#the skeletal wyrm

[terra-tortoise]

i think ive unfortunately scried the perfect dragon for the wyrm. tragically theres only faes with these colors on the ah AND no copies of this accent </3

[draconesmundi]

Dracones Mundi infographics to explain some of the dragon design features in my project :3

Image IDs in alt text or below the cut:

A labelled diagram depicting a dragon’s head. Labels are: ear slit. Wattle on horn that looks like an ‘ear’. Dorsal finlets made of thick skin. Overlapping osteoderms like Vancleavea (accompanied by Vancleavea fossil photo). Overall appearance inspired by pseuedosuchians, including extant crocodiles (accompanied by skeletal mount of Prestosuchus and a photo of a baby Nile crocodile). Smoother scales on belly for sliding though mud into bodies of water. ‘Beard’ or jaw wattle of thick skin. Rear venom fang, full of cytotoxic venom. The dragon can ‘spit’ like a spitting cobra, and the cytotoxins are similar to those found in puff adder venom. Lots of different snakes inspire dragon venom (accompanied by diagram of snake skull).

A dragon family tree accompanied by a paragraph of text. Text reads: There is a lot of morphological diversity in Dracones Mundi – dragons all evolved from a type of pseudosuchian, and had a basic ‘four legs and a long tail' body plan. Many families have atrophied their hind limbs, many have small legs and more serpentine shape. Dragon wings are not limbs, but patagium spread between osteoderm spokes, so there is a diversity in wing size and function (display, thermoregulation, camouflage) beyond gliding (only the flying serpent family really use them for gliding…). Flight is achieved by magic.

The dragons on the family tree are: turtle dragons, such as the cucafera. Firedrakes, azhdar and long are in one family. ‘Beast dragons’ such as the tatzelwyrm. ‘Feathered serpents’ such as coameh. Wyverns and cockatrices. Flying serpents or ‘amphitheres’. Wyrms and serpents. Sea serpents and lake monsters.

[saltminerising]

Devs do not need to bend over backwards for their playerbase but I do find it hilarious how just... deaf staff seems to be when it comes to Ancients.

"We are the community, and while we don't always agree, a very popular topic is the love of a skeletal wyrm for Earth. No other flight has gotten as much chatter about this as Earth. We would love if the Earth ancient was a wyrm of some kind. Or something very rocky. We have repeatedly stated and made concepts for how much we would love a giant wyrm or something rugged."

"Hmmmm.... I know! Let's make yet another smooth, cutesy dragon for Earth! And make it bald and be the size of a puppydog! They'll eat it up for sure!"

[bottlesandbarricades]

The Hour of Ghosts

Summary: A short story exploring the supernatural consequences of the Dance of the Dragons. Word Count: 2961 Warnings: Major spoilers for House of the Dragon season 2 / Fire & Blood, Major Character Deaths, Suicide, Mental Illness, Violence, Graphic Injury, Spooky Themes A/N: Hello! This is my first time writing something hotd-related and is essentially my coming-out-of-writing retirement fic to ease myself back into writing. Big thank you to @beaconofthehightower for pushing me to finish this and @dreamymoomin for beta reading. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my silly little ghost story 👻

The Dance of the Dragons left deep scars on the Seven Kingdoms, political and otherwise. Although the literal stench of death was vigorously scrubbed clean, the stains remained, ingrained into the very fibre of the people and the world left behind.

The battered, burnt banner of fire, blood and loss hung over the ruins of a once noble house. Hastily patched and practically mended with rough hands attempting to salvage what remained of House Targaryen and restore order to the realm. The bitterness of it all stuck to the tongue like ashes in your mouth - it had been for nothing.

No one had won; everyone had lost.

The generations to come would debate the facts and wage their own war with words, for and against each side’s claim in volume after volume of biassed histories. Others would simply gloat with the gift of hindsight, suggesting that those involved should have foreseen that a war of kin slaying kin and dragon fighting dragon would never have had a glorious victor.

As the years passed, the memories of the war faded from the sharp, throbbing string of freshly cut wounds to aching battle scars. Moving into that part of the collective memory, where the lines between fact and legend become murky and confused. Truths became as tangible as wisps of smoke from an open hearth, sewn together with the thread of imagination by every wet nurse in Westeros.

Something haunted these lands - collective trauma manifesting and twisting into tales of ghosts, ghouls and fantasm.

From the North shore of the God's Eye, where the blackened ruins of Harrenhal sit decaying, it is said that some evenings as the sun drops below the Western horizon, a high-pitched whistle can be heard in the wind. A piercing unnatural sound that makes the blood in your veins run cold.

To the native smallfolk, this sound is a well-known harbinger, a sign to shutter your windows tightly and turn in for the night - less you wish to glimpse something eerie illuminated in the moonlight over the inky black water.

The story goes that the shrill sound of Prince Daemon's mount, Caraxes, is always followed, even on the clearest of nights, by a rumbling like thunder, so loud that it sends ripples through the lake - the roar of the once mighty war dragon, Vhagar.

Phantom snarls shake the ground, hailing the infinite clash between the Blood Wyrm and the she-ancient dragon of the one-eyed Prince, Aemond Targaryen.

The sound of wings that no longer beat and gnashing jaws that have long since crumbled to dust echo for dozens of miles. Sparks of white-hot dragon fire gone cold reflected in the water below. As spectral flashes of red and bronzy green scales appear against the colourless void of night, weaving and merging like a coil of translucent serpents, struggling and writhing for dominance.

Shades of memory replay - Caraxes’ jaw locked tight around the larger dragon's throat, as Vhagar clawed, bit, and ripped in bloody retaliation. Tearing scales from flesh, and flesh from bone with the ease of Valyrian steel.

However, most unnerving are the two pale princes themselves mounted on the ghastly long dead beasts, as silver as their hair was in life, both gaunt with death and cadaverous to the eye. Sallow skin pulled taut over their skeletal faces, cheeks stained with tracks of red from bloody tears, which ran from sunken eyes.

Two souls destined to be locked in a battle for eternity, forever to play out their mutually assured destruction. The elder fated to leap from his dying mount and drive his blade of moonlight into the younger’s skull - again and again overlooked by Black Harren’s accursed seat.

A sickening and frightening spectacle for mortal eyes to perceive, yet in the absence of fear you might say there was a chilling beauty to the scene. Always to end the same way - poetically some would say - in fire and blood.

To the south, high above the city of King’s Landing upon Aegon’s Hill, the mighty Red Keep plays host to many ghosts of its own. This is no surprise as many people would wager that enough blood had been spilt within its walls over the years to fill the Blackwater. The castle is plagued by ghouls from across the ages, some from the days of the conqueror, himself.

Folk could pass many a long winter’s night recalling the countless tragedies of that castle and those who were said to remain there. It appeared that this war of dancing dragons only added to that grisly spectral collection.

It is Maegor’s Holdfast, where servants don't dare linger alone and guards dread to be posted in fear of hearing her. The whisper of phantom sobbing that murmurs just beyond the reach of your ears or more terribly ghoulish shrieks of anguish that grasp your throat with fear and settle in your chest. It is the sound of grief-driven madness consuming a gentle, yet tortured soul.

Even as the years passed, the agony of Queen Helaena’s bereavement was palpable, the sounds of her anguished cries were enough to drive anyone to madness. They consumed you, drowning you in sorrow and dragging you down with suffocating melancholy.

Some say that Helaena’s haunting was part of what drove her Mother, the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower to her own derangement in the years following the war.

Tormented, not only by the loss of her three sons but also by the cries and whimpers of her dead daughter, which echoed off the pale red stone. Confined within the very same walls that had been sweet Helaena’s home turned prison in the last half year of her life before she had flung herself from the window to her death, impaled on the spikes below.

Alicent Hightower had been harshly punished for her sins. The feeling of being trapped, one way or another, had been a constant companion throughout her life. Yet it seemed being locked away, like her daughter before her, was the final straw.

No needle and thread nor book could save her sanity.

She spent her time attempting to converse with people unseen, sickened by the colour green and longing to hold and comfort her dearest babe in distress whom, like the rest of her children Alicent could no longer picture the face of.

On her deathbed, it appeared that the raging fever quieted the madness and allowed for moments of clarity and reflection for the Queen in chains. As expected, Alicent spoke at length of her regrets and confessed her transgressions. It seemed for the first time in a very long time, Alicent Hightower was at peace.

“I want to see my sons again.” Alicent had said, as her life ebbed away. “And Helaena, my sweet girl.”

The Septa who sat in vigil over Queen Alicent that night, failed to mention everything that happened in the final hours of Alicent’s life in her official account. What the poor woman had witnessed as the rain lashed against the castle windows had left her shaken, clutching her seven-pointed star so tightly that each corner had left tiny cuts on her palms and fingers.

At the hour of the wolf, the Stranger had come for Alicent Hightower, but it appeared death was not alone.

The Queen’s breaths had become shallower and shallower until finally, the death rattle had set in. It was then that an eerie coldness filled the bed chamber, at odds with the raging fire in the grate. Gooseflesh prickled across the Septa’s skin as the chill engulfed her. A cold so biting that she could feel it seep through the numerous layers of her coarse linen robes.

It was strange and unnatural.

With an abrupt rush of wind, the fire was extinguished from the hearth. Snuffing out her last fragile defence against the fear that had suddenly taken hold of her. The room was consumed by darkness and the Septa’s only solace now was a handful of low-burning candles clinging to their flame within the bedside lantern.

She knew she should move; she should attempt to rekindle the logs that smouldered in the fireplace or call out to the guard on the door and yet she could not. Instead, she sat frozen in her chair and was forced to bear witness.

Between the hammering of her own heart, the rasping breaths of the dying Queen and the rain that pounded relentlessly at the window panes, it was hard for the Septa to hear them at first.

The voices started softly and indistinct, like overhearing a conversation in another room, but grew louder and more coherent with each passing moment. Till it was as if they were in the very bed-chamber itself.

Initially, she believed they were children’s voices due to their high and melodic quality. However, as the Septa strained her ears to hear, she soon realised these voices chopped and changed in tone with every few syllables, distorting into a heavier and deeper pitch and then swiftly returning to a higher register.

Stricken with fright, all she could do was listen. Discerning that the voices seemed more masculine than feminine, the Septa tried to focus on distinguishing meaning in the sea of words as the voices continuously talked over each other.

Then she heard it, the common thread. One word was repeated over and over.

“Mother.”

The realisation was scalding, in sharp contrast to the icy air that surrounded her. The Septa’s initial instincts were correct; these were the voices of children - Alicent’s children.

The blinding clarity only seemed to make the voices grow louder. Becoming more frantic and fractured, flicking rapidly between youth and maturity. It was chaotic and confusing, as if years of memories were trying to compress themselves into a single moment. Blurry, broken and half-remembered.

“Where are you, my loves? I can’t see you.” Came the weakened voice from the bed between laboured gasps.

The Septa’s eyes had now adjusted to the dark and she watched in horror as she began to notice the movement of unnatural shapes forming in the gloom.

Hearing them was one thing, but seeing them was another.

Twisting and bending, the four misshapen figures that manifested could not decide what they wished to embody. They shifted in stature and years in the same disturbing manner as their voices, morphing from adult to child and back again.

They crowded the bed, tugging at the bedclothes as they had once tugged at Alicent’s skirts in life, so many years ago. All the while their voices kept on calling for her. It was too much to bear.

This fresh wave of alarm seemed to bring the Septa to her senses and she did the only thing she knew she could. She began to pray, hands clasped together around her seven-pointed star. Shutting her eyes tightly as she recited the words, she wished to hear no more, to see no more.

Time seemed stagnant as each minute that slipped by felt like ten. The Septa focused on her prayers, drawing comfort from the words she knew so well. The familiarity shielding her from the ghoulish sights and sounds around her.

Until all of a sudden, she felt a shift in the air and the voices were gone, fading just as fast as they had come. A balmy glow now beckoned through her closed eyelids.

There was light and warmth as the fire returned to the grate. The logs were ablaze once again, heat flooding the room and banishing the chill which had consumed it.

The Septa took a shaky breath before daring to open her eyes, taking a moment to bask in the feeling of being warm and alive in the peaceful, blessed silence.

As the rain pattered softly against the glass, she realised the storm had passed, along with Alicent Hightower.

Across the water, clinging to the face of the volcano known as Dragonmont, sits the fortress of Dragonstone. A place of salt, smoke and brimstone. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a relic of Old Valyria forged by dragonfire and the forgotten magic of Dragonlords.

This castle was the grim and eerie backdrop where some say Aegon II claimed victory over his half-sister, the Black Queen. A hollow and costly victory, which hardly tipped the scales in the face of all that he had lost.

One final petulant jab in this bloody squabble.

Though accounts from both sides of the warring factions differ on many things, they find common ground on one exchange, which took place upon Rhaenyra’s arrival from King’s Landing to find herself betrayed and Aegon in situ.

“Dear Brother, I had hoped you were dead.” Rhaenyra called out at the sight of Aegon’s half-charred and twisted form. Delighted by the small triumph of his injuries and satisfied that even though she would almost certainly die at his hand, Aegon would spend the rest of his days bearing scars done in her name.

“After you. You are the elder.” King Aegon spat back with a pained grin, his jaw clenched hard as he fought to hide the agony that coursed throughout his broken body. He had refused milk of the poppy out of the fear of poisoning and paid tenfold for it.

“I am pleased to know that you remember that.” Rhaenyra replied.

Now friendless and at the mercy of the enemy, Rhaenyra Targaryen was forcefully separated from her son. Little did those present know that once the dust of conflict had finally settled, this child would in fact be King in his own right. But, for now, he was just a boy.

A boy forced to watch his Mother die.

The Realm’s Delight was served up to Aegon’s dragon, Sunfyre, who bathed her in red-hot dragonfire. As the flames consumed her, Rhaenyra raised her head skywards and shrieked out one last curse.

What didn't burn, was swiftly devoured. The final memorial to the Half-Year Queen being nothing more than the scorch marks left on the ancient flagstones.

The words and meaning of Rhaenyra’s dying curse are lost to time, but many suspect it was the root cause for the strange happenings that followed.

It started at the site of her killing, a peculiar sweltering heat rising from the stone for which there was no logical source. Those foolish enough to dare place their hand on the blackened marks themselves would come away harshly burned in searing pain. A mere moment's touch brought about hideous blisters that bubbled on the skin and left the surrounding flesh charred and cracked.

Then came the sightings, it was said that if you ventured to cross the courtyard in the dead of night you may catch a glimpse of the Black Queen herself.

A haunting apparition composed of swirling smoke and glowing embers. The flaming skirts of her gown twirled around her as long silver-gold hair burned bright like white hot iron. Flames licked around her once beautiful face, now reduced to nothing but ash and a pair of hollow eyes.

The smell of burning flesh and brimstone filled the air as an aura of blistering heat that radiated around her form, shimmering and distorting. No words came from her blackened mouth, only thick, choking smoke as she silently screamed, leaving trails of cinders in her wake as she stalked the castle grounds.

Rhaenyra Targaryen conveyed her displeasure through the flame, which had been her demise. Burning anything to which her spirit took offence. Newly hung tapestries were known to spontaneously combust and seven pointed stars melted in their holders.

She may not have held the Seven Kingdoms or sat the Iron Throne, but it was clear that Dragonstone was her domain and even in death she would remain its mistress.

As the decades passed, it appeared her restless soul seemed to quieten - the sudden fires becoming less frequent and sightings fewer and fewer. Till the tales of her spectre had become nothing more than a story to frighten children.

Theories to the reason for this change were in the dozens, some claiming that a young brave Septon had been to Dragonstone and bravely banished the fiery ghoul from the castle, casting her down to the Seven Hells where she belonged.

Others believe her spirit's suddenly passive nature was linked to an even greater shift, something was changing for House Targaryen itself. Where the air of Dragonstone had once been thick with Valyrian enchantment there seemed to be rot.

Their magic was dying, eroding away further and further with each generation.

People once said that the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men and yet it would seem that the sin of the dance had angered something much older and much crueller than the deity of several aspects worshipped by the faith of the Seven.

This was something ancient and primal that wished to punish them for tearing apart their house with the blessing of dragons that had made them Kings. Many argued that the sins of the Greens and the Blacks were the reason that after the war House Targaryens’ dragons declined, getting smaller and weaker as their power faded with each malformed dragon and unhatched egg.

In the end, the doom of the Targaryen dynasty was inevitable. The damage was done and the dominos would continue to fall uninterrupted. Without their dragons what truly separated them from the other great houses of the Seven Kingdoms?

How long would it be before others saw the mirage for what it was and another contender took their chance for the Iron Throne?

After all, power only resides where men believe it resides. Truth does not matter, only perception and once the illusion of power is extinguished, snuffed out with the dying breath of the last dragon, there is no returning to what once was.

[bluegekk0]

Mossbag made a new video 'Exploring the Pale King's Anatomy' and the first thing I thought about was you. lol

Hahahah yeah I think FPK is a little bit too out there anatomy wise to ever be considered by Mossbag. From what I've seen he mostly stuck to an analysis similar to what Mebi did, which makes perfect sense for the canon.

---

I go fully with the idea that most of the characters in the AU have actual skeletal structures, which is probably a bit unusual since from what I noticed most people stick to a more insect like direction. Makes sense I guess, though I'm still in the "bug is just a term and doesn't necessarily mean they're insects, some of them are just inspired by real life bugs" camp. Perhaps one of the first civilizations was actually more insect-like in origin, so the term "bug" stuck around even for species that are far more similar to other IRL animal groups. Or maybe "bug" in their universe has a completely different etymological origin so it doesn't even mean anything close to "insect". I mean, it is just three letters, so it just being a coincidence that it means "insect" in the English language is definitely a possibility. It's not like there are no words across languages who look the same but have different meanings, right?

So in the AU, "bug" is just a general term to use for everyone in the language used in Hallownest (and possibly more, if they come from the same language family), like "person" is for us.

The downside: well, it gets a little tiring having to explain my interpretation, since it isn't something a lot of people think (at least to my knowledge), and you could argue it's more convoluted than in needs to be (probably true). The upside is that, if it is such a broad term, then it doesn't discriminate against anyone in their world who doesn't look like an insect. Everyone gets called "a bug", regardless of their anatomy, their species and their ancestry. Which definitely fits FPK's wish to unite everyone under his rule (and because he looks nothing like an insect himself), though I don't think he was the one who started using the term that way, it just happened to fit his vision.

Of course, I won't go arguing about this cause I realize it is a bit of an unpopular take, but for the AU that's what I'm going with. Which means that every time someone calls my AU characters (especially FPK and Grimm) "insects", part of me is like... Have you seen them? I keep it to myself and it doesn't actually bother me, I just think it's a bit funny to see people call my very clearly mammal looking Grimm an insect, probably just because that's what they're used to haha

---

But I got a little carried away. I might check the video in full one day, though I tend to stay away from canon-friendly analyses these days. Not because I think my interpretations are better, no, I think they're all valid, it's just hard for me to separate my own thoughts from such interpretations, especially if they're very different to what I envisioned. Makes me go "no that's not how I see it at all" instead of just reading through it as its own thing. Does that make sense? I hope it does, and I hope it doesn't come off as rude or dismissive. My brain is just a bit hard to cooperate with 😭

Though I will say, I do appreciate Mossbag pointing out that Wyrm is a term connected to dragons and other reptiles, and not just worms. I guess that's one thing FPK has in common with that analysis. That, and having bones i suppose, though I haven't watched the entire video so I only know that Mossbag mentioned bones, I don't know what his final conclusion was.

[ruthlesslistener]

Sleepy and thinking about the next ancient breed so here's me rating fr's current ancients by my tastes:

Gaolers: 3/10. They're kinda cool in some cases but really are just overall a boring design. I'd have rated them as a 5 if it weren't for the fact that staff seems to really fucking love them for whatever reason and keeps giving them sick genes that would have worked better on other ancients. The everloving fuck do they have angler. Why was fans originally designed for them. Huh???

Banescales: 10/10, honestly a killer ancient but they get slept on so hard by staff and the playerbase and For What. Ragged/tear is one of the best gene combos on the site, and they're just peak classic draconid in every way possible. If they got wasp/bee and thundercrack they'd be unstoppable

Veilspun: They're a 7/10 but I keep forgetting that they exist. And so does staff. Why don't they have starfall.

Abberations: 10/10. They fuck severely, only complaint is that they feel like they should have extra forelimbs to really drive home the 'just came outta the soup' vibe. But hey, chitin is always an option

Undertide: 11/10 thats a fuckin NOODLE baybeeeeeee!!!!! Idk what it is about these bigass wyrms that gets to me, but they're just perfect. I adore them. I also want them to have skeletal bc I think it would look super cool on them and am still mad that gaolers got angler instead of them, the ACTUAL deep-sea breed

Aethers: 2/10 for being Another Fucking Fluffball Breed. Sorry guys, they were mid to me when they came out and the fact that they're fan favorites now just kinda kills it. Ik they're supposed to be moth dragons but imo their short muzzles and flat eyes don't really do well to convey that, and I constantly forget the fact that they have 6 limbs because the forelegs are so unnoticible. These muppets do not spark joy

Sandsurges: 9/10, now THAT'S a REAL fucking dragon right there. Top-tier design to match their flight, top-tier gene selection, I'm ALL for these guys. Deducting a point simply bc I can't afford to fill my lair with them but tbh they're actually worth the gem cost because their design fucks severely and their gene range is huge. Killer ancient

[keicordelle]

Fluffvember Day 8 : Thought I Lost You - Aymeric

Estinien's hand in mine was thinner than it ought to be, frighteningly skeletal, as if Nidhogg had forgotten that Elezen could not subsist on aether alone - or perhaps it had been an intentional cruelty, meant to cause pain and sap Estinien's strength. Had he been conscious of all that had happened these last few moons? Had Nidhogg tormented him? Had he felt the agony of his body even as he was a forced to watch the Dread Wyrm puppet it? Or had Halone's grace spared him such suffering and kept him blissfully unaware of the horrors he'd endured? Somehow I found I could not dredge up the faith to believe that, even as I bowed my head over his broken body and prayed to the Fury that She not steal him away to Her hallowed halls just yet. Don't take him from me, not yet. Just let me have a little more time with him.

If he awoke - when. When he awoke, would he be changed? Would the torments he had faced break him in mind and spirit as much as they had in body? He had already faced so much despair in his life; must he be forced to endure yet more? Was he not owed happiness?

Would that I could have taken his place. Surely he would not have let me suffer as I had allowed him to. He had already pursued Nidhogg in his own lair and emerged victorious; were it not for the Twelve’s horrid sense of irony, the Dread Wyrm might have been struck down before he had had the chance to cause lasting harm. But I had not been strong enough to do it myself. (The arrow had flown true.) And so my dearest friend had suffered, and I found myself the leader of Ishgard. (String pulled taut, wood creaking as it flexed, and words of farewell whispered to the uncaring winds.) Were it not for Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light, he would suffer still, and Ishgard would burn. (I tried to kill him.) I squeezed at the hand in my grip as hard as I dared, watching the shallow rise and fall of Estinien's chest. He would be okay. He had to be.

"Milord?" Lucia's voice sounded from behind me, soft in the reverent stillness. I hadn't even heard her enter. "I apologize for interrupting your... For interrupting. But there is a matter that requires your attention."

The urge rose to order her to handle it herself and I squashed it. There was little I could do for Estinien here, but the whole of Ishgard relied on me, and I would not let it falter in my grief. Drawing in a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I let Estinien's hand slip from mine for what I desperately hoped would not be the last time. "Very well. Let us depart."

-

He was awake. Before the steward had even finished relaying the message, I was running, propriety forsaken in favor of returning to his side as swiftly as possible. With the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud at my side, none dared utter a word of reproach.

Almost too soon we were at the door to his room, and I paused to gather myself, drawing in a steadying breath and shrouding myself in the mantle of Lord Commander rather than worried friend and lover. Calm and controlled, that's what he needs from me now. I threw open the door.

He looked much as he had every time I'd checked on him, battered and bruised and broken but recovering, but this time when my eyes sought his face, he was already watching me, his steely eyes meeting mine and lingering. That gaze drew me forth, and I could not have stopped myself from sinking to kneel at his side even if I'd wanted to. I took his hand in my own, fighting to keep my voice from shaking as I murmured, "I thought I'd lost you."

"Not yet," he answered, sparing me a smile, and when I squeezed at the slim hand in my own, he squeezed back. For the first time, I let myself truly believe it, that he was alive and returned to me, and that he would be okay. Thank the Fury he's okay.

The next time I returned to his room, he was gone.

[Masterlist] | [Ao3]

[thegoodthebadthealternative]

The warm wind of a promising summer tumbled across and around the overpass; the monument of civil engineering scythed to the horizon over vacant lots and broken brick buildings, the souls of unsmoked cigarettes still lingering within- waiting for the ones who put up those unlit neon signs in the windows to return. The highway formed a skeletal wall between the Second and Third wards of Houston, though those weren't their names- not anymore. In the shadow cast by the asphalt serpent, a lone aura stalked, taking shelter from the bladed wings of the dusk's light. 

Future Lieutenant Detective Terezi McCoy had a hard enough time seeing as it was, without the death throes of a May day glaring in her vision. But soon the cold sapphire night would fall, and the sightless would no longer be an exception. Her cane tapped and scrabbled across the uneven sidewalk, the rough surface and spidering fractures like a scab that begged to be picked.

Why was she out here? Putting her neck on the line for a city that couldn't give a damn about her? Well, that was a long story.

The chief was a good man- too much of a good man. Too honest, too hopeful. Karkat's skin was rock, but his heart bled like a damn stuck pig. He was too busy guarding the line between the light and the shadows, he couldn't see what was lurking- what was building within them. Change was in the air, and it reeked of iron and sand.

That's where she came in. Where she should come in. And tonight was going to prove it.

The wyrm was gonna turn.

Interested in what Terezi's doing? Like the prose? Check out our fic!

[vee-vee-writes]

I Need a Hero (Thorin x reader)

A/N: Potentially going to make this into a series if people are interested. Also I have finished a part 2 to Floral Arrangements but I am stuck away from my usual PC so it will be a week or so until I get it up sorry.

You’d heard tales of a lost prince trapped within his mountain home, guarded by a fire breathing dragon. Legend said that the one to free Prince Durin would be blessed by Mahal himself to eternal happiness and all the other joys a dwarf could imagine. It was then of no surprise to you that the remining Dwarf Lords sent their sons and daughters to free the dwarven prince. None were successful and no word had been heard from them since.

What shocked you was your Lord’s command, sending you to try to recover the prince. You were a member of the royal guard, but you certainly weren’t the most notable of the guard by any means. Going would be a death sentence but refusing your Lord’s request was treason of the highest degree. With heavy reluctance you undertook the two-day journey to Erebor.

You found yourself at the foot of the mountain, wondering if this place would be your tomb. A cold stone mausoleum. With your mule tied down you made your way to the makeshift rickety wooden bridge up to the entrance. The original stone bridge and much of the entrance had fallen away, whether to time or the dragon’s rampage you were not sure. From the size of the hole in the entrance, you assumed that the dragon had smashed through it on the day of the siege. To survive this, you would have to have your guard up.

Creeping forward through the entrance you began to survey the interior entrance, looking for some sign of where you should go. Your Lord had shown you an old map of Erebor from during its heyday. Amongst the litter of broken stones, melted metal, and scattered skeletal bones you saw what looked to be a large stone sign laying amongst it. Scanning around you saw no sign of life. Taking this as a sign you stealthily crept over to read it. MARKET. THRONE ROOM. GREAT HALL. LIVING QUARTERS. ROYAL WING – were all marked out on the sign. Your mental map of the mountain layout was somewhat correct, you would need to head down the left-hand tunnel to the royal wing. The entrance to the wing was further back in the room,

Heading to the left wing you began climbing over a pile of rubble to get through the entrance. The material was like nothing you had ever felt before, firm underhand and unshifting. It was not until the pile moved, letting out a chuckle that made you freeze in place. “Of all the witless fools who have entered my mountain, never have I had one practically walk into my jaws” the pile puffed in amusement. Scrambling off to the other side and tumbling to your feet in the hallway of the beginning of the royal wing you began to run. “Flee, flee, run for your life, there is nowhere to hide from my fiery death.”

The pile had not been a pile at all but the great dragon Smaug who had cloaked himself in shadows. Looking over your shoulder as you fled you looked on in horror as the dragon began to force his body through the doorway, cracking the stone to fit his bulbous body through. Facing forward once again, you squeezed your eyes shut and mustered all the strength and will within yourself to continue faster without looking back, skidding around corners without slipping over.

After an eternity of running, you came before a door at the end of the long corridor. You heard the dragon in the distance behind you, wriggling its body down the corridor like a great wyrm. Not wanting to take the chance that he may catch you, you pushed the great oaken door open and slipped in.

The golden torch light took you off guard, you hadn’t expected to actually find the prince let alone find him by mistake. A large spacious suite was laid out before you, completely untouched by the devastation you’d seen in the entrance way. On one of the couches staring at you in awe was a dark haired and bearded dwarf of substantial build and handsome profile. You were unsure of what to say to him.

It was he who broke the silence, “Sixty-years. Sixty-years I have not seen another living soul though I have heard the echoes of their screams. Thank you, I am indebted to you. Who may I call my hero.” Smiling warmly at the young prince you answered his query, “I am (Y/N) of (Y/K/N). I was sent by my Lord to recover you your highness.” “(Y/N)” he tasted the syllables of your name on his tongue, “a noble name.” Never had you heard of a noble of your name but for the sake of argument you agreed, you would need the co-operation of the prince if the two of you were to survive.

“Tell me (Y/N)” he paused, “how did you slay the beast?” A loud grumbling roar reverberated on the stone surrounding the pair of you, the dragon neared. Thorin stared at your slacked jaw in disbelief. “You didn’t slay the dragon! The prophecy says you are supposed to slay the dragon before you rescue me” Thorin snapped, “no, no, no, this is all wrong.” “We don’t have time for this your highness. We have to go” you pleaded motioning to the window, "or do you want to be stuck here for another sixty years." Pulling his lips back in a snarl Thorin grunted, “you’ve given me no choice. What’s your plan?” “Where does this window lead?” you questioned. “The courtyard after the entrance. It was built to wow our foreign visitors.”

“Exactly where we need to be. If that doesn't work, we head for the secret tunnel. That's our escape. We just have to avoid the dragon until we reach it. I doubt he knows of its existence.” You mused. “Secret tunnel?” Thorin questioned doubtfully. “Mmhm. Built by Thror when he founded your mountain home and kept secret from all but his heir. I’m surprised that he never told you of it. Though I’m sure when it came time, Thrain would have told you all the Kingly secrets of this place” you affirmed to Thorin, “come now, enough talking. Let’s tie the sheets together and escape your stone prison.”

The two of you worked quickly together knotting sheets, cloak, and shirt alike to make a long enough chain to escape the tower. You scaled the tower first, checking for any sign of the dragon before beckoning the prince down. Neither of you dared call out for fear of alerting Smaug to your scheme. Instead, you crept into the airy silence, staying low to the ground out of fear of being spotted.

The longer the two of you crept in silence, the more worried the two of you grew. It was the clatter of golden coins bouncing off the stone floor beside you that shook the two of you. Simultaneously your eyes met the prince’s, both wide as dinner plates, before gazing up to the dragon's belly above you as he slunk through the castle.

The two of you lay prone on the floor mapping out the course the dragon was taking. Crawling close to Thorin you pressed in against his side and leaned over to whisper into his ear, "We follow the dragon. Keep low, keep quiet. It's heading in the direction we need to go." Thorin nodded in response and the two of you headed off, crawling after the dragon.

You crept like that for what felt like hours, scared even to breathe too loudly, and alerted the dragon to your presences. Finally, the dragon stopped just before the gate, staring out over the nearby land, likely surveying for the two of you. Thorin nudged you and gestured at a cove of rock that the two of you could cover in. With a firm nod the two of you made your way over and got comfy, waiting the dragon out. It would be easier to wait him out than it would to make for the hidden entrance now.

Though it seemed that Thorin didn't quite have the same idea. Instead, the darrow grabbed a huge hunk of broken rock, vaulting it as far as he could back into the entrance way before quickly hunkering in with you. Smaug's head snapped around to the source of the sound and he began to stalk across towards it. Neither of you had expected was for the dragon to pause before whipping around and breathing molten fire across the entrance way debris. With a satisfied smirk he turned back around and stomped down the hallway, disappearing around the corner into the darkness.

"What now" Thorin whispered harshly. "We could have waited him out" you grumped with a pointed look, "but now we have to find another way up and out around the fire." Thorin sighed with a defeated look and nodded, gesturing for you to take the lead. "Move as fast as you can while still being quiet. The last thing we want to do is tip the beast off to our location, he's already suspicious of us" you affirmed before taking the lead out towards the flaming gate.

You scanned frantically around the entrance looking for a way around the flame. Thorin gripped your shoulder, "focus." Drawing a deep breath, you narrowed your focus. Homing in on the wall you found an old half rusted chain fixed to one of the walls. "That's our way out come on."

A tug on the chain caused it to groan but it stayed fixed in place. Signaling upwards you spoke to Thorin, "You first. I'll stay down here and keep looking out as you climb." "Let me get this straight, you want me, the crown prince, to climb an old, rusted chain up a forty-foot wall hoping that a) I don't fall and b) that I don't get spotted by a fire breathing drake that you failed to kill" Thorin huffed. Smiling sarcastically, you answered, "exactly. Now unless you want to be stuck here even longer, get up the wall. Besides there's no guarantee that the chain will hold two of us."

Rolling his eyes at you Thorin begrudgingly took the chain and began scaling the wall. On edge you clenched your teeth, scanning for any sight of the scaly magot. Groaning of the chain caused your breath to catch in your throat. While you wanted the prince out of the mountain and safe, you hardly wanted to be stuck within the mountain crawling around looking for another way out while the dragon stalked around looking for you. You leaned tensely against the wall, begging your body and mind to calm themselves for the sake of your survival.

The familiar clink of a coin hitting the concrete shot you out of your thoughts, though this time it bounced and rolled to land off to your side. Frightenedly, you cast your eyes upwards only to find Thorin at the top of the wall trying to signal he was ready for you to make your way up.  Grabbing the chain you began the climb, hauling yourself up your limbs groaning as the tension was forcefully stretched out of them. Higher and higher you climbed, stopping only briefly to steady your grip on the vertical drop. All the time you stared upwards to the top of the wall, meeting the prince's anxious gaze.

Nearing the top Thorin reached an arm down to you, helping you over and up on the top of the exterior wall. The two of you smiled briefly at one another as he helped you up to your feet. You watched his face change as he looked out over the remains of Dale and the changed wilds. Most would have turned their noses up in horror, but Thorin gazed on in wonder, the edges of his mouth turning up into an appreciative smile. He hadn't seen the outside world since the Sack you realised. You knew it was only a small gesture, but you laid a comforting hand on his, stroking his palm gently. Thorin looked at you tenderly, taking in the touch of another being and the sight of your hand within his. "Welcome back to the world Thorin Durin."

Taglist: @awkwardspontaneity @midearthwritings @thewhiteladyofrohan @kami-chan1512 @fizzyxcustard @kpopgirlbtssvt @sadndnboii-reads @tschrist1 @shethereadinghobbit @lathalea _@theblogofdurin @the-fragile-heart-of-a-lady @ferns-fics

[lycantripuwu]

My bloodhunter boi has gone through a lot in Barovia, he's accepted two gifts from separate vestiges, Tarakamedes the grave wyrm and Seriach the hellhound whisperer. He's also died once now and came back thanks to Seriach and Tarakamedes forming an alliance.

His gifts and body seems to mutate as he uses the gifts. So far from Tarakamedes, his scars and blood glow green and he grew skeletal wings he can fly with, he can cast spirit shroud and has a form of dread he can use.

From Seriach, his arm turned dark red like Izek's, hes hot to the touch, he can cast scorching ray and he can summon two hellhounds once per day.

Also tried out a different style! i kind of dig it!

[wellthebardsdead]

Clockwork Heart pt18

Part 17 here

———

Wyrm: *eyes cast skyward to the winged demon of his destiny. The black of his scales making him almost invisible against the darkened stormy night, only the red of his eyes glowing like embers between flashes of lightning showing his presence in the shadow* Alduin-

Alduin: *roars down at the mound of earth before Wyrm. His thuum shaking the ground beneath the dunmers feet as it begins to crumble and split open* Slen Tiid Vo!!

Wyrm: *staggers back and screams in terror as the skeletal form of another dragon rises up from the dead, it’s gaping maw growing muscle and flesh as it breathes air into its lungs like bellows to a forge* N-no! No! *turns to run only to slip and land on his back in the mud, staring up at the sky as alduin flies off to rebuild his army* im not the dragonborn… I’m nobody… *sniffles remembering his life as he prepares for death, thinking surely the newly awoken undead beast would devour him whole* I’m sorry papa… *chokes back a sob seeing the jaws of Sahloknir looming over him, ready to eat him whole* goodbye… *closes his eyes*

???: BY HONOUR OF THE BLADES I WILL END YOU BEAST!!!

???: Wake up!

Wyrm: *blinks open his eyes and cries out in shock feeling gentle hands grabbing him up from the mud, unable to comprehend what’s happening or whose holding him as he’s suddenly lifted up and carried down the hill* what- what’s happening?! Who- *pauses for a moment seeing golden skin and immediately starts bawling his eyes out hugging his saviour thinking it’s Taliesin* t-ta- l-lii! Taliii!

???: It’s okay! It’s okay I have you- NEREVAR LOOK OUT!

Wyrm: *looks up in shock at the name, finally seeing the three eyed face of his saviour beneath long dark hair* I- I know- *looks over to see the familiar golden armour of indoril nerevar as he charges into battle against the beast who was seconds from being his demise* you…

Taliesin: WYRM!!!

Wyrm: *jumps and looks back to see Taliesin, Kaidan & inigo running up the hill towards them* t-taliesin!!

Taliesin: *not even registering the other elf holding his companion until he’s right next to them* Are you okay?! Gods you’re drenched you’re covered in mud! Your pretty hai- Who in oblivion are you?!

Voryn: Voryn Dagoth but I think the fire breathing lizard should be of greater con- *pushes Wyrm behind himself and holds up a ward as debris get sent flying towards them* NEHT?!

Nerevar: *sword in the dragons neck riding it like a bull* GET HIM OUT OF HERE!!!

Voryn: *turns and picks Wyrm back up without hesitation only for Taliesin to grab him too* I-

Taliesin: *pulls the dunmer into his arms* I’ve got him.

Wyrm: *immediately clings to Taliesin and just starts sobbing into his robes*

Voryn: … *smiles* You’re the one who puts his heart at ease.

Taliesin: I’m the wha- *instinctively shields Wyrm with his body as he hears the dragons final roar cut short before fading into a death rattle* its- *looks back up the hill and sighs with relief seeing the beast laying dead, Kaidans sword impaled through its skull and Nerevars blade through its chest* dead… *starts walking up to it so Wyrm can absorb its soul*

Voryn: *unsure if there’s still danger or not* I- w-wait what are you doing we need to get away from that thing!

Taliesin: *glares at him unsure if he’s even trustworthy after blinking to find Wyrm missing from his bed and suddenly up on the hill with these strange elves and a dragon* It’s dead. Get out of my way so- *pauses seeing the dragons body flake apart like ashes in the wind as it bursts into threads of light, all of them swirling towards him and Wyrm like a gust of wind unhindered by the pouring rain*

Voryn: *immediately puts himself between them and the light thinking it’s a threat, only for the dragons soul to dance right around him and into Wyrms trembling body* What the? It… *looks at them then at the dragons now skeletal body* he took it’s very soul…

Nerevar: *hurries to them immediately removing his cape and shielding voryn with it* Are you okay? I told you to run I- *pauses seeing Wyrm and feeling his heart break hearing his frightened cries* it’s him…

Taliesin: I take it you two know him…

Kaidan: *walking over carrying inigo over his shoulder* Yeah can we maybe get out of this focking weather before your reunion then thanks?!

*a few minutes later*

Kaidan: one of the living gods of the tribunal ay?… well shit… a lot of things suddenly make more sense…

Nerevar: *seated across from him drying his hair with a towel* I take it he’s had… a few episodes?…

Kaidan: I… wouldn’t really call them that. Nightmares I guess? He’s been sleep walking a lot, and he’s always talking about sotha sil afterwards… now I know why.

Nerevar: *sighs* they were a lot more than just nightmares… believe me when I say if it weren’t for voryn they’d of been far worse.

Kaidan: …I take it that’s why he needed you to carry him the rest of the way down the hill?…

Nerevar: his body suffered greatly as he reached out to try and help your- Wyrm? Was it?…

Kaidan: aye, took me some getting used to too… You feel less terrible calling him it when you think of him as the type of dragon and not well, an earth worm… by help… you mean, he was trying to help him through these, fits of his?

Nerevar: *nods* it’s, hard to explain, but, let’s just say his heart is connected to the heart of lorkhan, and everyone who touched it… He lost track of Wyrm when he fled morrowind as a child. But… he found the soul of lorkhan and suddenly voryn had a connection again.

Kaidan: the- soul of lorkhan?!

Nerevar: that’s what voryn called it… he was left convulsing and screaming in agony for hours, fading in and out if consciousness as he had fit after fit… and on the way here he had more of them but… that one was the start of them… after that though, we were able to track him here. When we arrived we saw the dragon attacking and found Wyrm laying in the mud on the hill.

Kaidan: and I’m glad you found him when you did.

Inigo: *limps in drying his tail* thank you for not letting me get eaten by the way, have our friends finished bathing yet?

Nerevar: I don’t think so… I’m sure Wyrm has plenty of questions for Voryn.

Kaidan: I’m sure Taliesin has plenty too.

*meanwhile*

Taliesin: *now dry wearing his thalmor robes inside out as his other clothes dry by the fire. Sighs cleaning some scrapes on Wyrms arm* you almost adopted him?

Voryn: *seated by the wash tub, now dry and warm in a comfy robe as he washes Wyrms hair* Yes. Neht wanted to adopt him, when I first encountered him I suffered what I’ve come to affectionately call ‘heart ache’. Being in close proximity to one who’d touched the heart of lorkhan as I had, elicited a strong reaction and bond from me… I suppose I frightened him with my reaction though because he took off running in fear… Neht and I have been looking for him for 80 years now… *strokes Wyrms face, the small dunmer now hypnotised by him, calm, sedated almost, but no longer weeping or screaming or refusing to let go of taliesin* I’d lost that brief connection until only a short while ago now… he’d. Come into contact with an artefact connected to Lorkhan… and through that, reconnected with me… so we came to skyrim to find him.

Taliesin: and you believe he’s sotha sil?

Voryn: his reincarnation at least but… *smiles* I recall seht being just as sweet as him when he was his age. He was afraid of everything… his sister used to get him in a great deal of trouble.

Taliesin: *snorts* I have two of them, of that I can relate. *stares at Wyrms blank expression* will he… will he be like this for long?

Voryn: hm? Oh no. He’ll either fall asleep once he’s in bed or come out of it. *rinses the dunmers hair and wraps it in a towel to dry* I know it may seem extreme, but it’s harmless, he’s merely dreaming whilst awake. *lifts him from the water with ease into an awaiting towel held up by Taliesin, and immediately smiling as he feels a warmth spread through Wyrms heart as he’s handed to the high elf*

Taliesin: …what is it why are you smiling like that?

Voryn: hm? Oh no reason. You make him happy is all.

Taliesin: what-

Nerevar: *steps into the room holding clean blankets* how is he?

Voryn: he’ll be okay after a long rest. *smiles up at him* speaking of which.

Nerevar: *places a blanket around him and lifts him up* You need to rest as well.

Voryn: *rolls all 3 of his eyes* We. Need to rest.

Nerevar: I’m not the one still recovering from almost dying, several times.

Voryn: *shakes his head and sighs resting against his shoulder* you worry too much for me, neht.

Taliesin: *smiles a little, setting aside the dozens of questions rattling away in his head and watching them both be so in love* … *looks down at Wyrm snuggled in towels to find the dunmer still hypnotised, but smiling up at him* …Oh little moth… *sets him on the bed and carefully dresses him in the few dry comfy clothes he has left in his bag, being mindful of his modesty as much as he can* please stop running into trouble where I can’t see you…

*a few days later*

Wyrm: *bundled in several blankets atop Naomi as they approach winterhold, Taliesin equally as bundled up behind him* th-the blizzard will let up up ahead. It’s l-like this all the time.

Kaidan: *up ahead leading the group along via a rope tied to their horses* I-I f-focking hope so! Who the fock thought it was a good idea to build a city in this environment!?

Wyrm: Shalidor b-but he was clearly only focused on the magical wave points and not the w-weather.

Taliesin: maybe we should set up c-camp? Or f-freeze to death either way we’ll be rid of this wind at some p-point-

Voryn: *quietly holding a little ball of fire in his hands to keep warm beyond just his blankets and robe* we’ve passed the mine yes? We shouldn’t be far.

Nerevar: *holding voryn in his lap to save him from the cold leather of the saddle* I sensed azuras presence not far back, we’ve passed her shrine at least.

Inigo: *whiskers frozen and fur bristled up at the back of the group* c-can we pl-please hurry the-

Wyrm: *suddenly points ahead through the blizzard* THERES THE COLLAGE! *suddenly leaps from Taliesin s horse and runs ahead hugging the blankets tight*

Taliesin: WYRM COME BACK!

Voryn & Neht: SEHT WAIT!

Wyrm: *sprinting through the snow ignoring the cold lashing against his cheeks, just laughing as tears freeze against his face, seeing his home so close he can practically touch it* papa! I’m coming home! I’m- *halts as he approaches the village to see a number of strange Mages, all dressed in equally strange golden robes. All of them turning to face him and raising their hands to cast* oh no…

[terra-tortoise]

Below dragonhome...

the leylines shift and the dead stir.

Purveyors Pursuit Primordial

when still known as the purveyors primordial (led by the ridgeback alecto), they were little more than graverobbers. the purveyors were born alongside the rise of archeology as a respected field of study in dragonhome--and as archeological guilds rose in notoriety, jealousy of peers grew, some turning to mercenary groups to one up competitors.

presage was a first generation obelisk discovered during the dustcarve dig, and taken under velya's wing for reasons unclear to her. through a series of chance meetings and decisions, presage abandoned the dragonhome preservation guild to join the purveyors. her broad build, sharp inexplicable instincts, and intimate knowledge of archeological dig practices gave the purveyors an incredible advantage over rival graverobbers.

when the leylines shifted and the dead began to stir, it begun as disappearances--miners, scholars, thieves alike gone without a trace. it was the purveyors who encountered the skeletal wyrm, the largest and oldest of the dead (though no dragon knows that with certainty). in a flash of strange magic and destiny, the terror within presage became a terrible blinding light--and as it faded all that remained were the petrified, crystiline bones of the wyrm, and crystals growing along her brow and cheek.

the purveyors fled, presage taking them to velya. with quick thinking, velya established the purveyors as an archological guild--making them change their name to the pursuit primordial--and employing them as guards to dig teams, the first dragons on the scene of any new cavern, to deal with whatever undead shamble in wait. with every petrification presage enacts, the crystals along her eyes grow and spread--gradually, but innevitably.

[ashyronfire]

mourning

Title: mourning

Rating: T

Characters: Grimm, Hornet, mentioned the Radiance, mentioned the Hollow Knight, mentioned the Knight

Warnings: POV Second Person, Dream No More spoilers, References to Abuse, References to Gaslighting, It/Its Pronouns for the vessels, Drabble

Summary:

“The King is dead. Long live the King.” A conversation within the Temple of the Black Egg.

Author’s Notes: For @voidsiblings who has been poking me to write Hornet. This is me doing it without doing it. You never said it had to be her point of view.

(Unedited, we do it live)

White and Gray & Red Sky adjacent, by the way.

Read on Ao3 or Tumblr below the cut.

“The world is at its end, sister, and we have lived to see it – together. Separate. But both of us yet live. Both of us are alive and by this time tomorrow, neither of us will be.”

Hallownest.

That is the name of the kingdom you stand within. You visited it once, before the fall; you remember keenly the clamoring of people bustling about their day-to-day life, the sounds of commerce, of trade, of civility, of falling rain and armored guards, clank-clank-clank –

It was beautiful once. Beautiful in the way that the skeletal remains of a carcass left behind by predators was: alluring, a little off-putting, both natural and not, and an unmistakable reminder of the passage of time. You find it poetic, then, that that same reminder festers within the bloated belly of the corpse. Decay has set in, brought with it a stench and the putrid release of gasses, and within the ‘last and eternal civilization,’ the rot comes in hues of molten gold.

Caverns will never be a comfortable thing for you. Your sordid history paints them as an agonizing reminder – of water leaking from limestone, of stalactites reflecting the unnatural light of your eyes – and you usually avoid them. When pushed, though, you can summon up the façade of courage to face the things that you fear. You can paint your face beautiful with a mask of bravery and you might even convince yourself, if you pretend hard enough.

This will be the last time that you ever have to.

You stare at the great egg. It is an architectural marvel, magic breathing through the seals that line the floor, the walls, the door, as if it is alive. On the other side of that barrier lay a creature born specifically for the purpose of containing her – bred, created, the god they would have been ripped from their shell as they and the others like them were sacrificed to the pooling mass beneath the world, the end of all things.

An end.

A beginning.

“I wonder if you can hear me?”

No answer comes. The seals on the door draw your attention. Three crevices rest over it, the black stone polished where they once stood: cleaner and less faded from age, the Dreamers’ symbols acting as a bulwark against the creeping passage of time. The inky color of the egg was probably magnificent once, polished to a perfect sheen, but the ages have stolen it away, faded it to a mottled, uncomfortable gray. The wyrm’s magic has not changed, though. It is still impressive, luminescent, and bright: the white seals glow a brilliant contrast and they hold.

As much as they can, anyway.

Infection blooms in spiderweb vines, pulsing with amber blood, trailing out to pustulant growths that shiver in the cool air.

Her prison is fading.

Her prison is a person and they are losing the fight. As they always would have, really. Nothing alive could ever truly hold an immortal being forever. You are proof of that. Bodies in the waking world are not designed to hold creatures of essence. The two of you exist outside of their sphere and it is your nature to raze to the ground anything in your wake. Harsh is the sun.

There is a spell outside of the door and a letter. The letter is written in scrawl that you recognize well as the wyrm’s handwriting and it is painful to read, his last testament to his progeny cursed with a responsibility to his unnatural kingdom.

For it is unnatural. It is a perversion of the order between life and death. You have never beheld so terrible a spectacle as Hallownest is – and it is not your sister’s ruinous path, carved golden in her wake, that makes it horrifying to you. It is his. It was always his.

Surrender to fear. Fail.

Live on as a dying thing, clinging with crooked claws, gouging great scratches into the metaphorical clock, that it might stop, that death never come. Hallownest is eternal. And it can never rise from its ashes, something beautiful and new in its place. No, it is embalmed as it is, preserved as a mockery of life. As is the wyrm’s way.

He has never understood you.

“You have a chance to greatly inconvenience me, should you win,” you tell her. You think, through his final spell on the cursed prison that he has created for her, that he has given her eyes to watch the land rot and decay. You also think that in doing so, he has spelled his destruction, and its inevitable failure. For how can a creature condemned to a fate of pain resist the allure of something else, something different? And how can she, ever the embodiment of hope (and despair – always despair), not chase glimpses of freedom when offered them?

She hears you, but she cannot respond. The seals prevent it and, you think, for once she is probably grateful for that.

How strange, to be the one reaching out to speak. How strange, to be the one awaiting an answer and have none come. How strange, to be the one free.

She’d beg you to help her. She would scream and plead. You can almost hear her voice, piteously crying, “You are my brother, Fear, how can you allow this to continue? Help me, help me, as I would have you,” and it wounds your heart. There is nothing left for her in this world; there is no one left to mourn the light of dawn rising over the horizon.

There is no one left to remember the Radiance.

Except you. Always you.

The Nightmare King cannot die, after all. There will ever be fear – and the courage to overcome it – and so you are forever: a flame without end. Eternal.

You raise one hand and brush the tips of your claws over the front of the shell. This Temple is built inside of one of the great beasts that the butterflies who worshipped the void also revered. Fitting that her tomb would be within the husk of a creature that she herself struck down in her prime. There is poetic irony in that. She feared the dark and it is the dark that yet comes for her.

There are footsteps, light as a feather, behind you. She has more legs than you’d think, the Protector of Hallownest, but you know the cadence of her steps. She steps in her own prints when she needs to not be bipedal and she hides the rest beneath her cloak, but a spider will always be a spider.

“You should not be here.” She does not come into the Temple proper. She stays at the door. Your eyes lift to see her reflection in the dust and you raise one hand to swipe it off; your hand comes away with a filmy residue that you brush off with the second one. Scarlet meets black. You do not retreat, and she does not draw her needle, though the ever-so-subtle twitch of her fingers lends credence to the idea that she wants to.

The Princess of Hallownest does not enjoy you.

It is, at least partially, mutual.

“Should I not?” You settle your arms beneath your wings and shift, so that they fall to cover your entire body like a shroud.

The spider moves, the fabric cloak that she wears pulling taut on the extra limbs that it hides. Her fingers give another twitch, claws curling into themselves. “This is a place of mourning and –”

“And I am here to mourn.” Your interruption earns you a scoff, and so you finally turn toward her. Your gaze has to drift down in order to meet hers, even with her several paces away, hiding by the exit as if she needs to make a hasty getaway. Her fear is a thing with wings, but it is not your sister’s. No, hers has a distinctly pale light, and it surrounds her; it hides the shadows of regret that paint her black to your vision – you, who see feelings as colors.

The Pale Gift is black and gray over the crimson of her cape. She is drowning in a pain that she cannot let go.

Isn’t that familiar?

“What of you, Princess-Protector? What brings you to this place, forgotten by time?” You know the answer. The masks are gone and the door is ready to open, to fall before your summoner – the reason you are here at all. She knows, too. She can sense that the hands of fate are moving again, tugging on time and destiny like the threads of a tapestry, to rework and weave anew.

Will it be enough to save this dying land? No. But perhaps it will peel aside the second shell that locks it away and refuses to allow it to fade properly.

Burn.

“…I am also mourning,” she answers, her tone even and her stare flat. “It is my sibling in that prison, a sacrifice to keep this land from the clutches of the likes of you as long as possible.”

You smile beneath your mask; she cannot see it. Your hands fold under your cape and loll your head to the side to look at an angle back up at the seals.

“And it is my sibling that will deliver it unto me.”

There is delicious irony in that fact. Your sister does not want Hallownest to die. She wants to own it and its people. Death is counter to her goals and yet –

That is exactly what she is causing.

That is what she always causes, you’ve found. In an effort to keep a vice grip of control on the things that she considers to be hers, she rips them apart. And, unapologetically, she holds them responsible rather than admit her role in their demise. You are sure that even now, to the one within whom she is imprisoned, she must be insisting that she has been wronged – that she is suffering for another’s actions and not her own. For she will never learn and she will never change.

Knowing all of that, why then do you feel guilty, standing before what will soon become her tomb?

Knowing all of that, why then do you blame yourself for not interfering sooner? Or now?

It is your way to hold yourself accountable for things beyond your control. You know that her actions are not your own. You could not have stopped her and you could not have saved Hallownest without first sentencing it to a worse fate. Those thoughts should bring you comfort but here, at the end of your days, when tomorrow you know not if you will live at all, you cannot find it within yourself to be assuaged.

The spider steps away toward you. Each individual movement is measured, cautious and quiet, with an intensity in her glare that would have made a lesser bug cower in fear. When a predator approaches with that kind of stance, it is usually a good idea to step aside. But, butterfly or not, you are not afraid of any natural predator – not even a half-god like she is.

The Princess looks up at the door.

“It is coming back, the little ghost, and when it does, she will die. Do you intend to interfere? Or will you stand by and watch?”

You look down at her over your shoulder and shift your weight purposefully; it puts you on your heels, ready to backstep if she decides to attack. You do not expect her to, but you have never trusted strangers well, and she –

She is wyrmkin. She knows what you are and, if she is anything like her sire, she will seek to stand in your way.

“I would ask you the same thing,” you offer.

Her head bows. “I will not endanger myself in its attempt to put right the trials of time. I have a duty to Hallownest – a responsibility, a charge left to me by our King and –”

You interrupt her rant with a scoff and she freezes. Your idle hand motion earns you a withering, expectant glare, her shoulders tense, and you think you hear her chelicerae click in agitation.

“The King is dead. Long live the King.”

“Hallownest—” she begins.

You hold one hand up to stop her, then move to circle her in interest. “Hallownest is also dead, Princess. You cannot breathe life into its corpse by hope alone. Hope rests in a prison built to contain her. Learn the lesson of her mistakes.” Can she hear you, your sister, you wonder again? Does she know what you are saying? You can envision her seething in response. “I came to say goodbye. If the vessel accomplishes what it means to, there will be no tomorrow. If I intended to provide her with aid, I would have done it long ago. This kingdom is far past its prime. It is time to lay it in the ground and let it fade.”

If it succeeds in its goal, you will die. You have thought many times about what that would be like for you – you, who cannot, who will never fade from existence. Once, you sought the peace of the end, but now? Presented with its very real possibility? Now, you are frightened. You will not let it show, though. Not in front of the Princess of this long forgotten land, and certainly not in front of your sister, if she is watching with stolen eyes through the door.

Be brave, Fear.

The spider looks down. She is considering your words, you think, though her mask does not belie any emotion.

You are afraid. So is she. The little ghost intends to unspool time, to undo the pains of the past. It seeks to change fate from the very onset and you – you wish it luck. You have become fond of it in the time since your summoning, as you always do with those who give you a fragment of themselves by calling your Troupe to their lands. You want to see it succeed. But if it does – you will cease to be.

Perhaps another version of you will remain.

You step away from the egg, yet sealed, and one claw reaches out. The tip of it brushes along the underside of one of the throbbing arteries of infection. It splits under the sharp point and you leave little droplets of gold in your wake; you do not turn around to watch them fall.

“But you will stand idle, will you not?” you ask as you reach the door. “Ever the loyal soldier to your father, to your king. Ever a slave to your duty.” You turn around to look at her and the spider has her back to you. “What if you were not, though? What if, for once in your life… you made the choice to help the family that you clearly mourn? Be brave, Princess. Your time to decide the difference between who you are and who you want to be is running out.”

You hear the needle collide with the wall of the Temple. The resounding echo of the metal splitting through shell is loud in the silence. You do not turn around, nor do you flinch – which you suspect will incense her.

You leave her to her thoughts instead.

None of this will matter tomorrow, if the little ghost wins, and that is both comforting and depressing at the same time. If it fails, you will be trapped in your ailing, dying body, until the Ritual can be completed.

You would rather it win…

…but the end of the world is as bleak as it should be.

[secondtolastfr]

I know they said they wouldn't make Couriers an obtainable breed, but mark my words they eventually will. Because cmon, why not? Why not! It would be hilarious if Couriers are the Wind ancient. I will laugh as I buy a million of them.

And also my money is on Emperors being the Light ancient, I just like the idea of it. Why not have a giant, three-headed zombie dragon in the lair. Why not.

The earth ancient? Who knows! It might be an absolute unit. It might be a skeletal guy. It might be a turtle, or a dinosaur, or a wyrm. Who knows.

[fakesurprise]

The Sundered Wood

I had come prepared to kill a dragon. It wasn’t that the ancient wyrm that haunted and hunted the Sundered Woods was a dragon, but more than anything that could kill a dragon could definitely kill things that were not dragons. I had the Cutting Blade, enough holy water to banish a true demon, a cloak woven from shadow silk and a few tricks almost no one knew about, and a few I knew no one else knew about. It wasn’t an official job I had, working for the emperor. I was clever, and sneaky, and I could break into buildings and leave not even a magical trace behind.

None of which fit ‘go and destroy a wyrm’ but the emperor had been quite firm in what the empress said for him. No monsters had come out of the Wood in over two years, and that had those in power concerned for reasons beyond my knowing. I knew there were rare herbs in the Sundered Wood that the empire needed, and they had send in Jeric Sunbane in – and the necromancer had failed.

I had been given the Cutting Blade before I could even question the empire making deals with a necromancer and mostly left the greater palace in a daze. The sword looked small and thin, in a simple sheathe by my side. Legends claimed it had been found more than made, and it was known as the only weapon that could harm the emperor at all. The weapon had shrunk to fit my grip, and no one been surprised.

I was given a cloud dog for the journey, and six days passed in travel over the empire. Wide roads, safe fields, bustling towns. And beyond it all the magical dome that was the will of the emperor, holding back enemies both real and imagined. I passed through, and the world shifted to slightly greyer skies, a slight chill in the air. After two days of travel, the towns were worn, the people carried open weapons and trusted no one – probably not even themselves. Every field was fenced, and wild boars roamed the open spaces like monsters from old stories.

Somewhere, far beyond the Sundered Woods, lay a home I had never seen.

Every time I left the empire, I had less and less reason to try and find it.

The Sundered Woods were at least easy to find: the trees were tall, thin and ugly, the forest untouched by settlements. Even the deep folk didn’t mine under the Sundered Woods. The air seemed a perpetual fog, and I landed in a field of skeletal bodies. Hundreds. Thousands. A whole army that Jeric had called up, which had failed to get further than an hour into the woods.

I dismissed the cloud dog with a hug and entered, making no noise as I walked over the newly re-dead corpses. After the hour, even I was noticing the darkness. Strange insects buzzed and moved, and I was watched by birds that were not birds at all. I did not draw the Cutting Blade. I had a sword forged by one of the six blind bain smiths, and poison on the blade that would make most freeze and never move again.

The blade could cut through other steel with ease, and possibly dragonscale, though I didn’t know of anyone who had tried it. No one had seen a true dragon in centuries and a small part of me was excited about the wyrm. After two hours, the sounds of the forest had blended to become this not-silence of noise. After three, I put the blade away. The dead had not stirred even once, which was a surprise: necromancer’s workings tended to continue for a long time. It was one reason among many they had been banned from the empire.

The fox came down from a tree slowly. Stretching, being seen. Fur the colour of a ripened plum and eyes that gleamed with dancing colours.

“You didn’t come with an army.” The fox’s voice was rich, urbane. That a fox spoke the imperial tongue was somehow not a surprise: there were stories of mages enchanting animals, though none of those ended well as they had all involved the giving of gifts which were not gifts at all.

“I was sent to slay the wyrm.”

“Ah.” The fox stared down at me from a branch. “There is a clearing in the centre of the Sundered Woods. It is not far.”

“What happened to the undead?” I asked.

“Sunlight.” The fox laughed, eyes dancing. “Your holy water is holy: why can words not also make light holy?”

I paused, and had no idea what to say to that.

The fox paused for a moment in turn; it felt as if the entire forest stilled with it. “Be careful.”

I considered myself a most careful person, but I nodded. “I shall try.”

I walked on, and the fox did not follow.

Night came even to the Sundered Wood. I lit a lantern meant for thieving and walked on.

The clearing I came to was as large as some smaller forests: patches of brush, several hills, rolling moss on the ground. No boars; I realized I had seen none in the Wood at all, and was not certain what to make of that.

I moved stealthier than a shadow, the Cutting Blade in one hand as I scanned the area. The ground was odd, moss in different shades, uprooted and shifted in places where the wrym had come from below the earth.

“I trust you are here for a reason?” a voice said mildly behind me.

I spun to face an unarmed human. He was fourteen, with rather well-made clothing and a strange accent which spoke of lands far from the empire. He had no weapons; neither did he seem worried about mine.

“Do you hunt the wyrm as well?”

He stared town at me and blinked, once. “Not in any way you mean, no.”

Necromancer’s tended to not have apprentices. But little else could explain this stranger or the fact that he seemed wholly unafraid.

I moved, and the air thrummed as the Cutting Blade cut through it, leaving behind a faint blue wound as if the air itself had been sliced through.

He stepped aside. Somehow, faster than even I could move, he stepped aside seemingly without worry.

I swung again, and this time he moved backwards out of range of a second swing.

“Interesting. That could cut me,” he said softly. “A verkonis blade, far from where they were made.”

I straightened. I could have attacked again. I knew it wouldn’t matter. I was fast, but he was too fast for mere skill, even mine. “Who are you? Where is the wyrm?”

“It left to become a dragon. I was merely visiting, and the necromancer was quite rude. That does tend to be a failing of people like that.” He sighed. “And your emperor heard of me, and sent you to kill me.”

“I was sent to kill a dragon.”

“I am not a dragon, at least not right now.”

“Shapechanger.” I didn’t draw the weapon again. There were stories, and most agreed such creatures could only die to magic. I had some small magics, but only small ones for all my private boasts.

“Not in the sense that you mean. I am a traveller, passing through this place and bound for other lands. You are far from your land,” and he said a word then, which I did not know at all.

Something passed through his eyes which was not calm at all.

“You don’t even know your name. Nor the name of your people.”

I had several, depending on need and moment, but offered up none then.

“I could stay, but I am needed at a wedding.” He smiled, and the smile was so gentle I almost forgot how dangerous he had to be. “I also need to visit Nomen and Sevras again and find a way past –.”

He paused, eyes unfocused. “But that does not mean I should not do good here as well.”

And he touched my forehead, lightly, with a finger.

I saw the emperor.

I saw the source of the barrier, and how it drains the rest of the world to keep the empire strong.

I saw the empress, and I knew why no necromancers were allowed within the empire, for they would learn her terrible secret.

“My home? My people?” I said, and I almost did not recognize my own voice.

“Those you will need to find on your own, and learn what truths you will.”

“You have power.”

“Not your kind, or one meant for this place.” There was a steel in his eyes that I was certain nothing could ever cut, and he let out a breath. “This is your adventure, and it would only be cruel if I took it from you.”

“To – return home? Not to destroy the empire?”

“That seems bigger than a single adventure, and certainly not something one does alone.” He smiled again, gently soft, as he stepped back. “The blade won’t help you, not in a way you think.”

“It scares you.”

“Many things do. Sometimes I think that fears increase with power: you can do more, and so you have more to protect, more to aid, and far more to care for. The emperor does what he does because he cares, and judges the cost worth it.”

I set the blade down.

He picked it up, and it vanished from view with a flick of his wrist. “If things go – poorly, I may be able to aid you in the future.”

And he said his name, which I will not utter here and hope to never do at all.

And he was gone, and I never saw the wyrm. I do not know what became of it, nor the woods. It has been many years, and I am still seeking home, and those who are like me.

Perhaps I will never find them. But I am also seeking allies. I have seen enough of the world to know that the empire cannot continue as it has.

If any wish to aid me, I will not turn it down. We will not survive a battle with the emperor and empress, but we may ensure a better world exists once they are gone. You could call yourself a hero, if you wish: we will die, and being a hero is not something people survive.

But some things are worth the cost, even if no one knows how much we will pay.

[bluegekk0]

🦀

i was going to take this one literally and talk about fpk digging for crabs at the beach, or something of that sort. but then i remembered the "why does everything evolve into crabs" question and i felt inspired to talk about some worldbuilding. veeery loosely based on the emoji, so sorry if this isn't what you were hoping for haha

so i've mentioned before that wyrms in the au aren't god-like creatures and instead are the closest thing this universe had to dinosaurs. their ancestors were small, but they evolved to grow into massive sizes and slowly took over the planet. of all the gigantic species that once roamed the world, wyrms were the last, all thanks to their strange ability to stop aging. the lack of sufficient food drove them to intense intraspecies competition and cannibalism, and so they eventually all died out (with the exception of fpk, who found a way to adapt)

so if wyrms and other giant creatures were the dinosaurs, then i guess that makes the lesser creatures the mammal equivalents here. they outlived their ancient contemporaries and became the dominant group, as they evolved into all the different species that can be found today. the whole group is most commonly referred to as bugs, but many of them do not resemble our world's insects at all. funnily enough, many would likely be classified under vertebrate thanks to the presence of skeletal structures that allow them to reach larger sizes and bipedal body plan. not to mention, the bleed red in the au, so their inner systems are also different to those of insects

but where do the gods come into this? they are present after all. the way i imagine them in the au, their most accurate title would be "guardians". with some exceptions, like the radiance and unn, they are not creators of life forms. instead, they guide the mortals, leaving clues in form of lore tablets, and they each have their own domain they are responsible for watching over (like dreams for the radiance, and nightmares for grimm). as for where they came from, i'm not quite sure. perhaps the first god was a strange mutation, or an extraterrestrial being. i referred to grimm and wl as the youngest generation of gods, so perhaps they're like greek gods in this area, as if, they have children that then join the pantheon of gods. though i imagine the dream realm itself to be a bit more like asgard from norse mythology - it's a realm for all the gods to reside in, and each of them has their own "hall" - this case, their individual sub-realms. for example, grimm's nightmare realm was one of them, it was once part of the dream realm, but was separated from it following his banishment - he can only enter the nightmare realm and is unable to visit the shared dream realm

i'm still brainstorming how much that impacts their influence in the regions they haven't originated from. for example, i think grimm and the radiance came from the territory that is now hallownest and the neighboring regions, and i guess that would mean they hold the most power here, which makes sense. but since grimm can collect nightmare essence outside of hallownest, then it can't be limited to just this territory. i'll figure something out eventually, i think there are many directions to go in with this. and i like the idea of different regions having different "dominant" gods, so i'd love to explore and experiment with that

this is definitely in the confusing rambling territory but i've always enjoyed thinking of the world in the au in this kind of context. magic is interesting, but i've always been more drawn to, i don't know, i guess a speculative evolution/biology kind of direction? it's still in the fantasy territory since it doesn't match reality 1:1, but i guess i just enjoy having a slightly more grounded approach. well, aside from the gods hahaha