#the shackled serpent

[chelsea-lat3ly]

You don't get to tell me about sad...

[zcrayas]

W I S H L I S T

Proprietress of the Volcano Manor

For being daughter to Lady Tanith, Rya was destined to have a great burden over her shoulders. Though, no one foresaw that day coming, as the Manor awaited the Great Serpent to devour the gods. Thus, the rightful heir of the Volcano Manor, the town, and the Mountain Gelmir, was never truly prepared to continue her mother's work as its independent proprietress.

As the Volcano Manor fell along with Lady Tanith, and the most of the remaining recusants and champions scattered across the Lands Between, the day became sooner than anyone ever imagined. The day young noblewoman returns, to the ruins of her former life.

Her journey was supposed to be the first steps to prepare her to take her mother's place. And now, she found herself sitting on a throne far too large. Pressures and expectations piling over her shoulders. It would be only question of time - when the news would slip outside... each might approach the new mistress, with their own intentions.

Rya is not like her mother, or Lord Rykard. She is kind hearted and gentle, without experience to run and discipline an army or hold complete control of the affairs inside and outside the Manor.

She might be a noble woman with an Ancient Serpent blood running in her veins. Still, she is a lost lamb, mourning, and vulnerable to the external influences. Looking for anyone who could give her even piece of advice during her mother's absence. Desperate under the pressures and expectations within the walls of the Manor - not knowing what to do.

Would one approach her as an ally or an enemy - an advisor with good intentions, or with a game plan? Would her path cross with someone trusting and believing in her - to guide to become a better ruler of the House. Though, that wouldn't be simple either - as the Manor has run its course for way too long.

Or, should she become a perfect pawn for ones own game. Scheming, secrets, games of chess - could once more find room within walls of the Manor. Would Rya be ready for war should one come, or would she easily submit to deals presented by challengers? Perhaps form an union, with a deal, with an engagement. A peace, would be better than a risky war, right? Or, perhaps Rya grows to be more than she looks to outside.

[nach0]

Come closer I’m so normal about my ocs I prommy

[novaursa]

Fire and Gold (to flip a coin)

- Summary: Rhaegar chooses you over her. And Ceresi never forgives you for it.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: whispers

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @naviaberries

Your footsteps echoed in the silence of halls of the Red Keep, the sound only broken by the heavy boots of Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jonothor Darry, their white cloaks trailing behind them as they followed you. You had given the order, and the two Kingsguard had brought the servants directly to you—a pair of trembling men with faces pale as ghosts, shackles clinking with every step.

Varys had whispered their names to you earlier that day, slipping the information into your hand like a coiled serpent. He had smiled that secretive smile of his and said only, “They may know more than they let on, Your Grace.” It was enough to stir your suspicions. And now, here you were, standing before them in a forgotten chamber deep beneath the keep, the only light coming from the flickering torches on the walls.

The two men, their faces streaked with sweat, knelt before you, eyes darting nervously between you and the Kingsguard. You crossed your arms, letting the silence stretch, savoring the discomfort that crept over them. You had no intention of making this easy for them. Your son was dead, and you would get your answers—no matter the cost.

“Do you know why you are here?” you asked, your voice cold and steady, cutting through the tension like a blade.

The older of the two, a gaunt man with thinning hair, swallowed hard, but he kept his mouth shut. The younger one, barely more than a boy, glanced at his companion, then at you, his hands trembling where they were bound. But neither of them spoke.

You took a step closer, your boots scuffing against the stone floor, and they flinched. “You were seen with strangers,” you continued, your tone sharp as steel. “Strangers who were not meant to be in the Keep. Strangers who entered the very night my son was murdered. Now, you will tell me what you know. Or you will burn.”

They exchanged a panicked look, the older man’s face paling even further. He wet his lips, as if considering whether to speak, but still he said nothing. You felt a flare of anger rise within you, and your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

“I do not make idle threats,” you said, your voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “My father has taught me well. If you think I would hesitate to use fire to get the truth from you, then you are mistaken.”

The words seemed to finally cut through their fear, and the younger man broke, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Please, Your Grace,” he choked out, his voice shaking. “We—we had no part in it. We only did what we were told. We let them in, but we didn’t—”

“Let who in?” you demanded, leaning closer, your gaze boring into him. “Who sent them? Who ordered the death of my son?”

The older man’s resolve crumbled alongside the younger’s, and he glanced desperately at Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor as if hoping for a reprieve. None came. “We don’t know who sent them,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with desperation. “We never saw their faces. But they... they weren’t after the boy. They spoke of... of you, Your Grace.”

A chill ran through you, cold and sharp, and you forced yourself to remain steady, your face betraying nothing of the turmoil inside. “Me?” you repeated, your voice icy. “Explain yourself.”

“They said... the boy was a mistake,” the younger one whispered, his voice barely audible, his face pale and slick with sweat. “They were meant to... they wanted to get to you. But something went wrong. They found him instead.”

For a moment, you could only hear the pounding of your own heart, drowning out the crackle of the torches and the shifting of the Kingsguard’s armor. The confession settled like a heavy weight in your chest, and you stared at the two men, your mind racing. It was you they wanted. Your son had died because he was in the way. A sacrifice for a target that should have been you.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. This was not the time for grief or for anger. You had the truth now—or at least part of it. And the rest... the rest could be uncovered in time. But these men, these cowardly wretches who had let death into your home, they would answer for their part in it. They had chosen to let the darkness in, and now they would face the consequences.

You stepped back, looking to Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jonothor Darry, your voice cool and commanding. “Take them to my father,” you ordered. “Let King Aerys hear their confession. Let him judge them.”

The two servants' faces twisted in panic, and the younger one reached out, his bound hands trembling. “Please, Your Grace!” he begged, his voice cracking. “Don’t send us to him! He’ll burn us alive!”

The older man joined in, his voice breaking with desperation. “We told you everything we know! Mercy, Your Grace—please!”

You felt a cold satisfaction settle in your chest, but you kept your face impassive, your eyes hard as steel. “You should have thought of that before you let those men into the castle,” you said, your tone unforgiving. “My son paid the price for your actions. Now, you will pay yours.”

Without another word, you turned and strode toward the door, Rhaegar’s grief-filled face flashing in your mind, the memory of your child’s laughter still echoing in the back of your thoughts. Behind you, the sound of the men’s pleading voices faded as Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor dragged them away.

They had brought death to your door. Now, death would find them in turn. And you would be there to watch when it did.

The throne room was stifling, the air filled with heat and the acrid scent of burning. Jaime stood at his post near one of the towering pillars, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though there was nothing he could do to change the horrors unfolding before him. He kept his face expressionless, a mask of rigid composure, but his stomach churned with disgust as the scene played out.

King Aerys leaned forward on the Iron Throne, his eyes gleaming with a manic delight as he watched the two servants writhe and scream, their voices high-pitched and desperate as the wildfire consumed them. The green flames crackled and roared, eating away at flesh and bone with a hunger that seemed to match the king’s own twisted desires. The smell of charred flesh filled the chamber, a stench that clawed its way into Jaime’s nostrils, making him want to gag.

But he kept his place, kept his silence, even as the cries of the dying men echoed through the throne room. Aerys’s laughter, high and brittle, cut through the screams, and Jaime’s fingers tightened around his sword’s pommel. He knew better than to intervene. Knew what would happen if he did. So, he stood there, as he had stood there before, watching, waiting, powerless to do anything else.

Finally, the flames began to die down, the twisted forms of the charred bodies crumpling into ash. Aerys’s laughter faded into a low, satisfied murmur, and he leaned back on the throne, his wild hair falling across his face like a silver curtain. The room fell silent save for the crackling of dying embers and the rasp of Aerys’s breath, still heavy with excitement.

“Let them all see,” Aerys whispered to no one in particular, his eyes distant, unfocused. “Let them know what happens to traitors who dare conspire against my blood. Burn them all, burn them all...”

Jaime forced himself to look away, his jaw clenched tightly. He wanted to turn and leave, to escape the heat and the stench, but he remained at his post, staring at the floor until Aerys finally dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. The courtiers hurried from the room, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror.

As Jaime turned to follow, Ser Barristan Selmy fell into step beside him. The older knight’s face was drawn, his mouth set in a grim line, but his voice was quiet, almost gentle as he addressed Jaime. “You’ve been even more quiet than usual, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor ahead as they walked through the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep. “There’s little to say, Ser Barristan. I have no desire to speak of what we just witnessed.”

“Is that all, then?” Barristan pressed, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Or is there something else weighing on your mind, perhaps? Something you might wish to share about the death of the prince?”

Jaime’s steps faltered, and he shot Barristan a quick, wary glance. But the older knight’s face remained impassive, though his eyes were keen, studying Jaime with a look that made him feel exposed, like a specimen under a glass. Jaime forced himself to keep his expression neutral, though he could feel the muscles in his jaw twitching with tension.

“I already told you everything I know, Ser Barristan,” Jaime said evenly. “I was on duty outside the chambers that night. I didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anything until it was too late.”

But that wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it. A memory tugged at the edge of Jaime’s mind, a shadowy recollection of a whisper, a figure moving through the shadows. He had caught a glimpse of someone that night—someone who shouldn’t have been there. But the image was hazy, the details slipping through his grasp like smoke. And even if he had seen more, he had no intention of speaking of it. Not now, not ever. Too many things were at stake, too many lives caught in the balance.

Barristan’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, and Jaime could feel the weight of it pressing down on him like a heavy stone. But then the older knight sighed, shaking his head as if in resignation. “If that’s what you say, Ser Jaime, then I will believe you—for now. But if you do remember something, anything at all, it would be wise to speak of it before more blood is shed.”

Jaime forced a thin smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you for the advice, Ser Barristan. I’ll keep it in mind.”

They walked on in silence, but the memory clawed at the back of Jaime’s thoughts, refusing to be ignored. He remembered the shadowy figure slipping through the halls that night, remembered the unease that had settled in his gut, the way he’d pushed it aside. He couldn’t make out their face, couldn’t even be sure if it was real or some trick of the mind.

But deep down, a nagging suspicion lingered, and he knew that if he were to speak of it now, it would unleash a storm he wasn’t prepared to face. He had seen what Aerys did to those he considered traitors. He had seen the fire, smelled the smoke, heard the screams. And he had no desire to meet the same fate.

So, Jaime kept his silence, pushing the memory back into the darkness where it belonged. He told himself it was for the best, that no good could come from dredging up the shadows of that night. But as he glanced back toward the throne room, where the smell of burning still lingered in the air, he couldn’t quite shake the sense that the shadows were not finished with him yet.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of goblets, and the strains of music that filled the air. Laughter and cheers echoed from every corner as the lords and ladies of the realm gathered to celebrate the nameday of Aelor, your eldest son, now one and three years old. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fruit, and delicacies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and for the first time in many months, the Red Keep seemed to hold a semblance of joy.

But even amidst the festivities, you couldn’t shake the shadows that lingered in your heart. You watched as Aelor, old enough now to sit tall at the high table with a hint of a princely air, beamed with the excitement of the feast held in his honor. His laughter was a balm, but it couldn’t erase the memory of the child you had lost. And it couldn’t quiet the voice inside you that whispered of unanswered questions, of hidden threats.

You moved through the hall, exchanging pleasantries with the gathered lords and ladies, always with a careful smile. Rhaegar was nearby, speaking with a group of northern lords, but his gaze drifted to you often, as if ensuring you were never far from his sight. He knew how difficult this night was for you. He shared your grief, even if the weight of his duty required him to keep it buried.

As you made your way toward the table where wine was being served, you caught sight of a familiar figure, draped in a gown of emerald green, her golden hair gleaming like spun sunlight in the torchlight. Cersei Lannister. She stood with a goblet in hand, her lips curled into a thin smile as she spoke with a cluster of lesser lords. But when she saw you approaching, that smile sharpened, becoming something colder, something that glinted with malice.

“Princess Y/N,” Cersei greeted, her voice smooth as silk as she turned to you, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. “What a splendid celebration for young Prince Aelor. He looks so very much like his mother.” She took a sip from her goblet, her gaze never leaving yours. “One hopes he’ll have more fortune than his younger brother.”

The barb was thinly veiled, but the venom behind it stung all the same. You held her gaze, refusing to flinch. “Thank you for your concern, Lady Cersei,” you replied, your tone equally sweet. “It is a mother’s hope that all her children will be kept safe. It’s a pity, though, that some must pay the price for the schemes of others.”

Cersei’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace. It sounds like you’ve been listening to far too many rumors. I suppose grief can make one… imaginative.”

You took a step closer, lowering your voice so only she could hear. “Yes, grief can drive one to madness,” you said, your gaze piercing into hers. “But it can also sharpen the mind, help one see the truth behind lies. Like how an assassin’s blade might have been meant for me—but found my child instead.”

For a moment, something flickered across Cersei’s face—something dark, a flash of annoyance, or perhaps fear. But she recovered quickly, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. “You sound like your father, princess,” she whispered back, her voice dripping with false pity. “Careful, or you might find yourself speaking of fire and treachery before long.”

Her words sent a chill down your spine, but you refused to let her see your fear. You forced a smile, every inch the gracious queen. “Better to speak of such things than to act upon them, Lady Cersei,” you said. “I only wonder how many more mistakes the realm will forgive.”

Before she could respond, Rhaegar’s presence was at your side, his hand resting gently on your arm. His expression was polite, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked over Cersei with a look of barely concealed distaste.

“Lady Cersei,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “I trust you are enjoying the feast.”

Cersei’s smile returned, all false warmth as she inclined her head in return. “Of course, Your Grace. It’s a truly joyous occasion. May young Aelor live long and prosper.”

Rhaegar’s grip on your arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent signal, and you allowed him to guide you away, offering Cersei a final, cool nod. As you walked together, the sounds of the feast rising around you once more, Rhaegar leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You shouldn’t waste your breath on her,” he said softly, his frustration clear. “Cersei Lannister is as dangerous as she is petty. She’ll twist your words to suit her needs.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of Cersei watching your retreat, her expression unreadable, her fingers gripping her goblet just a bit too tightly. “I know, Rhaegar,” you murmured, your voice tinged with bitterness. “But I can’t stand the way she smiles, knowing more than she says. I know she had a hand in this, even if I cannot yet prove it.”

Rhaegar sighed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a soothing gesture as he guided you to a quieter corner of the hall. “We will find the truth, but we must be careful. Aerys is growing more volatile every day, and if we push too hard…”

You nodded, leaning into him, drawing strength from his warmth. He was right, of course. The game you were playing was a dangerous one, with stakes that could set the realm ablaze if misplayed. But as you looked across the hall at your son Aelor, surrounded by those who claimed to be loyal and true, you felt a renewed sense of determination. You would find the answers you sought, even if it meant facing the fire.

And when you did, those responsible for your child’s death would learn that the Targaryen fury was not easily quenched.

[caelesjjk]

make me your villain - collab

If you’ve ever wondered how the story might have ended differently if the villain got the girl, you’ve come to the right place.

Everyone loves a bit of a morally grey villain who is only good for that one particular person. The kind that would watch the world burn for you and never think twice about it. The kind that are deadly but also deadly hot.

In this collab you’ll find an array of retold stories with that villainous twist. Please look forward to them in the coming months, as there’s no particular posting time.

TBA

Title: The Price Written by: @daechwitatamic Genre: Snow White and the Huntsman!au, angst, smut, unhappy ending Pairing: Snow White!Yoongi x Hunts(wo)man!reader Summary: The Queen is responsible for everything you can claim: your home, your job, your freedom. You live without laying claim to anything else, lest the Queen leverage more pieces of you in exchange for her grace. But freedom isn’t free, and the Queen has just named her price: the young blacksmith, Min Yoongi.

Title: The Surface Written by: @moni-logues Pairing: prince merman!Hoseok x sea witch!reader Genre: fairytale AU/The Little Mermaid AU, angst, smut Summary: Prince Hoseok has only ever wanted one thing: to experience life on the Surface. You have only ever wanted Prince Hoseok. When he comes to you, desperate, claiming you are the only one who can help him, you decide to play along. You'll help him achieve his dream and maybe you'll satisfy your own dream, too.

Title: Red Written by: @sailoryooons Pairing: Werewolf!Namjoon x f. reader Genre: Supernatural, thriller, smut Summary: For as long as you can remember, your village has been relatively normal. But when people begin to turn up dead right after a group of newcomers arrive, pieces of your past start to fall into place, and something feels familiar - particularly the quiet man who can't take his eyes off of you.

Title: A Good Day To Die Written by: @here4kpopfics Pairing: Jimin x reader Genre: Robin Hood!au, enemies to lovers, smut, violence, royal shenanigans. Summary: With a royal wedding looming around the corner, everyone is running around in circles to make sure everything goes according to plan. Three days before the wedding, however, the princess is kidnapped by the infamous outlaw, Park Jimin. Or was she?

Title: Serpent & Nightingale Written by: @caelesjjk Pairing: Captain Hook!Taehyung x f. reader (grown version of Wendy) Genre: Peter Pan AU, Fairytale AU, Villain gets the girl, angst, smut Summary: You needed to escape him. You needed to get as far away as you could so he could never bring you back. So you make a deal with the pirate you’ve been told to loathe most of your life. The pirate that you read stories to when you were a child when had no other way to save him. The pirate who insists you seal your deal with a kiss in order to board the Jolly Roger and join him in Evernight, the island he calls home.

Title: Golden Shackles Written by: @gimmethatagustd Pairing: sorcerer!jungkook x genie!(f)reader Genre: Aladdin AU, fantasy, royalty, angst, smut Summary: For thousands of years, you’ve been forced to grant the wishes of greedy men who want nothing but power. When you fall into the hands of a royal imposter, it’s his rival for the throne who becomes your only hope for freedom.

[forestdeath1]

Sirius being locked up at Grimmauld Place is both tragic and poetic — a cyclical tale, a serpent biting its own tail. The last Black, confined in a house that serves as a living reminder that no one else is left alive. The one who was the family’s greatest hope became the seal on their ultimate demise.

He hates Grimmauld Place not just because it was a terrible place for him. He hates it because it is a living reminder of everything lost — his childhood, his brother, his father, his mother, the Blacks. His family. To clean the house is not solely because he despises it. But to clean it because every part of it is woven with a tangle of memories.

Cleansing the house is the farewell he never had. Sitting in his mother's room is living through the grief he never fully embraced.

A man without a shore to anchor to. Once, James might have been that shore, but never completely; James was never fully there for him. No one can ever replace the family he once had. A family that loved him in their twisted way — terrible people, fanatics, but still his family, and they loved him. You hate them and feel ready to tear them down with your own hands, yet deep down, you are still that little boy whose mother sang him lullabies, and whose father showed him his first wand movements.

Sirius is a prisoner not just of walls, but of the lingering past, forever shackled to the Blacks.

[hawkinshorror94]

Hi there! I was wondering if I could get an Astarion x fem reader where they help clean up and comfort Astarion after he defeats Cazador.

I hope you enjoy! As I wrote this I listened to a song called Serpents by Sharon Van Ettan and I linked it because it fits Astarion and Cazador's abusive dynamic. This reads as gn! Reader so you can imagine they are AFAB

The look on his face was one of stone, not seeing or hearing, he was effectively shut down as you cleaned the blood from his face and hair. He was numb, his fingertips and toes had little feeling and his mind was foggy with broken images of the days and years of abuse. Of the spawn, of Cazador of you.

“Are you okay?” You ask quietly as you bandage a nasty cut on his hand. It’s deep and nearly to the sinew but he seemed not to notice as you cares for it.

“No.” His voice is broken and soft as he speaks that word. No was okay, no you could deal with till the answer is different. When he looks up at you with his crimson eyes they have watery tears unshed on his lashes.

“That’s okay.” You assure him cupping the sides of his face. You wanted your touch to be grounding, a soothing balm to his breaking heart. You lower you both to the floor of his tent allowing his head to rest in your lap and he cries.

He cries for his sins and Cazador’s. For a life lost and one gained. He clung to you like a light in the darkness and maybe that’s what you were his lighthouse. His light and his love.

“I keep thinking he isn’t gone.” Astarion murmurs into your trousers as he clutches the fabric in his fist. Your hand smooths his downy curls and across his jawline, your hands ghosting against his marbled skin.

“It’s me and you Star,” You whisper softly and he clutches you harder. He moves closer to your chest so that he can hear the sound of your heart beating rhythmically in your ribcage. Steady, you are here and so is he.

“I feel like I'm still shackled to the floor on a ratty mattress while he laughs over me. I never want to be weak like that again.” He wails out softly and you feel tears prickling your own eyes. But now isn't your time to cry

“You were never weak.” You murmur pressing your lips to his forehead and he closed his eyes at the warmth of your skin. You were here and so was he, alive, living. Cazador was lying dead, amongst strewn corpses in that awful crypt but he was here with you. Free.

[trappolia]

HOUSE OF ERIDIA ── touchstarved x reader, high fantasy au

“Among the monarch's most intimate inner circle was their Master of Whispers (...) sharp and cunning, the mastermind of an intricate network of spies and informants that ran through the high aristocracy within the walls of the palace, down to the most slimy backwaters of the kingdom's outskirts. The truth of LEANDER’s threat, however, laid within his charm (...) it is said that not even his most beloved Eminence trusted him.”

Leander was devoted— as devoted as a man of such skill in less than legal information brokering could be, at least. Often times you wondered whether he was worth trusting; so much information he laid out at your feet like a suitor would bestow upon you with golds and jewels and fine silks, and just as much he kept away from you. Perhaps it was unwise to bestow upon the fickle position of Master of Whispers to a man who shared your bed, but never his own secrets-- or perhaps you thought too much of him. You did, after all, cradle your own secrets to your chest.

“To one such as the monarch, who clung onto their religion as if it were drywood amidst the furious seas, KURAS was a strange sort of salvation in himself (...) rumoured to be otherworldly, golden-eyed and infinitely wise not only in his knowledge of forgotten, they claimed him a lost eldritch being, shunned by the highest deities of the sky. Others said that he was a deity himself. But what deity hid in the shadows of the throne and kissed the feet of the mortal that sat upon it?”

Amidst the fickle serpents' game of politics and war, there was a superficial solace to be found in the religion you were raised in as a child. From that faith, your devotion extended to a gift from the gods laid at your door, the golden-eyed angel that you were not quite sure existed till they bestowed him to you. Strangely enough, he treated you with the same sort of reverence— as an acolyte might to their own deity. Yours was a strange relationship, a push-and-pull of prayer and religious guilt. Both of you hid your unholiness within a facade of worship and idolatry. You did not know why he has come, but you knew he saw you for what you were and bent the knee anyway. Be not afraid, he said. And so you were not, blindly so.

“The paramour was flame-haired and quick of the tongue, an exotic pet that graced the bed of Their Majesty easily enough once lured with the promise of lavish gifts and security (…) VERE traded his ugly iron shackles for a prettier set of golden chains, but he was not so cunning so as to let himself be lured in by the false promises of what he called “these damned monarchs”.”

It was not an uncommon feat for monarchs to take paramours even after marriage, but if the whore picked from the streets of silk was pretty enough, it could warrant the envious whispers of enraged nobles no matter how high a position one may hold within the royal family. Fortunately, Vere played the game of thrones well, you must admit. Of all the lovers and paramours you've taken over the course of your rule, he is the one you have to worry about defending in court the least… though his knowledge and skill holds up a different problem for you entirely. Perhaps your Small Council does speak some truth when they warn you of the lies he could entrap you in…

”THE STRANGER came like death on a misty night in the dead of winter. Who were they? What reason could they have to lurk around the castle halls, to indulge themselves in the benevolence of the monarch of which they did not worship? What did they seek, and why was Their Majesty so eager to offer their aid?”

A ruler as kind and benevolent as yourself was not so arrogant so as to be oblivious to the suffering of the smallfolk. Many called you naïve, too young to carry the burden of the crown, but you have inherited centuries of peace from your parents, and are intent on continuing such tradition. That is, perhaps, the reason why you welcomed MHIN into your palace that night, turning down your council’s suggestions of torturing them — where they’ve came from, why they’ve come, how a commoner possesses a gift for the magic arts. You offer them bread and wine and a place of rest, speaking nothing of how you’ve noticed their eyes flit about— not warily, but searching. It is naïvety then, in your hopes that MHIN finds what you seek in you, despite your sureness that you will one day stand at opposite ends of a looming war.

“Rare was a monarch who did not indulge in illicit affairs, whether it be a matter of simply flesh or true romance— but what transpired between Their Majesty and the creature of Crimson Grotto was so twisted that their story was told as both urban legend and warning even a millennia afterwards. But in the most desperate of times, even the most noble of the gods’ chosen are capable of such sin.”

AIS was already a figure of urban legend when you came to him him, a sopping wet half-adult playing dress up in an oversized crown and velvet robes weighed down by the grimy water that stained its hem. He never did tell you whether the stories you’d heard were true, only confirmed that yes, he is capable of what you beg him for. He thought of you foolish, to make a deal with an eldritch creature — or, at least, the vessel of one — but he realised too late that he’d gone off the deep end with you when it came to this deal. In the end, there was only his hope that they would not liken you, so good and so bright, to the hopeless thing that is whatever is left of him. Or, perhaps, it will be a last mercy to both of you, to be known in history side-by-side, mentioned alongside the other always— like a single entity.

© trappolia 2024

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Two digital drawings. The first features Temenos Mistral and Aelfric in a medieval-style composition. The second features Kaldena and Temenos posing together in a study. There are full descriptions of both drawings under the cut. End image description.]

godsbride / goodwife

happy birthday @maverickflare <3

[Image description: In the first drawing, Aelfric sits on his stone pedestal outside the Flamechurch Cathedral at night. He wears a flowing white dress, a black long-sleeved undergarment, and a teal cloak. He also wears a gold belt and bracelet, and the medallion on his cloak depicts the Sacred Flame. His face is almost entirely eclipsed by a shining white halo; only the outlines of his narrowed eye, lofty smile, and long, curly hair can be seen. In one of his hands burns a blue flame, while the other hand cradles Temenos Mistral's face. Temenos looks up at Aelfric with an expression of dread and reverence, sweat beading on his cheek. The illustration has a border of gold and lapis lazuli that includes medallions at its corners and midpoints, which depict various other characters. At the top center is Crick Wellsley, holding up a red book so that it covers the lower half of his face; he looks directly at the viewer with a shadow over his eyes. On either side of him, as well as at the bottom center, are three angels with shackles around their necks. They smile placidly and hold their hands up in supplication as they gaze at Crick. At the middle left is Pontiff Jörg, looking tiredly off to the side. At the middle right is Roi Mistral, looking downwards with a troubled expression. All of them are drawn with blue haloes. The bottom left medallion shows Aelfric's hand reaching around Temenos's neck; his eyes are hidden, his face is flushed, and his mouth is slightly open. The bottom right medallion is shattered. Between each medallion, a poem is written in Orsterran script and framed by arabesques. The red background beyond the border, decorated with eight black, winged, haloed Sacred Flames, completes the poem. It reads: "THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a devouring fire / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a destroying angel / THE FACE OF MY LORD / disturbs slumberers in the night / THE FACE OF MY LORD / menaces children at church / THE FACE OF MY LORD / does not appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / cannot appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a wreath of tears / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a broken mirror"

In the second drawing, Kalenda sits at a desk in an intricately carved wooden chair. She wears a plum-purple tailcoat, wine-red waistcoat with a dotted pattern, black trousers, and a white shirt with ruffles at the wrist and a black ribbon at the collar. On her left hand, she wears three silver rings; on her right hand, she wears a gold ring on her ring finger. A flower-decorated bowl holding a pomegranate, plum, and grapes sits on her desk. In her right hand is a lychee. Temenos stands behind her, bracing his left hand on the chair and resting the other playfully on Kaldena's head, seemingly reaching for the lychee. He wears a white shirt, black waistcoat, yellow-green waistscarf, and teal trousers which are heavily embroidered with nature imagery. He also wears a pearl earring; a matching gold ring on his right ring finger; and a gold necklace with a pendant of Crick, who is haloed and holding his right hand up in a gesture of blessing. Kaldena and Temenos are both looking at the viewer and smiling. The simplistic background shows an entrance to another room as well as a tall bookcase, with the top shelf holding a vase and two figurines of a griffin and winged serpent. End image description.]

[blasphemousclaw]

Rykard social media feed:

“Only by embracing the strength of the Great Serpent may we throw off the shackles of the gods. Click HERE to donate to the Church of Eiglay, or sign up to give yourself up as a sacrifice!”

“Introducing the ABDUCTOR VIRGIN: a new, never-before-seen, cutting-edge innovation in weapons of war, designed specifically for the Volcano Manor’s noble struggle against the armies of the Erdtree.” [most horrifying image you’ve ever seen]

[pic of the minor erdtree on fire]

[art commission of the erdtree burning]

“Through strength, unity, and taking by force, we shall claim our freedom from the gods’ tyranny once and for all. If we must descend into blasphemy and sin to end their reign of terror, then so be it.”

[thirst trap]

[quote retweet of Elden Lord Radagon Official’s post] you should kill yourself… NOW

[retweet of General Radahn celebrating Leonard’s birthday]

[elenthyaolyenths]

DAY 14 - «On Thin Ice» Good Omens AU - Triptych Tribute for @blairamok  

Part 2/3: "Fallen Serpent" Crowley

Please, listen to this

Race

Life's a race

And I am gonna win

Yes, I am gonna win

And I'll light the fuse

And I'll never lose

And I choose to survive

Whatever it takes

You won't pull ahead

I'll keep up the pace

And I'll reveal my strength

To the whole human race

Yes, I am prepared

To stay alive

I won't forgive, the vengeance is mine

And I won't give in

Because I choose to thrive

Yeah, I'm gonna win!

Race

It's a race

And I'm gonna win!

Tomorrow, they will be together for the Grand Finale... See you there! ;-)

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Don't forget to 💕/ reblog ;-)

↓Come on, check the behind-the-scenes!↓

Personal challenge: a simple sketch each day

Goal: forcing me to keep things simple - inking, shading, just a few sashes of colour

Improvement pursued: to get the movement, the emotion, finding how to add depth, learning how to leave things barely finished

Max time allowed: 2 hours, as usual for my Daily Challenges.

Tribute Time, so I threw the timer away, lol :-p. As for my Fallen Angel Aziraphale (link), I spent more or less 3 hours on the lineart, plus 1h30 on the colouring/shading.

Crowley, as my « Fallen Serpent ».

“On Thin Ice”'s author Blairamok describes the Cantilevers figure as « one of the biggest fuck yous to physics », and so one of Crowley’s signature moves. As I was searching drawing references about this amazing figure, I found a lot of ways to perform it, all beautiful and impressive. I finally chose this particular one (I am sorry I don’t know the original performer’s name on the picture I used, but to me he seemed so powerful, yet relaxed and happy on the picture, so I couldn’t resist). Though I had to slightly re-adapt the figure to Crowley who is taller, thinner and maybe even more flexible (ssssnaky, duh).

I had so much fun re-thinking his clothes for my sketch. I used the scrumptious💕 black and red « Serpent » clothing that Blairamok created, and I added my own « signature move » : wings – or, well, feathers. As Crowley is THE Fallen Angel here, the feathers are slightly burnt, some of them almost torn apart. They cover his shoulder blades, then spread out as a unique short and damaged wing at the back of his right shoulder, go down on his right flank, then cross his back as they slightly go embracing his left hip. The Red Serpent Pattern is quite the same as Blair’s clothing, but it still continues on his leg and circles his right ankle like a leg shackle.

I am particularly proud of Crowley’s eye and expression. Remember? I dearly wanted Crowley sharing a glance with Aziraphale while he was doing his Cantilevers, and Aziraphale was supposed to glance back to him. I had to give up on this idea later – because the figure I chose for Aziraphale definitely couldn’t allow such a shared glance. (but wait for the third part of this triptyque, it will be posted tomorrow!)

So, my Crowley still has this ethereal, strangely happy, almost enthralled expression. It kind of represents my own interpretation of the Cantilevers figure : it’s a proof of complete trust, in yourself, in your skills, in your art and your environment. And I like to imagine that if Crowley is able to have such confidence in himself, then maybe he can and will trust his partner Aziraphale with quite the same strength.

Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow for the third part - our Ineffable Partners will be toghether, finally! (aaaand they will be not talking but whatever the acting will speak for them)

[Previous] [Next Day] [First Day]

Don't forget to 💕/ reblog ;-)

[user-needs-new-hyperfixation]

something that's been tickling my brain for the last couple of days and kind of bugging me is that seemingly from the extras (Xie Lian being powerless against the amnesia monster etc), breaking his cultivation really DID sap Xie Lian's power.

Like. Okay. So Xie Lian spends the bulk of the story with his power shackled, reliant on borrowing it from other people when he needs it. And then there's this huge pivotal moment when he is freed from those shackles by Hua Cheng's sacrifice, freed by love to be empowered and fight his own battle, etc etc it's very beautiful. And then Hua Cheng comes back and they get married and the consummation of that same love that freed him strips him of his power and puts him right back to having to borrow it?!?! (albeit sexily😆) As much as I love this story, I'm having a hard time being satisfied by that.

My instinct is to want something like this: We know that in this universe the beliefs of the worshipers have at least some impact on the gods they worship. Xie Lian hasn't had worshipers besides Hua Cheng in centuries. And the new followers he's slowly gaining worship him as he is, not as he once was. They're barely aware of him as a prince, or of Xianle at all. They don't know or care what his cultivation path was. They just know that he was with them in Banyue Pass and Mount Yujun and so on; that he faced the serpents fearlessly and that he fought off the ghost brides and that he is kind and compassionate and brave and also clumsy and a terrible cook. They know him helping in the fields outside Puqi Shrine with a handsome lad in tow. And so when he breaks his vows to seal new ones, Xie Lian expects to lose his power. But when he reaches tentatively for it afterwards, he finds it all still there. Because no one needs him to be a virgin anymore. No one needs him to be free from anger or competitiveness or sorrow or love. No one needs him to push aside every human impulse and desire and emotion. The worship of those who love him -- and most especially of the One who loves him most -- frees him to be the god he is, and to have power as he is.

Anyway. This isn't necessarily a critique so much as a question...am I missing something? Because I very much like MXTX's writing and it's generally very intentional so that's entirely possible. Is the way I would like just too obvious? Too happy an ending with no downsides? Is there some narrative theme I'm not quite grasping? I would love to hear (kindly voiced 😅) opinions!

[sincerelyamee]

You fell into an uneasy slumber, your mind fraying at the edges and your exhaustion warped into nightmares — Sukuna’s unmistakable silhouette grinning wickedly amid the smoldering wreckage of what had once been department stores and office buildings.

Those crimson eyes seemed to sear straight through you, piercing into the deepest recesses of your soul with sadistic delight. His razor-sharp smile was that of a primordial predator scenting fear in the air as he reached out to you with deceptively inviting arms.

“Are you not tired of this pathetic, shackled existence?” Sukuna’s deep timbre resonated with hypnotic charisma, strangely soothing despite the malevolent undercurrents. “Why choose to be weak? To be afraid? When you could be so much more…”

His honeyed words slithered through your psyche like venomous serpents, paralyzing you in unwilling awe. City ruins stretched behind him in a hauntingly familiar scene of catastrophic destruction. 

As his laughter echoed all around, you found yourself utterly transfixed by his presence. He looked so cold and cruel. 

And powerful.

And… magnificent. 

You knew this was nothing but a fever dream. The product of all the stress and anxiety of the past few days. Still, when you looked into his eyes, so full of sugary malice and perverse divinity, you felt it - that yearning darkness unfurling deep inside you, whispering how intoxicating it would feel to step into his embrace, to become more. Even if it would mean getting devoured whole by the insatiable void eternally stretching behind his vicious gaze. You teetered on the precipice, suspended between visceral horror and terrible, terrible longing.

Eventually, your subconscious lost its tenuous grip on reality. You tumbled helplessly deeper and deeper into oblivion, consumed by darkness. Your panic gave way to an eerie sense of weightlessness. All your senses unraveled at the seams.

[ptn-imagines]

Can we have some headcanons for a romantic relationship with Cinnabar please? The reader might be either a chief or a sinner, it's up to you

This finally got me to finish Cinnabar's interrogation, and I'm glad it did! As a note, usually if a gender isn't specified I try to write gender-neutral, but there's enough subtext with Cinnabar that I'm not comfortable writing her romantically with anyone masculine-leaning, so I opted to write for f!Chief.

Romantic relationship between Cinnabar and f!Chief

By far, Cinnabar is probably the most normal partner in the whole MBCC that Chief could have picked – aside from perhaps Nightingale – and it shows.

There was no crazy romantic confession or outlandish gesture with these two. Heck, there wasn't even alcohol involved – just some coffee and cake slices at a cozy coffee shop Cinnabar took Chief to on one of her rare few days off.

Cinnabar was the one who confessed, and to her credit she managed to keep her voice more or less steady, even if she did blush as red as Cabernet’s hair.

(Chief later found out that her comrades at Serpent Eye had egged her into finally confessing, which made why the usually professional and somewhat emotionally shy Cinnabar suddenly confessed make sense.)

Compared to other Sinners, settling into a relationship with Cinnabar was… surprisingly easy. She was aware of Cinnabar's temperament, but also of every other Sinner's – so when nothing really seemed to change, Chief wondered if they'd done this wrong somehow.

Of course, it quickly became apparent that Cinnabar was being shy, even with the recent change in their relationship status. It was adorably endearing, and Chief began to try to think of ways to encourage Cinnabar to be a bit more confident showing affection.

It takes time, but Chief’s patience bears fruit. She’s able to get Cinnabar comfortable with hand-holding! It’s not much, but it’s honest work.

Given all this, Chief was surprised the first time Cinnabar entered her office, looking weary after a long and difficult dispatch – and pulled Chief into a gentle embrace.

Surprised, but not at all protesting. Any words died on the Chief’s tongue as she quickly wrapped her arms around the Sinner in kind, but this unusual behavior still worried her; reaching out with the shackles, she discovered that Cinnabar was even more tired than she had initially seemed. She wasn’t physically harmed, thank God, but even so… Cinnabar was an Endura Sinner for a reason. Seeing her this worn down to the bone set so many alarm bells ringing.

That night, Chief broke several Bureau rules and allowed Cinnabar to sleep with her in her bed. Cinnabar didn’t even protest the breach of etiquette, which only made the Chief even more worried. Just how exhausted was she? She was more than happy for the chance to cuddle with her usually hesitant partner, but…

When Cinnabar woke up the next morning, she was mortified at the breach in protocol. She apologized over and over, saying that she shouldn’t have let herself be so improper with the Chief, girlfriend or not. Nothing Chief said could change her mind, and her propriety was as endearing as it was frustrating in this particular instance.

Chief ended up telling Cinnabar she’d “let her off with a warning,” though she had no intentions of punishing the Sinner if this happened again. Of all the Sinners in the Bureau, Cinnabar was the least likely to try to take advantage of what had happened and make a habit out of it, so Chief saw nothing wrong with her seeking comfort and relaxation in a moment when she truly needed it.

Still, the Chief did order Cinnabar to rest for the next week, worried about her wellbeing. Cinnabar didn’t make a fuss about it, but it became evident by the second day that the Sinner was restless and more tense without something to do, so Chief had Cinnabar stand guard over her. It wasn’t like anyone was likely to be able to harm her in her office, and they both knew it, but it worked nevertheless; Cinnabar was able to wind down a little with something low-stress to do, and Chief got to enjoy her girlfriend’s company. This whole routine quickly became Chief’s go-to whenever she noticed Cinnabar was overworking herself.

Due to the workaholic natures of both Cinnabar and the Chief, dates for them are usually small outings tacked on after a mission, before they return to the Bureau. A walk around the block holding hands, or small talk over tea and cakes in a cafe; these dates are never anything grand, but then again, they wouldn’t want it to be.

The first time Cinnabar and Chief kissed is a moment neither of them will ever forget. It was in the wake of a particularly strenuous mission that had left the two of them stranded in a danger zone, hiding from Corruptors as they waited for a rescue team to come retrieve them. Huddled tightly against Cinnabar’s warmth, feeling her heartbeat, seeing her brows drawn and a light frown on her lips as she concentrated…

Adrenaline and impulse guided Chief to place a quick kiss on Cinnabar’s lips. It was a good thing that the bodyguard had already cleared out the nearby Corruptors or this could’ve proved a fatal distraction; Cinnabar’s concentration immediately broke as she flushed tomato red, staring at Chief with mouth agape and eyes wide. She seemed at a loss for words – but judging by how she leaned in for another kiss, she wasn’t unhappy.

Kissing Cinnabar didn’t happen often, despite everything, so Chief found herself cherishing whenever it did from then on. The kisses were far from perfect – neither of them had relationship experience before so figuring the whole technique out was a process of trial and error – but it was them, and that was what mattered.

Of course, Cinnabar brought Chief along whenever she went to visit Serpent Eye, and Chief was quickly accepted as part of the family. Though both she and Cinnabar blushed whenever someone joked about the two of them marrying, which they did often – remarking on how lucky Cinnabar was to “have a wife as perfect as this” was a common one that neither of them ever got used to.

[houseboywife]

The primordial serpents of Dark Souls: there is something under the surface

Kingseeker Frampt and Darkstalker Kaathe are two characters that I would define as quite nebulous. Only appearing in person in Dark Souls 1, their presence nonetheless is felt even in future installments. But what exactly is their deal? It's a rather difficult question to answer, for a simple reason: they can't be trusted. At all. This post isn't gonna be a sort of unified theory on who the serpents exactly are: however I'll try to compile most of the information we know and can infer about them and why there's way, way more to them than what meets the eye. Waaaaay more. Yeah this is gonna be a long post. VERY long. But, in my humble opinion, quite thought provoking. Disclaimer: probably not all of the following was intended by the writers. But you know, death of the author and all. I think it's fun to speculate and create meaning even where there might be move.

That said, let's start with the Serpent Species.

Besides Frampt and Kaathe, the Dark Lord ending of Dark Souls 1 (which we'll get back to later) shows us a large number of Primordial Serpents, so we can assume that there's a whole species of them. Maybe. It's never brought up again. Nonetheless, there are several things we can infer about the Serpents in general, or World Snakes as they're known in japanese.

First off, presumably, they're ancient. Duh. How ancient? From the age before the First Flame, possibly. In Dark Souls 3, the description for the Covetous Silver Serpent Ring reads as follows:

A silver ring depicting a snake that could have been, but never was, a dragon.

Interesting. So snakes (or at least some of them) are some sort of imperfect, malformed dragons. Additionally, Dark Souls 3 shows some statues depicting a more humanoid version of the Serpents, of which we can ordinarily only see their heads. Considering their depictions are very different to each other, I'm assuming it's just an artistic interpretation and the sculptors didn't actually know what they looked like. However, one should note the locations of these statues: the Grand Archive (probably connected to Seath's Duke's Archives) and the Ringed City ("gifted" by Gwyn to the Pygmy Lords).

Now, let us talk about Frampt.

That Kingseeker Frampt is lying to you isn't exactly a groundbreaking fact. After all, this close confidant of Gwyn is in cahoots with him regarding the prophecy of a Chosen Undead, a made up folk story to get some poor undead bastard to throw themselves in the fire in order to kindle it once needed. This is all bullshit obviously, there's no such thing as the prophecy and the kindling of the fire is an unnatural sin performed by Gwyn. This means that Frampt is manipulating you with incomplete information in order to get you to link the Flame. One would assume that this would be his ultimate goal.

Or is it?

There are several odd things about Frampt.

For starters, as mentioned before, the Dark Lord Ending. In it, when you refuse to link the fire, Kaathe (we'll talk about him later) makes a point to say that both he and Frampt will now serve you. Why would Frampt do that? You could speculate that he's bound by some sort of oath to the Dark Lord, perhaps because of his nature as a quasi-dragon born in the dark. This could maybe explain the statue of him found in the Ringed City. But by this point, everyone that could be considered his "superior" is dead, and I'm not sure why he would have any obligations to serve you: if he feared being killed by the Dark Lord, well, he could just hide. Perhaps his oath is more fundamental, and he can't go against the Dark Lord because of the very nature of his being. Maybe he allied to Lord Gwyn to try and break this shackle? Perhaps. But I suspect, once again, that there's more to it.

Let's take a look at a very strange mechanic: feeding Frampt.

In Dark Souls 1, you can feed certain items to Frampt, and he'll pay you back with souls. Usually this is not really worth it, because he undervalues items a lot. However, here's the curious thing: for some items, he will only give you a meager 1 soul, while for others he will reward you with a bounty much higher than the value of the item. This is not a mistake, it's hardcoded in, so hey, it should have some significance. Let's look at these outliers.

Frampt will give you 1 soul for anything that has to do with either Seath the Scaleless or Smough; conversely, he will reward you handomely for anything that has to do with Gwyn (soul included), Gwyndolin (soul included), the Moonlight Butterfly, Dragons, Queelag and, funnily enough, women armor sets. So huh, let's unpack this.

It's the women's clothing, believe it or not, that provide some insight. Given that he pays you more for it, I'm assuming that he gives you more souls as a reward for bringing him that item. Either that or he's a misogynist, but I'm more leaning towards horny. And certainly the Soul of Gwyn, the one he pays you the most for, fits: your objective was to kill the crazed Gwyn, and his Soul proves that you've done it. You can't actually feed him it without going to ng+, but hey, it's a technical limitation

With Gwyndolin things start becoming a little bit strange. To have his Soul, you must have killed him. This is a problem for a few reasons: first off, it's his best friend's son. Why would he be happy about you killing him? Secondly, killing him means dispelling the Anor Londo illusion, meaning finding out that the Gods, and him, are lying to you. Now why would he be ok with you knowing that?

The Moonlight Butterfly is a bit strange, since it was created by Seath, but it seems to be connected in some way to Gwyndolin (the moon theming plus the same music). I don't think it's terribly relevant anyway.

Queelag, I have no clue about, epecially considering the fact that he gives no special reward for the Soul of the Witch of Izalith. It could either be because she's guarding the second bell of awakening or because she's hot. Probably cause she's hot.

Now, let's look at a strange thing. He gives nothing for Seath but a lot for the Dragons. Seath betrayed the Dragons, so this is relevant. But how? If he dislikes Seath, this would imply that he's on the dragon's side. But this cannot be, since the dragons and Gwyn are enemies. Maybe he just likes to consume dragon items in an attempt to become a full fledged dragon: this would also be strange considering his allegiance. Maybe he just enjoys eating dragon items but dislikes the taste of Seath (who is physiologically pretty different from other dragons). This, however, would imply that he also enjoyed eating Gwyn and Gwyndolin. Which, frankly, I find the most likely possibility, with interesting implications.

As for Smough, let's be honest, he probably tastes like shit.

Let's move on to Kaathe.

Darkstalker Kaathe seems to be, at the same time, more and less trustworthy than Frampt. More trustworty because he's the one to tell you about the lies of Gwyn, and the truth about the Dark Soul. And he's not lying to you about that. At the same time, he convinced the Lords of New Londo do embrace the Darkness, as well as the people of Oolacile to dig up the corpse of a Pygmy which didn't end very well.

Not much else is known about him: a somewhat obscure fact is that he considers Seath the Scaleless to be a traitor: so, it seems, he's aligned with the dragons despite not being one. What this says about the other Serpent is hard to tell.

However, one last thing is known about him. He wants to let the Flame die, and make the world turn back to an Age of Dark.

Or does he?

The Sable Church, helmed by Yuria of Londor, is an organization devoted to a single goal: usurp the Flame and bring forth an age not of Light or Dark, but of Hollows. This is different from an Age of Dark in several ways. First off, the Flame persists, but is claimed by an individual who is both Unkindled (that is someone who attempted to link the Flame but failed) and Hollow. In an Age of Dark, with the Flame gone, it is unclear what would happen: it is called many times "the age of humanity", but no one actually knows what humanity's original, primordial form is: for all we know, it could just be an existence spent in a formless void as wandering spirits.

At the same time, nothing says that it couldn't be an utopia: but the point is that you can't know, there is an impassable veil that hides its true nature until it happens. At some point some embers will reappear from the Dark again, and bring forth a new age of Fire. But will it be a good one? Who knows. In comparison usurping the Flame is much more straightforward: similar to the current Age of Fire, except it's Hollows that hold power and not Gods. It is not clear how sentient would Hollows be in such an age, considering their usual zombie-like behavior, but since hollowing is tied to Gwyn linking humanity to the Flame we can presume that something would change, otherwise it would be quite a shitty age and idk why they would pursue it.

There's another thing about the Sable Church. From item descriptions and dialogue it is evident that they worship none other than Darkstalker Kaathe, who appears to have perished since the first game (there's a theory I like about it but this post is already long enough).

Now hold on, hold on. Doesn't Kaathe want to bring forth an Age of Dark? Where did Frampt go in all of this? What is going on?

Let's take a step back. If Kaathe wasn't lying to the Sable Church (and I don't believe he is) then he was lying to you in the first game. Not an unlikely prospect, since Frampt was doing the same thing. But why try and get you to be the Dark Lord if what he was looking for was a Lord of Hollows?

First off let's establish something. No matter which ending you pick in Dark Souls 1, I don't believe that an Age of Dark ever happens between that game and 3. This is because there seems to be a linear continuity (somehwat) between the eras the game is set in, which wouldn't be possible if, well, the cycle underwent a big reset. So even if you become Dark Lord, something happens to stop a true Age of Dark from happening.

With that out of the way, here's what I think. When is the only time that a Lord of Hollows can arise? Only when the world is in shambles due to the strain of the artificial cycle taken to its extreme. How do you get to that point? By continously linking the Flame and making it fight the Abyss over and over, purposefully feeding the feud between Light and Dark that should have already ended long ago, slowly weakening the Flame until it is just barely able to hold on and the entire world has been burned to ashes. At that point the Lords of Cinders arise from their graves to link it again, and again and again, until even them refuse to do it. At this point, the Unkindled will rise: after an endless, purposeful cycle of stirring both the Flame and the Abyss.

Flame and Abyss. Frampt and Kaathe.

I want to show something, now. An interesting little design on an otherwise unremarkable shield. The caduceus round shield.

Two serpents heads, joined at the body. Now, is there any reason to presume that this shield is a true depiction of the nature of Frampt and Kaathe, some sort of bicephalous Ourobouros? Well, we don't know. It would certainly make some amount of sense, however. What I think is that, no matter how literally true this is, it shows at least metaphorically the relationship of the two Serpents. They're working together.

You're not the only undead that they contact, after all. Plenty more people, like you, in your world and parallel ones, are spurred by Frampt to link the Flame and by Kaathe to let it die. This is why neither of them particularly cares about you finding out the truth, or joining the other. You're just a disposable pawn in the grand scheme. When a Dark Lord arise, they pretend to worship them, only to betray them at the last second, getting someone else to kindle the Flame and keep the cycle going. Over, and over again. Till the Unkindled finally rise.

There are, of course, some open questions. Why do they want an age of Hollows to come to pass? Perhaps it is linked to their complicated relationship with dragons: after all, they're only incomplete dragons, and they would hardly have a place in an Age of Dark. Perhaps it has something to do with a promise made to the first Pygmies. Or then again, perhaps to defend against them. And then, what about the other Serpents? Are they working with them? Are they from other worlds? Are they all joined in some sort of giant eldrich hydra, its true body hidden from sight?

It is all very complicated, frankly. We probably will never know the true motives of the Serpents, as well as their nature: however, what I hope this analysis has made clear is that there is much, much more under the surface than what it seems like. Like their body. That's literally under the surface.

[butternutt613]

Peep the first chappie of this new fic I put together:

In The Shadow Of The Serpent

It's has dark!Ominis and post-azkaban!Sebastian

*edit* ahhhh emphasis on the dark...... these boys need a hug

I hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~

Ominis Azrael Gaunt died at fifteen. He died the moment he heard the cold clink of metal shackle his best friend. He died the moment Sebastian Raguel Sallow was sentenced to life in Azkaban.

The echoes of the courtroom had followed him for weeks afterward, a symphony of guilt and regret. The sharp, authoritative voice of the Chief Warlock. The hushed voices of the onlookers. The low, choked sob that escaped Sebastian’s lips when the verdict was read. It all blurred together into an unrelenting hum that Ominis could never silence.

But the boy who walked out of that courtroom was not Ominis Azrael Gaunt anymore.

The man called Ominis Azrael Gaunt was a creature bound by duty and blood, forged in the crucible of his family’s darkness. He was a master of the dark arts, a Gaunt in every sense of the word. The laughter of his youth, the warmth of friendship, the fleeting dream of escape; all had been snuffed out like a candle caught in the wind.

This man sat in the shadowed halls of the Gaunt Manor, his pale fingers tracing the smooth divots and ridges on his wand. The manor was quiet as death, save for the faint crackle of a low fire that brought no warmth. The cold, unyielding marble beneath his boots reflected the man he had become. Hard, cold, and unfeeling.

And yet, even without sight, the world around him was never truly dark. His father’s magic burned like a deep, sickening green, pulsing faintly in the edges of his awareness, a constant, oppressive presence that marked every room.

“Ominis!” That voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the suffocating silence. “Come.”

Ominis stood as his father’s magic flared brighter, its oppressive heat pulsing in the stillness. The quiet shuffle of his boots barely broke the silence as his hand instinctively found the smooth, ornate serpent carved into the head of his cane. Guided by the faint ripples of magic that marked his father’s path, he moved forward.

He did not need sight to know the way; the corridors of the manor were etched into his mind with the clarity of years spent treading their lifeless expanse. Each step was a descent, spiraling deeper into the suffocating abyss of his family’s expectations.

The heavy oak doors of the ritual chamber groaned open as he approached. The air here was thick, brimming with the metallic scent of blood and the sickly sweetness of burning herbs. He felt the heat of the flames licking at his skin before he heard the crackle of the fire that illuminated the room in shifting shadows he could never see.

“Your brother failed me again,” his father began, his tone sharp and unforgiving. Ominis felt the heat of his gaze, sharp and cutting. “And so, as always, I turn to you.”

Ominis did not flinch at the words. He stood still, his head slightly bowed, an unfeeling statue in the presence of the man who had shaped him into this hollowed creature. A faint, sticky warmth brushed against his fingers as a vial was pressed into his hand. The faint pulse of green within it vibrated against his fingers. A fragment of his father’s magic, raw and unrestrained. His blood.

“You know the incantation,” his father said coldly. “Do it.”

The vial’s weight was insignificant, yet in his hand, it felt impossibly heavy. The liquid inside sloshed faintly with the movement, its scent filling his nose. A coppery, vile promise of power. He hesitated, his mind flickering with distant memories of another life. Laughter. A voice full of mischief. The echo of Sebastian’s footsteps as they raced down the cobblestones at Hogwarts.

But it was only a flicker. A whisper drowned in the thunderous silence that now consumed him.

“Ominis,” his father snapped, his voice like shattered glass. “Do not disappoint me.”

He snuffed out the memory.

The vial was warm in his hand, pulsing faintly as if alive. Ominis felt the tendrils of his father’s magic unfurling, brushing against his own aura like the touch of a blade. He walked to the altar, each step guided by the vibration of ancient sigils carved into the stone floor.

The altar itself radiated an eerie, sickly green light, faint and shifting, alive with whispers of long-forgotten incantations. His fingers traced its cold surface, feeling the grooves where blood had run for millennia. He uncorked the vial and poured its contents onto the altar. The thick, viscous liquid spread in uneven lines, pooling in the carved runes that began to glow with hungry light.

The green aura of his father flared in response, its tendrils growing sharper, faster. They reached for him, curling around his own faint, pale magic, constricting and coiling as he began to chant.

The words came from deep within his chest, a low, guttural incantation, older than time itself. The air around him grew heavy, each sibilant sound pushing it tighter and tighter against his skin. He could feel the vibrations in the magic itself, the way his father’s aura pulsed eagerly, its tendrils slithering closer, wrapping around him like a serpent tightening its hold.

He did not stumble, he did not falter. His voice was steady, practiced and devoid of emotions, as the words spilt out of him like venom.

The pain came slowly, at first. Sharp pricks along his limbs where the tendrils coiled too tightly, seeping into his veins. But Ominis did not stop. He could not. The incantation grew louder, the chamber trembling as his father’s magic consumed the ritual entirely. The oppressive green bled into every corner of the room, casting jagged shadows that even Ominis could sense, a chaotic storm of power that left no room for anything else.

When the final word left his lips, the green snapped tight around him. He gasped, his knees smashing to the floor as the magic consumed him from within. For a moment, he thought it would devour him completely. But then the tendrils released, slithering back into the altar with a satisfied hiss, leaving only silence in their wake.

A hand gripped his shoulder, firm, cold, and possessive. “Well done,” his father said, his tone quivering with power. “Perhaps you are not as useless as your brother after all.”

The hand lingered for a moment too long, squeezing hard enough to bruise, before it was gone. The absence left a faint, throbbing ache, but Ominis did not react. He did not speak. He did not move as his father swept out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall like a death knell.

He was alone again, standing in the thick silence of the ritual chamber. The air was still warm, the scent of blood and ash clinging to his skin like a shroud. He ran his fingers over the altar once more, feeling the grooves of the sigils beneath his touch.

They were sharp, cutting into his skin, but he did not care. The pain was a faint whisper compared to the void inside him, a void that had grown wider and deeper with every passing year.

He had bled for his family, killed for them, become the creature they wanted him to be. And yet, standing there in the suffocating silence of the chamber, he could not escape the truth.

Ominis Azrael Gaunt had died at fifteen. What stood in his place was nothing more than a hollow vessel. Empty, obedient, and bound by blood and duty. As cold and unfeeling as the marble walls of the ancient house he called home.