#the fateless one

[dawnnighthour]

Family therapy in Rathir

Fello in Alyn's armor

[vorpalfae]

Alyn Shir 🗡️

my goth wife from Kingdoms of Amalur 💜

[the-insomniac-emporium]

everybody [exaggeration] I know is playing BG3 and having fun with the emotional trauma of Durge and I'm over here

like.

yes, I too am playing the game where I'm a goody-two-shoes amnesiac who is horrified to find out that they used to be a REALLY terrible/violent/ruthless individual <------ [is playing Kingdoms of Amalur: Re-Reckoning]

[ekholocationn]

what are traveling parties for if not arm wresting each other in a tavern?

characters are from @meltingchaos and I's collaborative fantasy story Song of the Fateless!!

[dankinamalur]

You are the only one I trust to handle this delicate piece with the right amount of decency. And I know you always liked my gear...for reasons.

So, as a kind of intimate reward, keep it as a memento of me and the olden times.

Maybe...until we meet again somewhere...sometime. That would be nice.

Yours,

Alyn Shir

[chess-blackmyre]

Ophelia: If Maid of Windemere evil, why hot?

Halam:

Halam: We’re doomed.

[sylkana]

not being able to have bright blue hair in kingdoms of amalur is a crime against me specifically

[czigonas]

There's a lot of my own writing that I actually really like an am proud of. Some of it is stuff other people also appreciate [Quinine] and some of it not so much [Rondo (Revolution)]. However, I've always felt that the language in Chapter 14 of After Dark was some of my most beautiful.

When she has recovered, she tells him the progress they’ve made on the Eastern front. Between her words is the unspoken threat of confrontations. Of prismere whispers and crumbling Fae. Of endings. It goes unspoken that this is the last peaceful night they will have; she leaves in the morning for Bhaile and he would no more try to stop her than he would the tide. For all that she is Fateless, the task ahead is hers and hers alone. He can’t keep his eyes off her, aware that tomorrow she will be beyond his sight. She can’t resist touching him, aware that tomorrow her hands will hold only weapons and death. Neither sleep, aware that they might never do so again. When they come together, it is not rushed or frantic or desperate. They burn long and slow until the dawn bleeds red and all that’s left are ashes.

(There's more that I could share, especially from amoung my unfinished Deus Ex works, but I think I did manage some of my best words when I was constrained by the self-imposed limits of 100-word drabbles.)

Question for my fellow writers: what's your favorite passage that you've ever written? What sentences/paragraphs of yours do you reread that just fill you with emotion and make you go "fuck yeah, I wrote this"? What hits you different, gets your heart pumping and emotions flowing? I wanna see it!

[elixrr]

ayato angst reader fucking dies and ayato has to deal with thst

Ayato x Reader：Angst

the rain falls, and you are gone.

➢ in which you are killed by his arranged lover, and nobody believes him... the aftermath.

“Y/N!” Was the only thing he could ever yell. If he could whisper it, he would, but he would swear that your name be spoken only with love and gentle admiration. That sudden situation, however, did not allow for that.

Your eyes were drifting. You couldn't look at him, and your life itself drifted away, and there was nothing he was able to do but to watch as your opportunity and future were torn from you. You could have— should have— lived longer; you should've been given the chance to grow and prosper. But you weren't given any of that.

Your eyes finally drifted off to the view of death, and that day, you'd lost your life before him.

Ayato knelt and laid you back down on the pile of corpses. He didn't care if his quality clothes were wet and muddy. He didn't care if his hair was disheveled and dismantled. He didn't care if he had work to do or if there was an important discussion soon with other clans; damn the workload, damn the papers, damn everyone who made him stay in longer at the estate. If it weren't for them, he could have saved you, but he couldn't. He didn't.

And, thus, you're gone.

And gone you forever will be.

In the past, Ayato had to see you discreetly. He courted you already, but he wished against the disapproval of the public and his workers, so he kept things secret— until one day, when he overheard the topic of arranged marriages going around, he simply had to make it public.

The person he was arranged with, funnily enough, was the person who murdered you that fateless night. The story goes as such, you were enjoying the scenery, waiting outside with Ayaka for her brother to come out, and you would stroll with the siblings. But the trickster lover he was bound to had called Ayaka over and distracted her, and her hired henchmen stole you away. Only when the screaming occurred did Ayaka run into the estate and alert Ayato— but the other girl did not. She left the grounds of the estate, followed you and her newly hired men, and she— with the clouds beginning to rage with wind and rain— killed you. Her henchmen lit torches and lit your clothes, but the girl had something else in store. She knew Ayaka and Ayato were just around the corner, and to be the wonderful hero she wished to be, she stole the torches, stabbed them, and attempted to light them— yet, the storm had begun, and she could not light them. Ayato, already behind her, pushed her away and knelt by you.

By then, the storm ravaged, and Ayaka pulled her away. With all of your remaining strength, you lifted your hand and pointed at her, and you signaled that she did it. You would've smiled, you would've kissed him, and you absolutely would've told him that you loved him, but you simply didn't have the energy for that.

But Ayato wishes that you didn't point it out. He'd love to believe that it was simply her henchmen because when he tried to advocate for you, to testify to Sara and Raiden, he was shot down. When he spoke of the situation to that other girl's father, he dismissed it.

Nothing worked. There was no evidence, and nobody believed him— not even Ayaka.

And so he wakes up and sleeps next to this same girl. The same creep who intensely watches him sleep, the same creep who Ayato wakes up to as she stares into his eyes, relieved that he's finally hers. It is as if she wanted to rub all of the pain into him— she and Ayato were married on the day you had planned on marrying him.

Ayato sighs.

The moon had risen several hours ago. The sunrise is only three hours away. The girl who murdered you is asleep, and he's awake. His eyes are baggy with dread and sleeplessness. Tomorrow marks a full year since your death, and he still lives in that day. He still relives that same hour, and he can still see your finger, your shaking, trembling finger, pointing at her. He's married to the one who killed you, and the one he longs for is dead by her hands.

Several Inazuman doctors have visited him, and they can't find out what's wrong. He's an insomniac, he seldom ever sleeps, and he only does get to sleep when he begrudgingly takes his medication for it. Tonight is simply one of those nights where he doesn't want to sleep. He longs for you too much, and he can not and will not ever have you.

He gets up from the bed, and he quietly exits the room. It is far too dark tonight, and light rain falls on the roof of the estate. Everyone is asleep except for himself. Ayato leaves the estate with only his sleepwear on.

He trudges through the muddy pathways and finds himself standing in front of your grave. Once, back when you were alive, he wouldn't even try kneeling on dirt with his formal attire. He wouldn't even consider doing anything considered inelegant or unprofessional, but here and now? Ayato could care less about the dirt, the mud, or even the bugs. Perhaps he cares a little, but he sits on the ground, leaning his back on the side of your grave. The hard, wet, and cold stone behind him is harsh against his back, but he can't care less. This is the closest he could ever get to you now, and this is a better option for sleep than a bed with a killer is.

He feels his eyes drift off. He begins to drift off into slumber. In the morning, they'll come to find him. This is not the first time, nor will this be the last where he'll be asleep by your grave. Maybe, he thinks, one day, he'll sleep at your grave, and he'll wake up in your embrace. Perhaps you'd become a miracle and come back to life from the ground, or perhaps he'll awaken in the soft, sunny heavens and find you holding him tightly, finally reunited forever.

Ayato hears footsteps. It's not yours, and it shouldn't be any ordinary person's, should it even be a person's footsteps. He shifts and turns over, and he sees a pack of hilichurls nearby.

If you were alive, he would be sure to see the monsters dead. But you're dead, and he's alive, so all he wants to do is wish that they don't come to harm anyone else.

His vision flickers.

Ayato wishes that they don't harm anyone else, but as they approach him more and more, he hopes that, perhaps, they'll find him.

And maybe, just maybe, this time will become the last time that anyone will see him asleep at your grave.

[virune]

scourge never believed that he could be happy.

after all, fate hadn't exactly been cordial with him. growing up without a mother, and also without a father, in some ways - not physically, but lacking the warmth and closeness he yearned for as his father ruled over the land, scourge had grown up deciding that he was worthless. that he was nothing.

this nothingness festered inside him. from young, quilling hoglet to scarred and snaggletoothed adult, fate had told him that he was nothing more than the villain, the evil counterpart to some perfect, adored hero, and scourge played the role, for he thought himself undeserving of anything else.

it was when he met mighty, then, that suddenly his fate seemed so strange, so questionable in its certainty, that scourge began to doubt. began to question. they did not get along at first - understandably so, as mighty was one of the good guys; not like scourge, who was a brute, a thug, a bad guy. but he could not stop his thoughts. could not temper his newfound attraction to someone so hopelessly unattainable to him that it hurt.

scourge ruminated far too many times on the way his reality had shifted since that day. when everything had seemed so sure, so set in place for him, the actor on his stage, the king on his throne, that the moment the curtains were drawn and his identity cast askew that scourge felt lost. directionless. fateless.

what was he to do, then? suddenly, giving in to his broken spirit and falling into the motions of a villain were no longer appealing. suddenly, his broken spirit had started to piece itself back together, somehow, when he wasn't paying attention. when all of his attention was on mighty.

so he stopped. stopped hurting, stopped conniving. stopped acting. he didn't want this life anymore. fate be damned. scourge wanted something else for himself. he wanted what the heroes had; trust, respect, acceptance. affection.

he was lonely. he wanted affection.

it didn't happen all at once, of course - it took time for him to convince the hero that he wanted something better for himself. wanted to be better. sonic wasn't immediately convinced, but if scourge knew anything about sonic, and he should, since they were two sides of the same coin, then he knew that sonic would give him a chance. even sonic's greatest enemy had gotten that.

scourge tried. tried the best he could. he wasn't used to it, this new way of life, but he tried. he knew he wouldn't flourish the way he wanted if he stayed where he was, so he left. inconspicuously, when everybody's backs were turned, he swiped the warp ring he needed and ran away to the prime dimension. he looked for mighty.

mighty was a pacifist, scourge had learned. stronger than anyone he'd ever met, but didn't like to fight. a year ago, scourge wouldn't have been able to understand it, but now he had a lot of respect for a guy who stuck to his principles. after all, scourge did that once, too. except his own principles didn't fit him. not really. his own principles had been like thorns digging into his skin, and he'd been running around like that was perfectly acceptable.

not anymore. scourge was ready to rip out those thorns and begin to heal.

[tekras-iszovh]

"= in my listing of tekras eras there are dead ones present from just about every one which means i can kind of, ah, line them up by age and get many unique perspectives, in theory. in reality wouldn't work - the fight would be unbelievable, to watch, but wouldn't work - but it would be funny to kind of, line up. and i could visually see growth rate. but, hm, i would inherently begin taking rankings and then reminiscing. ="

"= either way. lucky, protege, reckless, arsonist, wild, natural, seafarer, explorer, recruit, engineer, prisoner, escapist, engineer 2, cyborg, liability, mechanic, navigator, pilot, courier, fighter pilot, stasis chamber resident, asleep, revived, rehabilitated, artificial, stunt pilot, courier, robot, experiment, expert, deserter, explorer, pilot, courier, intermediary, ex-robot, natural, frail, game player, exploiter, prince, god, capable, pilot, engineer, reckless, explorer, navigator, stunt pilot, destroyer, fateless, engineer, wild, awake, thriving. i think i am getting somewhere. no? ="

[scribblertown]

Fates of the Fateless Ch. 8: Welcome Party, Unwelcome Discovery

ao3

wattpad

“Hey can I read that when you’re done?” You call out to Tilly, depositing another bale of hay for the horses. She was hanging out with you on the outskirts of camp, near one of the extra campfires, the smaller one away from everyone else.

“Sure.” Her eyes never leaving the pages. Her brows furrowed slightly and concentrated like a laser.

“Anything interesting?” You can’t help but ask.

“Well do you wanna read it or do you want me to just tell you?” she replies with a sarcastic tone.

“Hey kid, respect your elders.” You shake your finger at her jokingly. Which immediately made your brain hurt to think she should be telling you that. “I’m just bored, if you couldn’t tell.”

Her eyes scan to you and then the horses. “How goes the riding?”

“I can get on and off. Make ‘em stop and go. Not sure what else I need to know.”

“You keep it up, you’ll make headlines as the first woman horse jockey!” Tilly says with a bit of a sarcastic whimsy.

“That’ll be the day.” You approach your training horse, the one with black and white splotches. Even if he was a bit of a trouble maker, you didn’t have the heart to take on a different horse. “What’s his name?” you ask Tilly, brushing the slope of his back. Dust and hair flying off into the air.

“The horse?”

“Yeah, does he have a name?”

“Mmm… I think some of the boys call him Big Enough.”

Your eyebrows raise and your face morphs into one of disbelief. “Big Enough? That’s not a real name.”

“I didn’t choose it.” She side-eyes the two of you. “Would you prefer, Could Be Bigger?” you chuckle at her quick wit.

“No, I think Little Shit would be perfectly ironic.”

“He’s a Big Shit is what he is.”

“No, that title goes to Samson.” You both laugh.

Your laughs pitter down and your focus slips to the deep slope of Big Enough’s back. Mind wandering to the man in question.

“Has he… Has Samson done anything to you?” You ask with a bit of hesitancy.

“No, I think he’s too scared of me.” Her eyes crinkle with mischief and a smirk on her lips. It falls away when she sees the concerned look on your face. “Why do you ask?” She tilts her head and her eyes widen a fraction bigger. She lifts herself from her spot quickly, hands finding your shoulders, big brown eyes peering into yours. “Has he touched you?! I swear if he did anything, the boys’ll have him strung up like a pig!”

You shake your head, forcing a smile and a soft laugh, patting her little fingers that grip the fibers of your blouse firmly. “I just wanted to know you’re ok!” You curl your own digits around hers as you hold her gaze. “But… I mean other than just Samson. Have any of the men treated you…. Have any them hurt you?”

She ponders your question, eyes softening and a breath of air pushes out of her nose. “Never.”

“Good.” You breathe out with a smile, “I’m happy to hear that.” She squeezes your hand before letting go, grabbing the newspaper and depositing it into your hands.

The two of you jump slightly as a shriek, like that of a banshee is let out. Calling Tilly’s name.

“But if there’s one person I’m afraid of, it’s Miss Grimshaw.” Tilly takes a peek over her shoulder; your eyes follow to see said woman stomping around down below in camp with a scowl and marching with vigor. You see Joseph scramble to get out of her way, nearly dumping his breakfast all over Mr. Abadiano in the process.

Another shriek rings out into the air.

“How come she’s got a vendetta out against me recently? Haven’t heard her barking for you the past couple weeks!” Tilly eyes you suspiciously, arms crossed with a stink eye.

“Clearly I’m her new favorite.”

“Hmph! Must be, that or I pissed her off real good.” Tilly slips behind you towards the horses, quick to saddle up on her own. “Do me a favor, pretend you didn’t see me.”

“See ya.” Sitting down under a somewhat shady spot, newspaper in hand. Your eyes drift up to the date in the corner.

July 19, 1891

Not sure what I was expecting… the date’s still the same.

The news itself didn’t exactly stand out to you either. Nothing all that interesting. Something about politics, tidbits of history you don’t ever remember being taught. Likely because it was so mundane and easily overshadowed when compared to the World Wars.

Holy shit, that would be coming up in a matter of years…

Holy shit! You’d be alive to see some of the worst and best history has to offer.

Could I prevent such a thing? Could I prevent a lot of things?

You envision a version of yourself standing on a podium, preaching to the masses on how they can save themselves and their children from a terrible fate. Only to likely and without a doubt be assassinated for being a crazed woman speaking above her station.

Not to mention how dependent you’d be on the outcomes of history not going askew all because of your involvement. Even now, just being here existing where you shouldn’t exist; Could that be affecting the future?

Or… Or have you always been sent back to this time? Was this predetermined?

“Nope. Nope. We’re not going down that rabbit hole.” Shaking your head, forcing your focus on the paper. Only to fall onto a very blatant cutout.

“What the hell?” You mutter annoyed. As you gaze through the little peep hole, a body is seen approaching.

“Heey if it isn’t our little stowaway!” Swaggering over to you was none other than the infamous Uncle. A mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Whatchu’ doin’ out here all by your lonesome?”

“Cherishing my solitude.” You deadpan at him.

“Well, you can be a hermit later, we got a party prepare for!”

“A party?”

“Don’t get to celebrate too often, convinced Dutch and the boys to let us have some fun! Oh uh Pearson’s gonna need some help preppin’ the grub. And uh you still got that 10 bucks on ya?”

You nod at him silently.

“Great! Be seein’ ya at the poker table!”

As his body descends a familiar bulbous head of graying hair comes into view, Grimshaw giving Uncle a stern look before spotting you.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to do. Come on then, there’s work to be done!” 

You’d think for a party there’d be a switch up on food. Maybe something a bit more indulgent or at the very least different. But no, it was the same old mystery meat stew with a side of stale rock hard bread and hot coffee to wash it down. That or alcohol. The stuff practically appeared out of thin air. Whiskey, beer, and something that smelled like straight up rubbing alcohol.

And it went FAST.

Forcing you to bring out a new crate to the table, nearly dumping the whole thing at the sight of a certain someone taking a generous swig.

“Hey wow wow!” Closing the distance with a stark leap, you nearly spill the whole bottle down Tilly’s front yanking it out of her grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?” Hand on your hip and a stern eye. She just gives you a stern eye back.

“Enjoying myself, what do you think?”

“I’m thinking you aren’t old enough to drink!” Her face contorts into one of absolute confusion.

“What are ye talkin’ about, ye daft woman?” William scoffs.

Everyone in the circle is looking at you like you just grew another head. You feel your face flushing hot with embarrassment before relenting. “Fine!” you extend the drink back to her, only to pull it back before she could finally grasp it, “Just be sure to drink plenty of water and eat something ok?”

Terrible influences. Everyone.

“I for one am willing to forgive that terrifying display of temperance.” Uncle breaks open another bottle of beer, “But! Only if you play a game of poker with us. Or are you a stick in the mud with that too?”” He waves the mouth of the bottle at you teasingly.

“I don’t-” you ponder a moment, are you really going to admit you don’t know how? It’ll just be another nail in your social coffin. “-remember how to play.”

“That’s fine, gotta kick one of these boys out before you can join anyhow.” The five men, Uncle, Mr. Abadiano, Arthur, William, and Jie all sit in a circle with lone little Tilly who was dealing this round. “Just watch and learn from the master.” Uncle shimming in his seat with a smile eyeing his cards. You curiously watch as they each go about throwing in chips increasing the amount each round, eyeing the cards on the table displayed for all to see that would make or break each of their chances. You ask questions as the game moves forward, picking up the rules as they go.

“Ah! I bet one o’yas was cheatin’!” William slaps his cards onto the table hard, chugging the rest of his bottle of beer as he begrudgingly leaves the table.

“I know when not to push my luck.” Jie slides off, leaving with what little money he didn’t gamble away.

Tilly’s good, holding her own for quite a while. But Mr. Abadiano was better. The whole table groans as he reveals a heavy hand.

“Damn!” Her once untouchable mountain of chips topples, swept across the table to their new champion. “If this was dominos, you’d all be weeping at my feet.” She shimmies her way over to you, hip to hip. “I’ll help you out with the next game.”

“Why wait! Let ‘er hop in while the games hot!” Uncle threw his hand into the community cards, mixing them together causing Arthur and Mr. Abadiano to grumble in protest.

“Damn it Uncle! I had a good hand!” Arthur grumbles, flicking his cards into the pile.

“¡Ay! Viejo estúpido��”

“Hey now! I know an insult when I hear one.” Uncle quickly shuffles the deck before you find your first two cards. Upon revelation, you have no idea what you’re looking at.

“Ooo! That’s not a bad hand!” Tilly whispers into your ear. “Start small, put in maybe… 10 cents to start off. Catch them off guard.”

The table goes around the next few rounds, each of the men standing firm and increasing the pot. Tilly whispering little hints along the way. It’s time everyone reveals their cards.

“Read ‘em and weep boys!” Uncle flaunts.

“Tsk!” Arthur slumps in his seat throwing his cards.

You follow with uncertainty, giving Tilly a glance. She just pats your arm.

“Well not too bad kid! Let’s see how your luck runs.” Uncle flips the next set of community cards. “Damn it!” He exclaims.

“You won!” Tilly grips your shoulders in excitement.

“Cool! I guess…” you look back to the table, still unsure of what you were looking at. You couldn’t help but notice the looks the others gave you at the modern slip of the tongue. You look at your earnings, you won maybe… 2$?

William comes barging back over with a bundle of bills in his hands, “Alright, dis time I ain’t losin’!” Sitting with gusto, a cigarette and an open bottle of liquor, nearly toppling his stool over in the process.

“Haha! A glutton for punishment!” Uncle cracks, turning his attention to Mr. Abadiano. “And you, you a member of temperance like this girly here?” Only now do you notice everyone has a drink in hand. Everyone minus you and Mr. Abadiano.

“Liqueur loosens lips. Makes men stupid.” Abadiano leers at uncle, creasing his wrinkles. “You’re a perfect example of that.”

Uncle peers at him a moment in shock before losing himself in a fit of giggles. “G-good Lord! Live a little both of ya!”

“Sorry, I guess we have different definitions of fun.” you speak.

“Well what did you do for fun back… uh… home?” Arthur inquires, clearly regretting his use of the word “home”.

“Um… board games, reading-” God, what do you say that wouldn’t be too modern? Movies in old timey terms would beee… “-Plays?”

“Plays! What kinds of plays did you see?” Tilly eagerly inquired.

“There was one about dinosaurs-uh- and scientists at a park.” A mental hand smacks your forehead, why’d it have to be that one to pop into your head.

“Dinosaurs?! Like them big monsters?” Uncle asks.

“Uh-huh. It used to scare me as a kid.”

“What’s the name of this play?” Mr. Abadiano surprisingly seemed a little interested.

“Uhh… it was a local play. Not sure you’ll be able to find it very easy. Very underground.” You’re getting the hang of the poker rules by now, finally picking out certain combinations that were better than others.

“What kinda focked up town did you crawl out of?” William still can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “Never heard o’ something so bizarre in my life.”

“Sorry. Shakespear doesn’t exactly do it for me.” You reply shrugging your shoulders.

He eyes you with a bit of confusion and annoyance. ��Can’t understand a word your Fokin’ sayin’ half da time.”

“Ditto.” He just squints at you suspiciously, sucking in a drag. Eyes then glance past you and he smirks as he exhales.

“And whatchu’ want ya smug Focker?! Still can’t get any tail?” He yells, your head swivels and your stomach sinks at the sight of Samson lingering maybe 6 feet back for who knows how long, one of the larger liquor bottles in hand and a glaze in his eyes. And they’re looking right at you. He doesn’t move or say anything, just oggling you with a distant look in his eyes. “Here-” William drains the rest of his drink, much of the booze dribbling down his front and completely missing his mouth before it completely empties. “-dis should fit a pecker your size.” He then chucks the bottle with so much gusto he topples over the table, laughing like a maniac as the glass bottle shatters into a million pieces as it hits the rock wall just behind Samson. Said man flinches hard as he curses under his breath. His face twisted with anger and a mean look in his eye. You worry at first if a fight might break out. But the comfort of Arthur comes in his burly voice.

“Move along.” Arthur speaks firmly. Twisted in his chair to meet him face to face. Samson doesn’t even try to argue, stepping slowly to the side eyeing the still laughing William with disdain for a moment before they land on you again. You feel as if his eyes become darker before he finally walks off.

“Hoowee what a piece of work that feller is.” Uncle tuts, shaking his head. “Always someone to sour the mood.” He then smacks William, who is still plastered across the table, upside the head. “At least someone’s got the partyin’ spirit in ‘em!”

“Spirits my friend. I got de Spirits.” William giggles.

“We playing poker or what?” Mr. Abadiano pipes up, grumpy at the interruption.

“Mm I might call it here. Kind of too dark now, can hardly see what I’m holding.” You mutter. You make to stand before Arthur taps your arm, drawing your attention.

“Don’t wander off alone. Ok?” He doesn’t have to say why. And there’s that sort of puppy dog look he gives you. The one that says ‘I’m not a threat’.

“Ok. Thanks Arthur.”

The sound of music blasted out of an old gramophone near Dutch’s tent, playing some sort of European opera, the crusty audio bounced off the stone walls cradling the camp, echoing natural acoustics. The coupled members are all dancing with their lovers, swaying and laughing like they were in a scene of Pride and Prejudice and not in the middle of nowhere. You catch sight of Hosea whispering something in Bessie’s ear causing her to go bright red, smacking him lightly in the chest with a laugh.

You swerve in the opposite direction spotting John lingering expectantly by the group. Perhaps waiting to ask someone to dance. That someone is sure as hell not going to be you. You barely miss his eyes meeting yours, pretending you don’t see him. Beelining for the pot of stew.

There was a certain discomfort in your stomach, it had been building up throughout the day and now only intensified by night. thinking it to be hunger you serve up a generous plate. Sitting off in a little corner by the fire. The first hefty bite proves it to not be the issue. And to make matters a little more awkward, everyone decided your little corner was now the hot spot to be. Whipping out a guitar and chanting a not so harmonious rendition of Ol’ Dan Tucker. Everyone's a little tipsy and overwhelmingly positive.

Happy faces sing along, drunk and slurred but with so much joy. Swaying back and forth giving their all belting out the lyrics. One song ends and another starts. Joseph and Agatha start dancing, everyone starts cheering them on.

Except you.

In a moment accompanied by beautiful music and carefree laughter, to you it was all a mockery. Mockery at your misfortune and unholy circumstance. As if God himself was pointing down at you, igniting a feeling of displacement.

You don’t belong.

Anger rises up. Anger at whatever higher power decided to use you in their game of amusement. Why did you deserve to have your life turned upside down? Why’d you deserve the most baffling impossible curveball thrown your way?

Why’d you make me leave everyone behind?

You tear your eyes away from the sight before you to glare down with misty eyes at your dingy bowl. The same damn food for the hundredth time. The very sight of it made your stomach turn.

You’re quick to lift yourself up and away from the uncomfortable atmosphere, dropping your bowl of unfinished dinner. No one seems to notice.

You can barely see with only the sliver of moonlight to illuminate your path. Your fingers pull on the strands of sage brush as you pass, anxiously plucking the leaves and staining your fingers with their fragrance. Haphazardly grabbing a dry branch here and there, something to keep your hands busy.

“God I’m so pathetic…” You take a deep breath in, holding for a second before exhaling through your nose. “You’re fine (y/n)! You’re fine! Keep it together… “ Slapping your face each time you felt you’d break. Leaving your cheeks slightly swollen and stinging.

You repeat the process, slowly calming the tightness in your chest and averting a full on panic attack. Forcing the bad feeling down until it was just a sick pit in your stomach.

When’s this feeling going to end?

You’re pacing, wandering, with no clue where you were going. Only to distract yourself even just a little. Keep from standing in one place for too long. Nearly face planting in the dust after tripping over a decently sized rock. You stare at it irritably, throwing back your leg and delivering a hard kick.

“Rah!”

It ricochets into a flurry of directions, its trajectory changed by new obstacles in its path. The distinct sound of stone-on-stone echoes off the chipped rock. CLACK! CLACK! GONK!

Gonk?

Your eyes cast themselves in the direction of your kick, spotting the outline of a pile of sand rock nestled together in one place. Smoothed edges and worn away by exposure, lichen growing on the undersides. You circle the land mark looking for the source of the odd sound. Your foot accidently kicking away shrubbery that sat unanchored by exposed roots.

You kick another to the side. And another and another until your eyes catch sight of your stone, laying right on top of a wooden chest. Tucked tightly away in the sand rock. Hands grasping at the handles, pulling with some effort to even just slide it forward a few inches. The moon’s light revealed a worn old chest, sun bleached in places and chipped in others.

Wait a minute…

You’ve seen this chest before, while only briefly you definitely recognize it as the one and same chest from the wagon.

Why is it all the way out here and not in camp?

Why keep it tucked away from the safety of the owner’s gaze? Why feel the need to hide it? What makes it worth hiding in the first place?

You should leave it; forget you even saw it. That would be the smart thing to do. That would be the rational thing to do.

But your fingers were already curled greedily under the latches. Your ears painfully straining to hear even the slightest difference in the constant hum of chirping crickets, slowly gripping the worn and chipped chest lid as you shakily eased each latch open only lifting your fingers as soon as you were sure it was firmly touching the wood with no risk of sound. You were almost too afraid to lift the lid to reveal its no doubt controversial confines within, your hands perspiring so much you could feel the hot dampness collect under your palms and dribble down your wrists. With one more assured scan of your surroundings you made the plunge. The hinges creaked slightly causing you to pause each and every time.

Something flashed brightly as the moonlight slipped into the cracked opening, finally open just enough to see what was guarded so secretively. At first you weren’t sure what you were looking at, a bunch of papers, glittering pebbles and other lustrous bits and pieces.

It's just a bunch of…Junk?

Your brows strain against your forehead as your mind flashes through some sort of reasonable explanation for the need to hoard and hide away a seemingly unorganized and mindless collection. Staring long and hard, until the pebbles began to take shape. They weren’t pebbles. They were teeth. Gold and silver teeth gleaming out at you nestled amongst watches and all sorts of jewelry. An obscene amount of beltless belt buckles, various sized rings and bands. And paper money, some stained that unsettlingly familiar deep brownish red. Amongst the oddities laid various scraps of paper. You pick one up in your hands revealing a crude drawing of a man that only takes a second for you to recognize as Mr. Van der linde. Though a vision of him that seemed so out of sorts to what you’ve been accustomed to. A deep set scowl on his face, shrouded dark eyes and a bitterness in his expression that left no inclination of the seemingly always jolly and charming man you’d been traveling with all this time.

The picture is accompanied by text in a bold font that practically jumps off the page.

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

Holy shit…

Your heart sinks into your stomach. The secrecy and paranoia, constantly moving, the blood on the shirt, that damned feeling in your gut. It all made sense now.

They’re outlaws.

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚 ♥

i hope everyone's doing well and taking care right now!! we're coming into the colder months in the northern hemisphere, and i'm always amazed how fast the sun begins to set around this time!

tagged by the amazingly talented @thequeenofthewinter and @mareenavee !! thank you so much <3333

tagging the incredible @dirty-bosmer @skyrim-forever @gilgamish @aphocryphas @totally-not-deacon @orfeoarte @viss-and-pinegar @thana-topsy @caliblorn @boethiahspillowbook @umbracirrus @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @wildhexe and you!!!! even if your name isnt here, you're always welcome to join in and tag me!!

i've got two story snippets this week! i'm starting on a new fic, but it's going to be slow goings. the working title is "Bone of my Bone", and it's the backstory fic for Wyndrelis of my Dragonborn Trio that i've been talking about! it's going to be a good while before i can post it in full since it contains spoilers for the main fic, but i love working on this and writing in his POV!

Another gods damned rejection. Wyndrelis paced the cramped room of the inn he'd rented, a temporary residence until he'd finished his application with the Synod. Of course, this proved in vain. He bitterly crumpled the parchment between his grey hands, balling it tight until his fingers ached. The Dunmer paused and loosened his grasp slowly, fingers uncurling until the ball landed on his desk in a sorry, compressed state. It curled up next to all the other rejection letters. Quick, biting, quill-strikes. Names of professors he'd never meet. Every Synod Conclave from here to Anvil undoubtedly heard the news, and every single one of them rejected him since that night. He heaved a breath, his cheeks hot with the frustration of the scenario he'd landed himself in. He was far from home, with no longing to go back, and all his bets misplaced in scholars and wizards who would have nothing to do with him. There were other ways, of course, other people, other groups. This did little to ease his vexation.

'Mr. Wyndrelis Femer, We at the Leyawiin Synod Conclave hope that this letter finds you well,' The pleasantries had ended there. Then began the statements of fact, the obvious ban on Conjuration, the musings of how it led to Necromancy, a reference here and there of the end of the Third Era. He rubbed at his temples in small, soothing motions to stave off a headache. He plopped down into a creaking wooden chair. He rushed his hands through his raven-dark hair, his posture slumped, his body thundering with his pulse so deeply it made his temple throb, his hands shake. Anger, no. This was not anger. Frustration, perhaps, or even guilt. Guilt. A sword he swallowed whole. Ever since he was a mere boy, the Hermoric clasping for knowledge pitted his stomach, burning up until he could deny it no longer. He'd devoured every book he could get his hands on that contained any fragmentary notion of the things he sought, and when his family was not around, he'd raise his palm and work the magicka into his fingertips and he'd weave it slow, in, out, like water through a sloshing pitcher. Waves of it, smooth as silk, heavy as lead. He'd learn how to move objects in their home. He'd know how to ignite a tiny spark on his fingertips, and eventually, how to dance it between the tips of several digits without letting it falter. His parents had always despised his knack for the arcane. The curse on their name had been enough to cause his ancestors to scorn the practice, leaving Morrowind generations ago and fumbling their way into a small, mountain town in County Cheydinhal. His home would be a memory he spat out. He was no longer welcome there. He did not want to return.

the next snippet is something i typed up in comic sans to break my brain out of a cage! it's chapter 27 of "Cycle of the Serpent", on the road to Mount Kilkreath to return Meridias Beacon, although they don't really know that's what they're doing. teehee >:3c

Fateless stars align, moons rise and fall, and all Athenath wanted was to be at the Bards College right now. That's what they had come here for, that hallowed institute of the arts, the halls which they'd heard whispers were paved with plaque-decorated displays of instruments from famous bards long passed, the stone paths that wound their ways through the high-rising establishment. From the moment that he'd gotten his wits about them after the first night in Solitude, he'd stretched longing looks in the direction of the building, knowing from the groups shared map what streets of Solitude lead where, and how deeply they wished to just march up the steps themself and ask about applications. The beacon radiated a warmth every time he touched it, like the sun off a rock, or the body heat of a small animal. It alarmed him to some degree, the strangeness of the feeling, but they embraced it. The journey to Mount Kilkreath gave them plenty of time to practice their talents, and practice he did, tossing the beacon to Wyndrelis haphazardly and bouncing from heel to heel, capering down the mountain paths and through the trees with songs bubbling from his lips. Sometimes, they'd trail off, coming to a silent standstill as the words escaped him, before shrugging and pulling back into another song.

[….]

"Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red…" Athenath sang in a sprightly tone, Emeros' eyes avoiding either companion, something the Altmer had noticed. From the moment the trio had decided to set up camp until now, he could feel Emeros' personal twistings of mental acrobatics, but exactly on what, he didn't know. All they knew was that the sun shone bright off the sea, glittering like beetle wings off an aristocratic Bosmeri gown, in its soft and elegant light. He longed to dive into the sea, deeper and deeper, gather shells in their arms and sort them at the beach, turn them over and over for signs of life, for molluscs and crabs, the kind of games he played on the rare visit to the Anvil beach with his family and their old friends, scent of salty, wet fur a brow-furrowing comfort for the Altmer. They could practically hear their old friends calling him down from the mountain, humming and hawing and beckoning the bard down to the shoreline. A hand on his shoulder planted them firmly in the grounds of reality, and Athenath slowed their stride, spinning to face Wyndrelis. "Yeah! What's up?" Wyndrelis pointed down the road. "We're nearing Mount Kilkreath. Do you want the beacon?" He asked in his usual, cold voice. Athenath nodded rapidly, taking the object into their arms. "Isn't it kinda weird how warm it is?" Athenath asked with a smile spread along his carmine mouth. Wyndrelis furrowed his brow. "Warm?" He repeated. Athenath looked to him, confusion dimming the brightness of their eyes.

if you read until the end of this i wanted to give you a special thanks <3 i hope you're doing well, and i'm casting spell of WIP Motivation be upon ye!!

[falcatas]

The brainrot is so strong that nowadays I imagine my Tav, my Durge, my Rook and my Dovahkiin fooling around and being besties...

If I add my hero of Ferelden, my Hawke, my Inquisitor, my hero of Kvatch, my Tarnished and my Fateless one I will be lost. Let's not think about the nerevarine or anyone else.

[anagrammaddict]

jackdaw, wheeling in the sunset

In the mountain, there is a jackdaw with feathers whetted into spines and blackened with poison, with eyes that chase the sun as it wheels across the sky, before dipping behind the snow-scabbed slopes.

-

Everyone who lives in the mountain is nameless, and so is the jackdaw. The jackdaw is known as Hanya Si, which is not a name, but an assignment.

-

The jackdaw scavenges for young orphans on the streets, those who are also nameless and fateless, to be consumed by Wufeng, the mountain. These foundlings will die anyway, snagged by their own downy wings among the thicket of knives that is the jianghu. The jackdaw sends them to the killing pools in the depths of the mountain, and teaches them to turn against others, and most importantly, teaches them to claw and slither and writhe and live by any means possible.

-

Too much yin in your body, a swindler of a physician tells him, grabbing his wrist on the street and trying to sell him a pill the size of an oriole egg.

The physician is dead by nightfall.

That is what happens when you look into the eye of Wufeng and feel the stab of its pulse and tap into the snakes' nest of its meridians.

-

Yun Weishan and Yun Que are not the real names of the pair of wishbone sisters that the jackdaw comes to care for.

All his other nestlings are dead. Some of them have been killed by the jackdaw himself, either by swift merciful strikes in the dark, or gentle poisonings that make them drowse off into dream and never wake up. Those are the weak ones, doomed to fail if Wufeng sent them out on its missions. Better for them to die painlessly by his hands, than be caught alive by Wufeng's enemies, and have their bodies and minds stripped away, sliver by sliver, down to bone and keening ghost.

The Yun sisters are not blood sisters; they meet for the first time, among a crowd of other Wufeng novices, calf-deep in the icy mire of the mountain's killing pool.

The moment of first eye contact between them is a lightning strike of a pact. Together, they slaughter everyone else in the pool.

They become attached to each other, sharing everything from food to bedding to half-remembered poems, to the dangerous wishes that they shouldn't make. They don't laugh openly, and they are careful with their talk as they move around the mountain, but Hanya Si knows that they dream, fiercely: in each other's arms, in resolute whispers, in torn lips where wounds translate to promises, in the back-and-forth transactions of jolting awake to nightmares and forlornly consoling the other.

The fused pair of them are a puzzling strut of iron-cold hope and despair that sits in Hanya Si's chest, clamping his heart, and he loves them both, unwittingly.

-

Ah, the sun! That distant three-legged crow that Hanya Si has always dreamed of catching. The blinding mass of it, racing away, always away, from the corpse of this earth.

-

Yun Que is a sparrow of a girl, the smaller and the stronger of the sisters: unassuming and pleasant, perfect for infiltration missions.

But if a bird mother can have favourites in its brood, then it is Yun Weishan that Hanya Si secretly favours.

He found her as a tiny child, wandering alone among the streets in the town of Lixi. Later, he learnt that her mother had been a despised concubine in the Yun household, who had hanged herself from the rafters of the family's ancestral hall, and after that, no one spared another glance at the leftover child.

Yun Weishan will be a different weapon: a bride. Wufeng will choose her groom, and she will go to him in a glittering sea of dowry, red as hawthorn and gold as the sun-touched clouds.

Hanya Si trains the Yun sisters ruthlessly. He cuts them down. He drags them through cycles of poisons and antidotes. Too often, his hands have crushed their windpipes to an inch of their last breath.

Wufeng will never be done with them, he tells them. Wufeng will take their bones when they die.

He teaches them the ways of the jianghu and its array of mannerisms and social codes. He teaches them to sketch maps in their eyelids, carry poisons in their sleeves, lower their lashes and offer only veiled eye contact with their potential targets. To fit themselves into stolen names. To scheme from the peripheries. To usurp positions and infiltrate hierarchies. To spin words into consolation, pry out layers of information. To impersonate sincerity. To kill in many ways and with nothing in hand. To die in many ways and still with nothing in hand.

Better to die than be caught alive by Wufeng's enemies.

He also feeds them and treats their wounds and teaches them to identify medicinal herbs and brew antidotes.

Wufeng will never let you go, he tells them over and over.

But he also tells them, if you ever find a way, then go, and never turn around, not even for a last glance. Never look back at the mountain.

This is the only conspiracy that he seeds into their hearts.

He shares bitter wine with the sisters in the evenings, by the light of the dying sky. In the shadows, leaning close toward each other, they look like a grim hook of a bird mother and its two starved fledglings, trapped in a desolate nest.

And every time, the sun leaves them behind on the mountain.

-

Wufeng turns everything into a weapon.

The sisters dream of freedom. That becomes a weapon.

Hanya Si falls in disconsolate love with the sun. The sun becomes a weapon.

Hanya Si stays away from the sun, thinking he will learn to live in its shadow. But that too, is a weapon against him.

-

Yun Que dies first.

Hanya Si buries her himself on a wind-chewed plateau, clawing the scree apart and lowering her into the unwilling earth. Neither she nor the mountain want each other.

Yun Weishan, not trusting the mystery around her sister's death, never truly forgives him.

-

You will never see the peak of the mountain that is Wufeng. You will never see the tip of the knife that is Wufeng.

The peak is hidden in thick cloud, unlit by the sun. You cannot map the land around the mountain, nor can you find your bearings; the mountain will not help you.

As for the knife that is Wufeng, they say it has many points and no point, shrouded in darkness, moving too swiftly for the naked eye to detect. Even when the blade strikes, you will never see its tip, because by then it will be buried deep in your heart, and nothing is more opaque than the human heart.

Or perhaps the truth is that Wufeng is just another broken knife of the jianghu; it doesn't need a single point; every edge cuts just as sharply.

-

He tells Yun Weishan to go. She has passed the test.

But the jackdaw, nameless and fateless, remains where he is, on the carnage-strewn steps where a procession of blood-red brides had passed earlier.

Yun Weishan is a fleeting cloud at the edge of his sight. To look upon her face again would be hope and despair for them both.

But she will not turn around. She will never be a bird, but still he has primed her for flight all her life, and now she has fledged. He too, has passed the test.

Hanya Si kneels on the steps, the shadow of the mountain cold on his shoulders, a broken wishbone in his chest, piercing his heart.

Yun Weishan disappears. But something else takes her place: a warm wind, a cascade of blazing pinions. The sun-crow's belly is low enough to singe his hair. It swoops low and ascends steeply before plummeting again, wheeling around him, turning cloud and roof into silhouette and embroidery and flame. Hanya Si raises his hand, reaching out to a light that is neither sunrise nor sunset, to catch a feather from those fiery wings.

[dr-beetus]

Do all of them!!! 🥳🎊🎉☀💛🌈💕🪩🍜🍝🚀🤘🥌🍔🐹🐯🐅🐯🍥🦈🦦💕💕😍 💛 ^w^ <3

I got this ask, then the same from my wife, so I'll just answer this one and send it to her. Here's a link to the ask game:

1: If Crimson Was Your Colour by Witchcraft

2: Cosmonaut of Three by Orchid

3: Sea Shanty 2 from Runescape

4: Oblivion by Mastodon

5: Cirice by Ghost (start low, volume increase around 23 seconds, then again around 45 seconds)

6: Dance by Kontrust

7: Victory Song by Ensiferum

8: March to The Sea by Baroness (Song about losing loved ones to opiates)

9: Musette Maximum by Igorrr

10: Bright Like The Morning by Stoned Jesus

11: In The Garden by Red Vox

12: I Hate Everything About You by Three Days Grace

13: Rock Me Amadeus by Falco

14: Lempo by Korpiklaani (Finnish god of love and passion, we want a ren fest wedding)

15: Blue Turns Red by Fleshgod Apocalypse

16: Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven

17: Hole in The Sky by Shining (Nor) featuring Linnea Dale

18: Black Hole Sun by Sound Garden

19: Dialogue With the Stars by In Flames

20: Gateways by The Halo Effect

21: Vianna by Eluveitie

22: Nemesis by Arch Enemy

23: Eyrie by Ne Obliviscaris

24: All of Them Witches by 3 Inches of Blood

25: Fame by David Bowie

26: The Silver Sister by Eluveitie

27: Last Days Here by Pentagram

28: World Through My Fateless Eyes by Lost Horizon

29: Bolbous Bouffant by The Vestibules

30: Dawn of a New Day by In Flames

If anyone would like reasons as to why I chose these, feel free to comment or send an ask. This post is long enough as is.