-tafics

The wheels screeched as you sped down the road. You fell asleep in the backseat, your computer on your lap, halfway through research. The next diner charged you and your computer once more. The next town allowed you to wash your clothes and buy healthier food. Then once more, the wheels screeched. This had been your life since you could remember, the light of the sunrise hit your eyes and you sat up. Looking to your phone you registered the date and took a drink of water before stretching and getting ready for your next day of travelling. You looked to your money stash and sighed, it was getting low which meant soon you’d have to pick up a few shifts at a no name bar. The only break in your routine.

An image flashed in your mind as you reached for the door handle, you had just stepped off the plane with your accepted citizenship application. The British Men of Letters had tried to block your move but you had friends higher up who pulled strings. It took three days for you to go off the grid to the MoL. Three more and you had settled into your routine. A monotonous routine kept you safe, it kept you bored. You slipped into the driver’s seat and began driving nowhere. The next town you reached could barely be called that. It had a diner, a motel, one shop and a petrol station. There were no more than twenty houses and as you pulled in eyes were on you. Stepping into the shop you bought some fruit, vegetables and water. You filled your car and left, this town felt wrong. Too many gaunt faces stared at you, their eyes yellowed and their teeth blackened. As you continued your phone rang, it caused you to jump as you stared at the number on the screen. It took you a moment before you answered, holding the phone to your ear as you drove down the empty road.

“Agent Hartley?” the caller spoke, a name you hadn’t used in years. “Thank you for answering the phone,” you continued driving while trying to place the voice. “We’ve been looking for you for a number of years. Got this number from a dead man, he was sweet on you.”

You pressed your foot to the floor, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know who you are,” you snapped annoyed at the cryptic way the caller spoke, “speak plainly or don’t speak at all.”

“I can’t believe you forgot your partner so readily,” the voice feigned hurt before speaking with a darker tone, “I am going to find you, and you are going to tell me exactly what you have hidden from the Men of Letters. You can thank those Winchester brothers for me finally finding your phone number. Who knew Sam would consider you ‘Travelling Molly’. His little code would have worked if he hadn’t written it down.”

You ended the call and swore, throwing the phone out of your car window. The next few weeks of your routine kept you on edge. You reached a town, miles from any other with plenty of amenities. When you took a job in the bar they gave you a room and you kept your head down. While completing your usual duties in the bar you felt uneasy, hands grabbed you from behind covering your mouth and yanking your arms behind your back. As a set of cuffs clicked onto your wrists you looked back to see your ex-partner smirking and holding his official-looking badge. You were pulled out of the bar and lead into a car, your partner drove and pulled into a solitary house.

You were pulled inside and strapped to a chair in the house, your partner stood watching you, taking a photo and waiting. He stared at you as you looked around the room, the overwhelming smell of damp coupled with copper filled your nose. You checked your watch and waited, unfortunately you knew all of the MoL’s interview techniques. The ring you wore on your right hand began feeling heavy, the Men of Letters’ emblem carved into the side caught your eye, distracting you as you heard heavy foot falls coming down the stairs. Your ex-partner pulled out his bronzed knuckle dusters as your old boss came into view, he walked past your partner as if he didn’t exist. Your boss’ hands cupped your face as a soft smile played on his lips, he straightened and walked past you. There was a rustling behind you before a headset was placed on you and carefully attached, your boss hooked it up to a machine and turned it on to monitor your brain activity.

“Now we can begin,” he smiled and looked down to you, “tell me what you’re hiding.”

“I am not hiding anything from you, sir.” you sighed as the machine made a loud buzzer-like noise, revealing your lie, “really?”

“You’re a very good liar. This machine was designed for you. Now tell me Y/N, how did you know the Winchesters?” he asked.

You sighed, “Sam and I slept together. He was good and we kept in touch.” you smiled at the memories as the machine made a positive noise.

“Disgusting,” your ex-partner muttered.

Rolling your eyes you looked to him, “And you’re still a terrible liar. So what did you do to Sam?”

Your boss chuckled, “He’s alive for now. Answer our questions and you’ll be taken home. Refuse and we’ll begin to convince you.” He stated and turned on a video feed showing a beaten Sam, slumped in a chair.

You watched the feed as Sam was tortured, “Why?”

“Because I know you Y/N.” your boss smirked, “and you care far too much.”

“Fine. Let him go and I’ll tell you what you want to know,” you bargained.

Your boss laughed, “Tell us what we want to know and you won’t be delivered to him half dead so he can hold you as the life leaves you.”

Your eyes met your boss’ as you heard the click of a gun. Without having to look you knew your ex-partner was holding his gun at you. After a few minutes you sighed and leaned back, “God is real.”

“We learned that,” your boss hissed and gripped your throat, “What aren’t you telling us.”

“He made a new kind of angel, there are three.” you gasped out, “They’re being called Guardian. And you can’t kill them.”

Your boss stared in confusion, “why should we care?”

“Because God took a leaf out of Lucifer’s book, these angels aren’t like the others. They’re too human,” you gasped as his grip tightened. “They have powers similar to archangels, and more than anything… they are protected.”

Your boss rolled his eyes, dropping you and turning around, “I wasn’t hiding from you,” you gasped out as the bindings holding you snapped. “But you broke my schedule.”

“Schedule?” your boss laughed before seeing the broken bindings and pausing.

You laughed, “Oh that angel shit was bull. I was stalling,” you ripped the headset off of your head. Your partner pulled the trigger before screaming, the gun backfiring. “I didn’t lie about everything… I am protected, and so is the information I hold. Now I’d recommend running before its too late.”

“Who do you think you are to threaten me!” your boss yelled, pulling an angel blade and running at you.

“The newest prophet,” you hissed as the world turned white and you woke in a new place, gentle hands tucking a blanket over you.

“They’re alive. Sam is free, and you are a pain in the ass,” the voice of your friend sounded, “You know you need to be careful.”

You nodded as a soft voice sounded, “Momma, what happened?”

“Daddy had to collect mommy,” you smiled and reached to your little girl, she smiled and ran over, diving into your arms as you wrapped her in your arms looking up to your ‘friend’.

He chuckled and leaned down to you kissing you as his grace reached out to your stomach, “Our little ones are all healthy,” he chuckled and kissed your daughter’s hair.

The light surrounding you made you feel welcome and safe. Your lover smiled to you as his wings stretched, your daughter copying her father. He walked over to you and you felt hands stretch you out, your wings were considerably smaller than your lover’s and even your child’s. Your arms wrapped around the young girl as she giggled, her laughter brightening the room.

“How long until she can come with me?” you asked sadly, “I hate leaving her here. She deserves to explore!”

“Until the threat to her is less than her powers. Father broke all of his rules making you an angel, you were supposed to be a prophet, not my mate,” your angel sighed, “However, even Father saw the need for new archangels.”

You nodded and kissed your daughter’s head before he took your hand and kissed your cheek. You appeared in the Bunker where Sam, Dean, Mary and Castiel stood, he left and as the world darkened to typical earth levels the four were staring.

“Was that Gabriel?” Castiel’s voice gasped out.

[occupationalhazards-series]

Zero Hour: Track One (A Side)

[image- a drawing of a vinyl record with “Zero Hour A Side” and “Ciela, The Heir Not Quite Apparent” as the text in the center.]

Content Warnings: blood, self injury (in a non self-harm context), referenced child abuse and kidnapping, referenced abusive food restriction

In a stone lined room, a small girl lies in a bed. Her slick navy horns turn indigo in the first hints of sunlight, and the light casts a similar bright violet hue to her aubergine hair. Even the small disturbance of natural sunlight is enough to wake her, eerie mercury eyes snapping open even as her body stays stone still. Her breath pattern changes, but only barely.

She tenses minutely, and waits.

One breath, two, each nearly as silent as the last. Even with her vigilance, she hears no approaching guards and fails to sense the approaching magic of her attendant.

This small assurance is all it takes for her to spring into action, shoving a light blanket and sheet to the foot of the bed. The plain night clothes she wears don’t change at all in the light of the rising sun, their muted cream color remaining dull and boring. Her skin, however, does, the soft bronze shining a bright, magical copper in these few minutes she has to herself.

She drops to her hands and knees just as quietly as she had woken up, and reaches out under the bed. In one smooth motion, she slices her left ring finger on the prepared razor blade and smears the bloody digit on the hidden compartment under the bed. She catches the journal when it falls from the compartment, and shimmies back onto the bed, crossing her legs and settling herself into her morning routine.

First she closes her eyes, recalling and reviewing. Judging by the angle of the sunshine coming through the window, her attendant shouldn’t arrive for at least an hour. It is day four of the week so far, which means... breakfast, then free archive time. After that comes etiquette review, and that precedes sword training.

Joy.

She lets out a sigh and resigns herself. This is the day’s routine, and knowing is far better than not.

Especially on weeks when Lord Prince is around. Her huff isn't even forceful enough to move the longest part of her bangs, but her eyes flash a bright platinum.

Onwards, then. She opens the precious journal far more delicately than necessary, unable to stop herself from feeling the all too important inscription on the inside cover as she reads it aloud.

"To Our Beloved And Adored Hatchling-

May your scales grow strong,

may your magic grow true,

may your stories be told.

We love you."

Her voice is airy, but not light. It has the soft tone of someone who has had cautiousness beaten into them, and the surety of one reading an absolute truth. At this moment, the very edge of night conceding to day, only the latter sentiment matters.

Her steady breath wavers, shaking as she remembers. She wishes she was older when she left (when she was taken)- there simply aren't enough days to recall no matter how far she reaches back into her memory.

Nine years just isn’t enough, especially for her kind. (Yet four years is far too many. Funny how that works.)

She has to steel herself- mentally, of course. The strict dietary regimen Lord Prince makes her keep leaves her far too underweight to brace herself with a full body of scales like her mother.

Every day is too much, and every memory is not enough. It's not a surprise- nothing that happens near daily can truly be labelled a surprise- but it cuts jut the same.

One breath, then another. Moving on, she flips to the back of the book, and then carefully flips forward by several pages. There isn't a single word on any of these pages- just hundreds of tallies, carefully, furiously scratched in. They total in the thousands, and each one represents one day away from home.

Ciela leans over the bed and nearly falls off in her rush to grab the last hidden item from underneath it- a slick and elegant metal dip pen.

She settles back into position, noting the time as she carefully presses one preternaturally sharp fang into her left palm, slowly pulling her palm away and letting the blood well in her hand.

There is no way in all the Courts she'd use something as easily manipulated and identifiable as ink.

The blood of any and every Drake is a powerful magical artifact in and of itself, but the actual substance of an individual Drake's blood is even more useful than that- any Drake could and frequently did hide their secrets with it. (Blood is home. family. secrets. love. self. ancestry. futurepastnow.)

Blood casting is an instinctual, near primitive form of magic, taught to the youngest of hatchlings. But it WORKS.

The simplicity rebounds into strength- there must be a Drake, of sound enough mind to channel magic, and something important enough to spill blood over. Will and blood.

They are all that saves her.

One breath, then another. Focus. She writes in her journal while she can.

Dearest Elders-

I have no good news. I’m not sure I have any news at all. My attendant continues to give me leniences and graces that are sure to get them in trouble. I don’t know why. They gave me a whole bunch of ambrosia berries yesterday. My magic feels bouncy and airy and like I could fly.

I want to unbind my win

Why can’t my magic feel like this all the ti

IM SORR

I am growing, but not enough. My wings are so small I’m worr

I am small even for a human my age. I know I won’t be as big as you, Mother, but you and Father are not small people. My fourteenth winter approaches, and yet the ten-summer children of the archivist are taller. As Dauphin never ceases to mention.

The ambrosia berries were good. I’ve never had something so sweet. They taste like ceremonial wine and frost lightning and honey (It’s no wonder Dauphin pays so much for their wine.)

I want to taste some properly grown by sky fae one day. I’ll share some with you too, I promise. I haven’t grown into a selfish person without you. Not yet

I’m trying so hard , please believe me

I suppose I did have something to tell you today. I’m sorry it wasn’t important. I have to have faith that you still care about unimportant things

me my day.

I love you

-Ciela

She doesn’t cry. There is no one to trust with her tears.

Nothing to do but hide her secrets once more. She cleans her dip pen with the pitiful flames she can muster from her lungs she slips it back in its makeshift hiding place along with the journal. One more drop of blood and a burst of wild magic makes the whole thing disappear to the senses. Her hand twitches, spasming into a fist.

She can’t get rid of her rabbit pulse heartbeat.

So she takes a deep breath, and as she slowly releases it her eyes widen. Her primary, secondary, and tertiary eyelids open, and her irises glow a brilliant platinum.

The world comes into preternaturally sharp focus. Every color, every detail, stands out in sharp relief. It’s not just enhanced vision- truesight reveals magic, hidden or unhidden, wild or controlled.

Ciela takes four careful turns. Nothing can be suspect. Nothing is.

She had to be sure. She nods, satisfied, and changes the flow of excess magic to heal the small abrasions on her hand. It only takes a few seconds- they were no more severe than a papercut.

Pacing and preparations done, she heads over to the window. A hop and a scrunch and she’s settled into the rim of the bay window. She tries to look at the sky, tries to feel the clouds and calls of her own from within her cage. They don’t come to her, and it’s no surprise. She has been looking and reaching for one thousand four hundred and thirty eight days, and the closest she’s come is feeling the faint echoes of a Wyvern Call.

Either the wards are that strong, or the closest of her kin was over a hundred clicks away.

Whatever. At least she can see the sky in this room placement.

She’s too tired to glare, but the look on her face as she stares at the sky she hasn’t felt in years is withering none the less. Ciela sits near perfectly still in the closest thing she gets to tranquility for twenty eight minutes before she heads back to her bed. The stone floor is cold, and she pretends not to feel it.

A soft “pat pat pat” marks her elegant trudge back to bed. Her attendant will be in soon.

She doesn’t sigh as she pulls up the covers. Tears don’t escape without permission. Her mattress isn’t stiff, her blankets aren’t too thin, her skin doesn’t feel frail.

She thinks she’s pretty good at lying these days.

She nods off before long.

When its time for the attendant to come by, Ciela is still dozing. She wakes up just as the attendant reaches out to touch her shoulder. This is no surprise to the attendant- they have been stationed over Ciela for nearly two years, and are well aware she is a light sleeper. “Your schedule has likely been moved around, but your meal is still first on the agenda.”

Ciela nods and walks over to the closet to grab her formal day attire, assigned by the Dauphin’s attellier. She grabs an undershirt and bloomers first, one each out of the twelve identical garments in the wardrobe. Next comes the loose floor length trousers. A dull navy, they match the dark grey hip length wrap blouse’s accent and ties.

“Why? My schedule was just revised.” They turn towards the opposite wall while the young girl dresses. Their voice is low and smoky and androgynous . It seems to echo and gain volume and clarity the closer they get to the shadowy corners of the room.

"Why else? Prince is in a mood today”, they murmur. “He’s always in a mood. My lessons don’t usually get changed because of it.” They sigh, and the shadows around their cloak seem to ruffle. "Mmmm. True. It will hit the public announcements later today-the Crafter's Guild has decreed that all Ranked Crafters are prohibited from engaging in business with the Prince family. Apparently, they’re concerned about the implications of Lord Prince’s recent land acquisitions."

This warrants a pause from the younger of the two- “Really?”

“Mmm. Well, nearly every consultant Lord Prince has warned him against it.”

“ I remember overhearing something about it. Didn’t Lord Prince bid rather aggressively for an old manor that was seceded to the Fair Folk territory nearly three centuries ago?”

“Yes, and he won, too. All of his other bids have been close to Ley Lines, or near enough to another Court’s sacred territory to be just this side of politically... impolite. No one knows what he’s up to, but it doesn’t matter in the short term. This embargo will be a major blow to the business deals his family and the Court of Graves have that are in negotiations.”

Ciela makes an intrigued noise as she pulls on the blouse to tie it. "Wait. I thought that guilds couldn’t declare grievance against specific families without violating Court Law?"

The attendant hums and counters "Service embargoes technically aren't, but they tend to be risky enough anyway. I'd be surprised they had the temerity, but this isn’t a standard case. Can you tell me why?"

Ciela opened her mouth to respond, but remembered to stop and think it out first. Her brow furrowed as she carefully detangled her hair from her horns. Tight, unrelaxed curls at the scalp of her horns always tangled with the wayward stretched waves. "Because... they didn't declare a formal grievance? No, as a guild they couldn't anyway. Not against a whole family... although some might argue that the rule doesn’t apply if there’s only one person left in the family line."

"True, although any of the leading members of the guild could, and that would have it’s own implications." They said this mildly, patient enough to let the kid reach her own conclusions.

She sits down to tie the blouse and mull over her answer.

“Oh! I got it I got it! Because the Crafter’s Guild only forbid their ranking members from collaborating with the Prince family directly, and not every guild member or a specific person.”

She’s finished getting ready, but flexes her hands so she can focus to get a more complete answer. “Prince has been very aggressive in his politics lately. Is it possible the Crafter’s Guild was looking for any way they could find to keep their most skilled members from a contract with Lord Prince? Formal service contracts are supposed to be voluntary; each individual trades-person could choose to interpret such an embargo as ‘the head of the Prince line and all of his close associates.’ That leave most of the Society of Magisters leaders and management without access to some of the most reputable trades-people around.”

The shadows deepen with her attendant’s pleasure at her analysis. Encouraged, she goes on. “ I’m not sure why ethical disputes over land purchases was the thing that made them take such drastic action? If they really wanted to avoid dealing with our guild couldn’t they have publicly taken issue with... most anything Prince has done in our name for the last few years?” Her consternation isn’t all over her face, but is in the increased speed of her hand flexing, her lightly furrowed brow, and the rigidity of her shoulders.

Her attendant sits down with her, warning that they have to leave soon before explaining. “The Crafter’s Guild is one of few guilds that is politically friendly with, but not a subset of, any particular court. They are also one of the most diverse guilds, with members of many Courts, backgrounds, and specialties. The land disputes were probably picked because they would be the most plausible reason on paper. It is well known in certain circles that the heads of the Crafter’s Guild have a grudge against key Grave Court leaders-any other stunt they pull with less legal merit could be construed as as a personal vendetta using a community platform.” Ciela nods, her twitching hands slowing down. “Since they have so many specialists, they can easily claim that associating with the our leader could threaten the livelihoods of the crafters within their own guild by consequence or association.”

Ciela gets up to prepare her school supplies for the day. Some in her bag, for using in the classroom after first meal, the rest laid out on the pitiful desk adjacent to the window. “That sounds like a lot of ‘maybe’. Is there another reason this happened?”

The shadows fluttering around the attendant’s floor length coat seem to languish with their amusement as they too head towards the door. “One of the leaders of the guild flat out hates Lord Dauphin, and the other is loyal enough to her and dislikes our Lord enough to back her up.”

Ciela almost smiles before she steps out the door. Lord Prince hates that nickname. She never has the courage to say it out loud.

It doesn’t last for even a second after she crosses the doorway’s cold vacuous energy. The child’s head dips, her back straightens. They both quiet, and prepare to play their roles.

Both of them know that this fleeting moment of peace is the closest she’ll get to happy for the day.

Both of them will take it. For now.

Thank you for reading this debut! Zero Hour is brought to you by:

Ash Pana (Writing, Design, Pencils)

Jessica Song (Design, Inks, Tones)

Sasha Reneau (Zine/Print Formatting)