#the night is dark and full of terrors

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 34 - Dominic Monaghan

Lizards have a distinct smell, turns out. Kinda dry and dusty, but also…mildewy? Or at least this overgrown cave lizard does. You focus on that as you drift in and out. The pebbly hide, not slimy at all, presses against your cheek as you come more and more into your own body, and you shift your focus to the movement of muscle underneath. Wonder if big boy here is more a komodo dragon, or more a dinosaur. It’s warm, whatever it is.

It’s too had to keep both eyes open. Especially with your head pounding so bad. You open the one any wider and it’s gonna pop right out.

Every drag of air into your lungs hurts. Cause you’re folded over the back of a lizard like a fucking saddle bag. Feet tied together so tight all you feel is a scorching ache up your shins. Your knee joints is filled with ground glass. Hands still bound and every step and shift of that lizard sends shooting pain blasting up your arms.

They ain’t untied you. Didn’t even loosen the ropes. Your fingers is gonna die and drop off and them bitches called you a slave but slaves need hands to work.

They’re gonna kill you. Soon as they figure out how to get past the fucking brainworm.

Your bladder wakes up. And you realize you feel air on your ass crack. Cloth draped over your legs, but not between. A skirt? Your memories is shredded meat, but one bubbles to the surface: something breaking during the pain and hot liquid on your legs.

You pissed yourself at some point.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to bury your face against the rough hide.

They must’a stripped your pants and them panties (Astarion made that for you and now it’s gone, too). Probably so you don’t smear on and stink up the side of the lizard.

You twist your head enough to spot the actual saddlebag next to your head. Recognize the spider design worked into the leather.

Bitch Queen sits perched in that saddle, back so straight you could use her as a leveler at a construction site. You don’t say nothing. Stay still and quiet—don’t draw attention, give them nothing—but soon, your bladder don’t give you any option. And you say, in Common (sweet jesus you miss Gale), “Piss.”

They do stop. Untie your feet and drag you off to the side. Your toes don’t work no more. Feet won’t take your weight. Skinny stands there over you as you hobble on your screaming knees. He makes no move to help (not that you was expecting it). Your hands don’t work enough to hike up the wrap they tied around your hips, and eventually, Skinny scoffs and leans down and wrenches it up so hard you almost fall.

You try not to think. At all. Certainly not about the wet on your own thighs.

You want this to be over. Want all of this to go away. But it don’t. It just drags on minute by minute, second by second, and you got to be here for every part of it.

Astarion got away, at least. He’s out there, somewhere. You could reach out. Could check. Know for sure if he left you. He said he would after the river. He’d save himself. Leave you to torture and death. And as Skinny hauls you back, lifts you onto the lizard again and sets to work trying your feet back together (the pain takes the air outta your lungs), you almost reach for the group chat.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Too much of a coward. Too much a wounded animal, trying to slink to its den and lick the gaping wound shut.

Off y’all go again, and you’re stuck in the present, in your body, an unwilling passenger to all of it.

***

You know y’all’ve stopped for the day when hands yank you off. You startle, and then hit the ground.

They leave you where you fell. Lead the lizard off and Skinny pulls some kinda something outta his pack to feed the big boy, murmuring and stroking its pointy muzzle as it chomps. Bitch Queen and Short King Shithouse talk in a huddle to the side as the others lay out bedrolls and distribute rations.

They do not give you food. They do drive a stake into the ground, produce a leather cord, and tie your bound, screaming feet to that. Aside from that, they leave you be. They do not speak to you, do not sink spectral claws into your mind, and they don’t give you water.

You’re gonna die. The knowledge seeps into you, lying there in the dim light of surrounding mushrooms. People feed prisoners they intend to keep alive. Their disregard speaks for itself. You’re nothing but cargo to them. A piece of mail to take back and open up and then discard. You can only watch as they crunch and slurp through their food and drink. Notice Skinny sitting off by himself. The others ain’t really taking to him. Haven’t the whole time you been awake enough to register that. Some kinda pecking order?

And then he notices you watching. Cocks his head and looks to the huddled group of women. Stands.

You tense.

He comes over. Stops, standing over you. Looks down a second, and then pulls out his water skin and crouches down.

“Drink?” he says in Common.

Gotta be a trick. You look from the water skin to him and back. His face is blank, neutral. Your tongue sticks to your mouth, so dried out it feels it’s gonna crack like a slug under a sprinkling of salt. But Skinny just crouches there, waiting. It probably wouldn’t help them if you keeled over of dehydration? Which means y’all have to be at least another day to wherever they’re taking you?

You tentatively open your mouth.

Water gushes over your face. You try to twist away, hacking and sputtering, but he only dumps more, following you. Water sloshes up your nose, catches on an inhale and then you’re really choking. Coughing and gagging shit up. Can’t even thrash with half your body rigid with pain. Can only lie there and pant, eyes and nose streaming.

Then you manage to glance up. Catch a flash of movement in the dim light. Pain crunches into your face. His boot. White agony bursts through your skull, boils your brains. You lose a moment or three, and come to, choking again. Not on water or snot, this time. It’s blood.

Bitch Queen says something, voice cracking like a whip. The blur that is Skinny backs away and folds into a bow. One of the women nearby shakes her head.

Pretty sure your nose is broken. Pretty sure your front teeth might be cracked. Your eyes water so bad that you lose sight of everything else but dim movement. Can only roll yourself to your side—a human can drown in, what, a couple teaspoons? You remember enough of basic first aid to know the recovery position.

They leave you as you lie there in torment. You’re there a long while. Or maybe not. Can’t tell. Everything is hurt and cold. You’re alone. Always, always alone. Even when you had Uncle Randy and your cousins, you was alone. Because that’s what you know. All you know. And despite ten fucking years and counselors and therapy and medication, you don’t know how else to be when it comes down to it.

You don’t trust how else to be. Because it always ends in something like this.

You’re gonna die. Hurting. Alone. That tiny ember in you will try, as it tries now, to stay lit. But you always known that someday, something would come along and finally snuff it out. It won’t up and just let you die—you’ll keep on breathing to the end. You’ll even marginally pay attention, keep an eye out, just in case. But someday, and someday soon it seems, it’s gonna—

The drow are quiet. Not a peep. Not a breath. They’re completely still, until you catch the flutter of hand movements. Are they signing? Hard to tell in the dark with your eyes streaming.

They’re all staring intently in the same direction, though. You try to wriggle yourself enough to follow, but your body’s too fucked up. It gives out and you drop back, panting.

And that’s when you feel it. Shift to press the side of your face to the ground like some “good guy Indian guide” from some dumbshit western.

A rumble. Steady and low, it shivers through the ground.

Somebody says something. Gear rustles.

The rumble don’t change pitch or frequency. It’s kinda…familiar? You blow a blood bubble outta your nostril and try to pop your ears…

That’s a fucking birdshark. The fuck is another goddamn fucking birdshark doing out here? And is it…it’s getting louder.

Oh hot fuck. It’s getting closer. Coming right towards this camp. Why in the sweet, flying fuck—

A presence taps at your mind. It feels like bare feet on cold sand laced with sharp rocks just beneath the surface. Silver bright, like the flash of a trout in the murky depths. A hint of dark humor like licorice flavoring in a strong drink.

You crack open the door to your mind. Just a little. Still trying to keep your wibbling guts from spilling into the connection.

And there he is.

Something hisses. Thwips. A drow rasps horrifyingly and stumbles. One of the women clutches her throat. There’s something wrong with it, with the shape…

Oh. Yeah. An arrow would do that.

Drow draw knives and curved short swords. The rumble gets louder and louder, and Bitch Queen finally breaks the silence to snap an order.

A flash in the dark. Something pale. Something fucking fast erupts out of the shadows. Tumbles into a roll as several arrows hiss over his head. He comes up in a crouch, bow already drawn.

He releases. Catches Skinny, standing in the back, right in the thigh.

“Hello, darling!” he says in Chondathan. And then, in your mind: it’s his turn, now.

Which is when the birdshark explodes outta the ground just behind him.

[alicentswife1]

𐬺..*𖧞.•. Melisandre as Hecate the goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, the moon, ghosts and necromancy.

[through-pierre-lenses]

The night is dark and full of terrors

[jeandejard3n]

Game of Thrones: Burning the False Gods

[cynicalclassicist]

A scary shadow! And is that a golden stag at the bottom?

Another piece in my series of ASOIAf fan art based on medieval illuminated manuscripts. This one was inspired by the Danse Macabre motif and features Melisandre dancing with her shadow assassin/baby

[ionlylikemycat]

i’m gonna have some pakora and try not to kill myself today is going really good i’m managing really well maybe it was a bad idea canceling on my therapist this week huh

[arielchelby]

Dany Frankenstein

My submission for the prompt: The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors for Day 1 of Falling for you 2024 hosted by @iceandfirejonerysdiscord 💖 Thank you @moondancer71 for beta reading!

Daenerys Targaryen never wanted to fall in love with Jon Snow - she never wanted a bodyguard either. Officially, he protected her from her eccentric adversaries, and unofficially, he kept her breathless beneath the covers. Things turn sour when Jon confesses his deeper feelings, and Daenerys makes a choice she lives to regret just before tragedy strikes. Does she need to accept this tragic ending or is there another way?

Read on A03

Ice & Fire Jonerys Discord

[writteninthestarsinyoureyes]

[voice-of-illogical-sense]

I love this content. Thanks @whalesusedtobewolves for reblogging 😊

Tom Scott did one of those mini documentary things on it:

You may remember that I once told you something about the Halligen in the North Sea? Those mini islands where sometimes there is only one house and they are regularly under water and only the house is still dry? Well, the inhabitants have to commute from the mainland to the Hallig with a wagon and that only works when the water is low. This is what the whole thing looks like .... a bit creepy, isn't it ?

Source

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: NEVER WHISTLE AT NIGHT: An Indigenous Dark Fiction Anthology, ed. by Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst Jr.

This has a bunch of authors I already love in it (Stephen Graham Jones, Darcie Little Badger, Waubgeshig Rice, and Rebecca Roanhorse!!), and several authors I've been meaning to try (like Tommy Orange, Nick Medina, and Kelli Jo Ford, to name a few), so I'm really hyped for them all to be together in one volume! Plus dark fiction is very much my jam (especially when it comes in a bright and colorful package).

[bellatwinz]

Trish Stratus and Chris Jericho defeat Miss Jackie and Rico in a tag team match. Monday, 1 December 2003. RAW.

[king7doms]

Wishlist idea: Viserys making Daemon his Hand. Thanks.

[reaperlight]

If your ship can be matched to the song The Night We Met by Lord Huron you are legally entitled to finacial compensation

[thatswhatsushesaid]

may i interest you in the russian dub for tgcf? i mean, the dub itself won't do much for you unless you secretly know russian, but HC's VA is lowkey kinda hot. as HC. but also irl. so there's that.

anon you have indeed captured my interest 👀 i will investigate this once i am done torturing myself with last minute holiday shopping

[sunxdusk]

Briengr sat in the library of the College of Winterhold.

The glowing lanterns flickered eerily, illuminating the rows and rows of shelves and pigeonholes containing scrolls, leather-bound books, maps, and other sensitive documents that would require special permission to read. The college library was surprisingly well furnished and stocked, although the librarian hadn’t bothered to update any of the more essential volumes. As a result, most books were unreadable, written in ancient nordic writings that were foreign even to him and Savos Aren. Still, there was a good selection of Altmeri volumes and many maps of the mountains that populated Skyrim.

Some elvish maps were executed with far more detail and precision than human maps. His kin, it seemed, were sticklers for detail and perfection. Ancano would have a field day if permitted entry into the college's illustrious library.

As should every Altmer strives to be. Perfection, Came Ancano’s nasally voice, and Briengr shook his head, frowning at the memory of the bastard cornering him during lunch and daring to order him to spy on his classmates. ‘You have a duty to your people! You will not dare disobey a direct order from me, boy!’ Perhaps he’d been too hasty in assaulting the little agent. Savos Aren had yet to forgive him for punching the pompous ass in the nose, forever earning the enmity of the agent and the agent’s little shadow, who seemed to be damned determined to upstage him at every turn with her mocking green eyes and twisted scowl.

Audacious pricks. Both of them.

On the low-crafted table in front of him was a map of the mountains showing the area around Winterhold for all of a hundred leagues. Little pictographs indicated towns and villages, making their meanings easy to understand. A blue axe indicated a flowing river. A sword might be an iron mine. A boat indicated a port where merchant ships might go down the Sea of Ghosts. Major trails were marked in thick red lines, lesser ones in thinner ones. What looked like perilous routes through mountains were lines of black dots. Crossed swords indicated a battle site. An orc’s head most likely marked the lair of an Orc Hold. Looking at the map, Briengr could see that this place he was looking for ran down to the lowlands of the eastern side of Winterhold. The way was clear, but from there, it was a long circuitous route to Labyrinthian. The fastest way lay along the old roads, which faded with time.

It looked as if his little rival was right, he thought sourly. It might be quicker to wait and gather supplies for the perilous journey. Assuming he could get past a horde of undead, it would be for the best to take it slow, and judging by the number of skull symbols on the map, possibly much safer.

Annoyed and impatient, Briengr slammed his hands on the hard surface, gritting his teeth at the ridiculousness of it all. For years he’d been searching for knowledge that would complete his training in the way of the Ethereal Hunter, and now he was once again forced to wait! He didn’t know why or how, but Ancano’s pet was definitely at fault for this, and the insult of being proven wrong once again burned. "Well then," he began, tone a silken mockery as he sensed a familiar presence enter the library. "You were right all along... Lady Hithfaeril."

@ramblingsofamoonwatcher

[girl4pay]

reaction to adults on the internet taking on a perpetual victim identity to avoid responsibility for living in the real world being ‘our education system is functional actually’ helps not at all