#the youngest Blight

[yardsards]

my experience going into dungeon meshi is that the only reason i knew chilchuck was an adult halfling rather than a prepubescent human is bc my first exposure to him was in an "epic divorce man" tumblr poll bracket

[arlathen]

waking up two hours before my alarm struck with divine inspiration about post-veilguard amadea visiting a very aged thom rainier.

[theredjenny]

Do you ever think about Shea Surana? Because I think about Shea Surana.

[antihibikase-archive]

Have not talked about Blur/Blight Kuroshipping for a hot minute, so;

After the events of Relic Castle arc, the league asks Hilbert if he's alright with being Cheren's roommate for the time being. Hilbert accepts this eagerly.

Cheren still teaches, but he spends his weekends at Castelia City. Hilbert helps him travel around.

Besides helping Cheren, Hilbert's job is mostly assisting with league efforts in keeping Unova safe- and that also includes melting down the remaining ice from Team Plasma's attack.

On days when they're separated, Nate is all too happy to take Hilbert's place and help out Cheren as much as he needs- but he also reminds Hilbert to call often, as Cheren still hasn't gotten over his disappearance, and tends to freak out when Hilbert doesn't pick up.

Similarly, Hilbert freaks out when he sees Cheren's empty bed in the condo. He's always terrified of something bad happening to him, which is justified since he's seen his best friend dead three separate times.

They eventually start swapping Pokemon around to help with the separation anxiety. Hilbert's Emboar and Braviary accompany Cheren to therapy, while Cheren's Lopunny and Stoutland accompany Hilbert around the region.

Minccheri still hates Hilbert. </3 Kitty likes him though. Most of their Pokemon adore each other. Reshiram especially makes sure to be careful around Cheren.

At some point throughout the year, the Manaphy egg hatches. They take care of the Manaphy together, and though it's under Cheren's name, Manaphy technically belongs to both of them.

At the end of the year, after retaking his gym leader exam, Hilbert asks Cheren if he wants him to move out- the league only asked him to stay with Cheren as long as he was still recovering after all. Cheren is the one that tells him to stay, and they've been living together since.

[theskeletoninthegarden]

My brain chose a face claim for my new MC, who is supposed to be the kid of a canon character, and they look n o t h i n g alike.

[storyhaunt-a]

jace hawke, the youngest child of malcolm hawke and leandra amell, never made it to kirkwall. during the fall of lothering, he was accidentally abandoned by the rest of the family, who had witnessed what they believed to be his death at the claws and teeth of darkspawn; in reality, though jace had been grievously injured, he had not been killed, and through means he could not recall, he did manage to escape lothering and get far enough away from the darkspawn to survive. as such, jace became stranded in ferelden as a wounded apostate while the living remainder of his family made their way to kirkwall, with neither party having any clue as to the other's survival.

[anam-mana]

It fascinates me that Alistair gets lumped in with the “Chantry Boys” in discussions about Dragon Age Archetypes because it’s just. Very untrue. But it’s an idea the text actually pushes you to connect with in a way I think is purposeful.

This guy introduces us to the lore of the Blight by asking if we want “the chantry version or the truth.” If we ask if they’re not the same thing he smirks and says with some attitude “they rarely are.”

He sums up his religious beliefs saying he’s “not especially” Andrastian, and that “believes in the Maker well enough.”

He’s actually LESS religious than Zevran, who describes himself as fully Andrastian with a regular prayer routine in optional conversation branches.

The things that people use to categorize Alistair’s supposed “Chantry Boy” boy status all have non-religious motivations.

For example, the big one, his virginity, is because 1. He’s nervous around women, which is the gender he finds most attractive 2. He’s actually the youngest Party Member, being freshly 20 years old. 3. And most importantly, he correlates sex with love and was brought up to see them as requiring the other and so feels uncomfortable having sex without what he sees as “true love.” And he just hasn’t been in love yet.

Another example would be his reaction to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He reacts with wonder akin to Leliana where many others react with a contrasting blasee attitude. Even the Andrastian Zevran.

But you gotta read between the lines here. Zevran doesn’t hold remains as sacred. He’s an assassin. So his prophet’s body is in that urn. It’s a body. The least remarkable and most mundane, perhaps even the hardest to swallow, thing she could ever be to Zevran is a corpse. Kinda takes the wonder out of faith for an assassin if she dies and rests just like any one else.

But Alistair is fascinated, in awe. 1, probably because the Chantry he doubts so much now has some kinda proof that something they said was true, unlike what he previously believed. 2, Alistair is WAY more patriotic than he is religious and we gotta remember that the Fereldans pride themselves on Alamari heritage, and Andraste was probably the most powerful and influential Alamari person to ever live. 3, he’s actually a giant history buff. He info dumps history on you often, with the memorized readings of whatever question you ask. If asked about the King and Loghain before the betrayal at Ostagar, he shows respect for Loghain’s service in the War for Independance, and knowledge of his tactics. And when speaking about his time in training with the chantry as a child, he says the education was actually what he liked most. And a lot of his gifts are things like replica soldiers, Fereldan historical things, maps, (along with his interest in magical artifacts but that’s for another day.) etc. Given his patriotism and love of learning history, yeah, the Urn is a big deal to him.

I have more things I could say, but really, I just find Alistair to be one of the most misrepresented by fandom characters. His character has a TON of subtext that challenges you to look beyond what others represent him as and the low opinion he holds of himself.

The perception of him as Andrastian and devout is one pushed on him by people like Morrigan (and others to some degree) who fights Alistair more like a straw man representing society than she engages with him as himself. She sees him as a Templar even though he left the order specifically because they abused him And he fundamentally disagreed with their practices, The Harrowing specifically being what pushed him to fight to leave.

There are, textually, two ways to interpret Alistair. Through face value aesthetics and symbolism pointing to association with the Chantry and by observing other’s opinion of him. Or through actually listening to what he says and watching what he does.

And it’s just interesting to me that a lot of people get caught in the trap of what he represents aesthetically rather than who he is.

[thedreadfulwolf]

Codex Entry: The Grey Queen

amazing art by @artist-rat

As the youngest child of the Teryn and Teryna of Highever, Elthea Cousland had an upbringing befitting any child of noble stature. While her tutors were impressed with her quick wit and grasp of diplomacy, the Hero of Fereldan also excelled with the sword and shield. Although the Teryna didn't want her daughter learning such things, the girl begged and pleaded with her older brother to teach her what he'd learnt in his lessons, and was insistent enough that the Teryn relented and allowed her to be tutored alongside Ser Gilmore. The two became quick friends and close confidants, a friendship that carried on into adulthood.

In 9:30 Dragon, Arl Rendorn Howe's men attacked Castle Cousland while the troops were marching to Ostagar with her older brother. With the rest of her family murdered, Elthea promised her father she'd flee with Warden Commander Duncan and ensure the Cousland name lived on. However, her new place of belonging was short lived, as the Grey Wardens and King Cailan were betrayed at Ostagar and all but wiped out.

In her efforts to gather allies to fight back the Blight, Elthea was known for her persuasiveness and compassion when dealing with others, always willing to give in return for their assistance despite the treaties compelling them to help anyway.

Despite her misgivings, Thea agreed to Morrigan's ritual in order to protect Fereldan's king if she and Riordan were to fall before reaching the Archdemon.

After the coronation of her beloved, Elthea's worries about their future were finally put to rest as King Alistair proposed, and they were wed six months later. Though there were some murmurings about two grey wardens on the throne of Fereldan, no one could deny how in love the couple appeared to be. They ruled together with fairness and thought for the people of their country until Queen Elthea disappeared in the night, leaving her husband to rule alone. Rumors amongst the palace servants say that wherever she is, the Queen still writes to her beloved frequently, and he is the only one who knows of her whereabouts and what took her away from the palace to begin with.

[arcane-fox]

Legion Profligate (1/4)

Series Summary: Caesar’s Legion is invading the Mojave Wasteland. After your unfortunate run in with their horrific atrocities, a high ranking legionary spares you for one sole purpose.

Pairing: Dark!Acacius x Female Reader Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI WC: 8k (AO3) Chapter Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. VERY DARK. NONCON/DUBCON. Stockholm Syndrome, Explicit Smut, Violence, Power Abuse, Slavery and Forced Breeding, Age Gap, Derogatory Language, Creampies, Cum Talk, Unprotected PinV, Oral (m!receiving), Angst

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Epilogue

Notes: This is a Fallout/Acacius crossover mini-series set during the events of Fallout New Vegas. You do NOT need to be familiar with Fallout to read this series. Huge thank you to Odi @thedilfdiaries who has been my biggest cheerleader for this series and my beta. Also huge thanks to Aly @iamasaddie for reading this over for me and giving me great feedback and courage. Endless love and gratitude to you both!

Series Masterlist | Notifs | AO3

It had been over 200 years since the atom bombs fell. The nuclear war that changed the globe forever. 200 years of radiation. Starvation. Violence. Factions splintering across the country and still fighting for the scraps of a forgotten world.  A never ending fight for survival that became the new normal for every generation to come. 

War never changes.

Word had spread across the Mojave that the Legion was pushing further West. The relative safeness of the settlements protected by the NCR was eroding. They had fewer soldiers to spare for protection and instead were mobilizing to protect the more important towns bordering the Colorado River and New Vegas.

Sunhollow was not a priority outpost, and the Legion could smell blood in the water. The New California Republic was struggling to hold on to its territory.

They came just before dawn's first light. At least 100 legionaries surrounded Sunhollow and the first wave charged in with spears and machetes. Snipers picked off anyone who tried to flee. Some of the citizens fought back but they were no match for the brutality that the legionaries wielded.

Just four NCR Rangers were stationed there and managed to take down several Legion soldiers with their submachine guns before they were overcome. They were quickly captured. They were gathered at the center of town and burnt alive on the pyres. Frightened townsfolk were slaughtered as they tried to run and their bodies were just left to rot with the rising sun. Everything smelt like death. 

This raid was nothing but a slaughter. The men were either crucified or beaten to death. The youngest children were rounded up and enslaved. The older ones were left to share the same fate as the men. They had already been influenced by the NCR values and could never be indoctrinated into the Legion. It was not worth the risk. Unlike the tribal towns that lived peacefully without the influence of the NCR, no man at Sunhollow was given the choice to pledge their loyalty to the Legion. 

The Legion referred to anyone in the NCR as profligates and used it like a filthy slur. An annoying blight to be removed and the last real opponent in their path to taking over the West. They stole nothing, instead just leaving behind an aftermath of death and blood and fear. Their numbers were growing, and their patience dwindling. Smaller Legion camps like this one had an eagerness to exterminate the outlier towns while final preparations were being made to wipe out the NCR Army once and for all.  

After hearing about the atrocities at the town of Nipton where only one person was left alive, this war has progressed far beyond just disrupting supply lines and taking out NCR soldiers. They wanted to demoralize anyone left standing with the NCR and eliminate anyone who shared their values. 

Personal liberties were not granted in the Legion. Everyone served Caesar and if you were to oppose you would be killed without question. The youngest and newest recruits were always used as front line attackers and many of them knowingly gave their lives for the cause, because it was what they were trained to do. Those who proved themselves were able to move up in the ranks with better weapons and armor. Loyalty was rewarded. This made the fiercest and most competent fighters the best equipped to survive. 

You had learnt all about the Legion while working closely with the NCR Rangers. The only reason you were in Sunhollow was to accompany a trade caravan delivering medical supplies between outposts. You were spending a few nights resting before heading back West. The trade route was relatively safe until recent months and you knew the risks. You could handle yourself with a firearm while the mercenaries took out the big threats. Not this time. You along with everyone else in Sunhollow were not prepared for this.   

Reading pre war books you had a wealth of knowledge on the Roman Empire too. You were fortunate to be raised to understand advanced literacy. While many people only knew how to read and write the bare minimum, it had become something you excelled at and leveraged in your line of work as a merchant. 

A useful skill that at this moment felt incredibly useless. There was no reasoning with legionaries and being an overly educated woman was a threat more than anything. Something to keep to yourself and blend in as a cooperative and docile captive. 

You dropped to your knees in a line with other “lucky profligates” that were temporarily spared. They made you watch the relentless slaughter of the townsfolk. Watching grown men cry and beg for mercy before receiving a beating or a blade to the throat. Your caravan of male colleagues had long been decimated. Being a healthy, young woman was the only thing keeping you breathing for now.  

You gathered that the pair of soldiers with the red plumes fanning across their helmets were the infamous Centurions. Rising to their comfy position because of their proven brutality. Their presence here was an indication that this was more than just a raid. They seemed to be accompanying a more practically dressed legionary administering the fate of the remaining captives. 

He walked back and forth along the row of women with bound hands, denoting many of them ‘unfit’. They were dragged off into the town hall by hungry wolves eager to have their way before taking their lives. Judging by the screams coming from the building, none of it was merciful. 

He didn’t wear a helmet, and his armor was splattered in blood. His machete hung at his hip opposite of his sidearm, adorning his traditional looking black and gold roman armor with nuclear age weaponry. The Legion was known for following the military structure of the ancient Romans, right down to the armor.  

He stood in front of the town hall, presiding over the soldiers assembling more crosses to crucify the remaining men. Observing the newly made slaves who were tossing bodies of their friends into the pyres. He looked tired of it all. Tired of wasting potential resources for the sake of spreading fear and demoralization. You caught the subtle way his expression was less enthusiastic, almost as if he found these immoral deeds repulsive. Or so you imagined. You were desperate for any sliver of hope that could save you at this point.  

Acacius, you heard the other men call him. You deduced he was some sort of higher ranking Legionary. He had a red tunic with gold accents under his armor, making him stand out. His armor was more ornate, too, with a golden Medusa emblem on his chest. Golden claws decorated his pauldrons. The worn, black patina of his armor made him look menacing and regal. 

“Ave, Caesar,” he said as he nodded to some of his men, appearing to give them permission to string up the unlucky souls. They did so without apprehension but his face wore a hint of disgust. It was easy to miss, but you were watching him intently. 

He was older than many of the others. Grey flecks throughout his scruff and his messy, dark curls. Sullen eyes and an aquiline nose. His shoulders were broad and commanding with a more tapered waist. His arms and legs were solid with lean muscles and he exuded power from every angle. His meaty thighs proudly showing  exposed flesh between the pteruges on his skirt and above his leather greaves. Legs that could chase you down in an instant. His body was built to fight and built to win with or without a weapon. 

He carried himself with a confidence that his word was absolute, and to challenge him would be met with his raw strength. Everything about his presence felt powerful and unforgiving. 

He was… handsome. An observation you lamented given the situation. 

He kept evaluating you with intrigue and finding something about you worth keeping around for now. You couldn’t stop trying to sneak a reading on him either. It was a dangerous game, but one you couldn’t seem to withdraw from.   

You also overheard one of the younger soldiers quipping quietly about his leadership. Criticizing him for sparing the lives of profligate women and children. How instead they should be slaughtering everyone to make an example, even the ones that had their uses. His eyes scanned over you as he said the last part with insinuation. 

Acacius apparently heard it too, as it sparked him to take action for mocking his command.  

“Hold your tongue, or you will join these bodies,” he threatened as he brandished his machete and pressed it to the soft flesh under the chin of the mouthy soldier, who cowered back. “You know nothing about building an empire.”

The soldier steadied himself, submitting only to get out of his situation. Even you could see this one was a loose cannon.

“Yes, Acacius,” he conceded with a fake docility.  

“Disobey me again and it will be your last breath.” Acacius stepped forward as he spoke those words and pushed his chin upward with the blade. A trickle of blood ran down his neck as he punctured him with the tip. 

His eyes caught you watching him and his face hardened, hiding any traces of morality as he sheathed his weapon. Your curiosity had overstepped and you had seen too much. 

You looked away, but could still feel him on you for a moment longer. Your gaze dangerously fluttered back to him as if he was willing you to look again. His penetrating glower investigating your misplaced interest in him.     

His body was still running on the adrenaline from the bloody slaughter earlier. Unlike most other men in higher ranks who still had unsullied armor, he was in the thick of it all. Ruthless and leading with brutality. He wasn’t just executing orders. He was an expert killer and didn’t happen to be in his position by accident. He demonstrated his skills in battle, and the snide comment he overheard sparked a primal rage in his core. How dare anyone question him?   

It was a wishful and foolish thought to find any sympathy in the Legion. You try to look away as he steps towards you, bracing for the blade that was sure to follow. 

He grabbed you by your neck and forced you to look him in the eyes. To his surprise, and yours, you met them with prowess. 

His gaze caught the two-headed bear badging on your shoulder. A mark of NCR allegiance. It enraged him.  

“Get up.” he barked. He towered over you as he pulled you up by your bound hands. “Make yourself useful, Profligate whore.” 

Your words stuck in your throat and you were silent. He was going to make a demonstration of his savagery, at your expense. 

–

You could hear some sneers coming from some of the nearby legionaries as he pushed you up the stairs and into the nearby building. They were laughing at your misfortune like savage hyenas as you were being paraded into the lion's den.  

A few more legionaries were inside, forcing themselves on captive women. Out in the open, it didn’t matter to them. They were barbaric. Celebrating their victory with some casual rape and torture. It was abhorrent. They seemed to have more privilege and were able to indulge in their spoils. Their helmets resembled war bonnets, decorated in black and red feathers. Some of them wore red face wraps or darkened goggles, making them look even more menacing. 

Everything about the Legion was so hierarchical and you figured they must be Decanus. Commanders under Acacius. Middle management. Leaders. Dangerous men who got away with too much and still had too much to prove to ascend even higher. At least they were easy enough to pick out.

When they saw Acacius the room tensed. He fanned his hand out to signal that there was no need to stop what they were doing. His silent command was somehow even more intimidating. 

Your chest tightened and you bit your lip to stop it from quivering. This was not a fate you would wish on your worst enemy. 

You turned to face him and tried to plead with a whisper, choking on your words in panic. He ignored you and pushed you into the middle of the room. You fell onto your forearms and knees, grabbing the attention of others who started to eye you like a piece of meat. 

He stood above you like a conqueror and used his foot to turn you on your back to face him. His expression was cold and dutiful. That morality you swore you saw earlier was gone.   

He kneeled down with his legs spread over you and pressed his body up against you. You struggled underneath him, fighting for your life as he caged you in. His hand wrapped around the front of your neck and tightly held it as he leaned over your shoulder. He spoke softly in your ear but with a vulgarity and crudeness that made you shudder. 

“You can be a whore for my men, who will use you up until there is nothing left. Or, you can behave and perform your duty to me as Caesar sees fit.”

You knew what that meant. The only duty women had was to be bred to make more soldiers. You heard the horror stories. Women were not free in the Legion. Nobody was really, but women had it the worst. The healthy and docile ones were relegated to breeders and the old and young used for slave labor. All of them were property to be used by the Legion men whenever they wanted. Anyone not compliant or too smart for their own good was killed. They only needed your body, and nothing more. You were either indoctrinated into the Legion, or your life was taken. 

Your survival instincts kick in as panic courses through your body. You can fight it or you can accept the hand dealt to you. The luxury of living is dangled in front of you with a cruel ultimatum that will likely end in death either way. You know for certain you are not ready to leave this world at the hands of being torn apart and defiled by multiple barbaric men. 

This was just one man. One large, powerful man who was giving you a choice.  

You give him what he wants and signal your obedience by relaxing your body under him. Your heart was hammering out of your chest with an obscene thud and he felt your fear pulsing through your veins. It was turning him on and you felt him swell between his legs.     

The pressure on your throat left you unable to speak and he pushed against you even harder as you struggled to breathe.

“That’s a good girl,” he growled into your ear. 

If you cooperated maybe it could earn you another day to live. Another day to figure out what the hell you were going to do. 

His hand relaxed on your throat as he pulled back to stand up. You gasped for the air you were finally afforded. He stripped your tattered clothes off your body with little effort and flipped you back over onto your stomach.

You lay there, prone and paralyzed with your bound hands outstretched in front of you. Naked and shaking.  

Acacius took off his belt and with it tossed his weapons to the side. He freed his hardness as he stepped out of his underclothes. Crudely, he spit into the palm of his hand and spread it along his cock and kneeled down between your legs.

His leather bracer slid roughly across your skin as he worked an arm under your belly to lift up your hips. He made just enough room to slide his hand over your mound and grab you with a rough hold. Blood and grime was still covering his body and the metallic, earthy smell made you recoil. You winced at the feeling of his filth making contact with you. 

He propped you up on your knees with your forearms supporting some of your weight while he nestled up to the plush of your ass against his hips. His massive form looming behind you made you feel even smaller and more insignificant than you already were. You had zero leverage. 

Your mind was racing. How many women had he taken in this way? How many women had chosen this same fate? How likely was it that after he fucked you he would take pleasure in killing you too?

Those thoughts fell to the wayside as his middle finger abruptly dragged into your slit, gathering your wetness. You didn’t expect your body to be preparing you like it was. Betrayal or gratitude, it made no difference.   

“Mmm” he groaned as he pushed two of his fingers into your hole. “You actually want Legion cock, don’t you?”

His absurd question goes unanswered and you resent your body. 

His rough, gritty digits worked you open and it couldn’t even be considered a poor excuse for foreplay. He wasn’t priming you for a good time. This was about him taking what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. Prying you open so there was as a little resistance as possible when he inevitably drove into you.  

He pinched at your sensitive bud to see if he could draw a sound from you and scoffed when you did, as if to mock you for reacting to his touch. He cupped your mound hard and jammed his fingers back into you, splaying them inside. He teased more pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand until he was convinced you would be able to take him. Whether you were ready or not, he would make it fit regardless. That much you were certain of. 

You could feel his length getting harder against your ass. You tried to calm yourself from the panic that ensued when you realized how massive he really was as he began rutting his hardness against you. Sheathed in a needy, primal rhythm that was picking up tempo.    

Deep breaths. You closed your eyes, focusing on breathing as you hung your head low and braced for what was to come. He tore his hand from you and left you empty for the briefest moment. 

He wasted no time lining up his cock with your slit. The spongy head leading the way for his engorged member. Tapping it against you as he started to rut into you with fervor. Splitting you open with his thick shaft.   

Your eyes went wide and you cried out with a pained mewl. Not only was he denying you time to adjust to his size, but he was so swollen with need. The girth of his cock complimented his broadness all over. The pain from the stretch seared into you like a hot knife. Your eyes tightly shut and tears fell.

He pushed you down into the floor as he fucked you. His hands clawed into your hips, trying to hold you up and pulling you into him until his weight had you pinned under him. The floorboards scraped against your skin each time he pounded into you, making your knees and elbows raw. 

Your hands were clasped together in an iron grip. The rope around your wrists felt like it was getting tighter the more you struggled. 

The rough leather strips of his armored skirt slapped into your skin as he thrusted, drawing his full length out and driving it back in even deeper. Again and again. Forcing himself into you and taking up all available space, greedy to make more room. 

His groans were loud and animalistic. He was overcome by his nature and held nothing back. Pounding into you with ferocity. Each thrust harder and more urgent to lose himself inside you.  

“Please…” you horsley pleaded to him. “Please…” you didn’t know what you were asking for, you just wanted it to be over. 

You turned your head so your cheek was pressing into the floor and tried to gaze up at him. His focus on you was unwavering, boring into your soul. The darkness in his eyes had zero regard for your attempt at thwarting his intensity.

He didn’t let up.

As his cock twitched inside you felt him slow his pace, but not his force. You could feel him starting to come undone as he began knocking at your deepest parts. The tight coil in your belly started to unwind. 

Fuck no, please no. You pleaded to yourself.  

You resented your body for how it started to accept him inside you. Your walls clenched around his heat as he fucked you harder and harder. How could your body betray you so cruelly to give you any semblance of pleasure from such a vile man? The heavy drag of his cock against your ridges stirred something inside that you wanted to bury away, but it clawed itself out.

Despite where you were it felt like everything shrunk away and simplified. It was just two bodies fucking and teetering on the edge of bliss. Allowing your mind to escape into a place where it would be ok. A place where you could give in to the growing heat in your belly and revel in the way it washed over you.  

The pretty moan that escaped your lips was enough to send him over the edge before you could choke it back. He heard you unravel. Your convulsing walls gave you away anyways, and he knew he had you. Squeezing him tightly as something dark and sinister released within.

He grit his teeth and pulsed inside you, drawing from you a whimper. You could feel his hot cum filling you up as he panted, emptying his balls and painting the depths of your cunt with his spend. He fucked it deeper inside you until he finally started to soften and still. 

The room was silent except for his heavy breathing and your despondent sobs.

The tears streamed down your face as he pulled out of you and hovered on all fours over your broken body beneath him. His hand wrapped into your hair as he yanked your head up so your ear was to his mouth.

“You’ll take my cock when I give it to you,” he threatened. “I’ll fuck this profligate cunt until my cum is the only thing left inside you.”

The grip in your hair tightened as he urged you to acknowledge him. His hot breath puffed against your ear with each labored exhale.  

“You hear me?” he snarled. His grip was painful on your scalp and you winced.

“Yes, Ac-” your reply trailed off, not knowing if you should dare say the name you overheard.

“Acacius.” He enunciated boldly.

“Yes, Acacius.”  

Content with your reply, he pushed you back onto the floor. You laid there afraid to move or speak another word. 

He redressed and adorned his weapons. Ignoring you laying there like a discarded plaything he lost interest in. 

Except that, you didn’t know it, but he felt drawn to you in a way that he knew he had to have more of you. You intrigued him in a new way. You weren’t weak like the others, and you were observant. He wanted to challenge your resolve and break your spirit to succumb to him without hesitation. You saw something in him that he tried to hide away. Something inappropriate and unbecoming of a legionary in his position. Your dissolute temptation had to be snuffed out before it took hold on him and yet he couldn’t bring himself to take your life. Not yet. He had to try to tame you first. Fuck it out of you and taste your fruit before it spoiled.

You wondered why you were spared. Surely keeping someone like you alive with strong NCR convictions would be a great risk for the Legion. Maybe he wanted you to tempt him. To challenge him. Maybe it was all a game for him to see if he could turn you to his side. Or maybe he was waiting for you to fuck up so he could have his fun in new ways. 

It was all too much to think about when your fate was teetering dangerously at the hands of the enemy. 

“This one’s mine.” He casually commands to the other men as he walks away from your disheveled body without as much as a glance back. 

Mine. The tone of how he referred to you so nonchalant replayed over and over in your head. What did that really mean for you? 

Whoever he was, he had authority. You felt like you made a deal with the devil. Sold your soul and to what end? 

You could feel him leaking out of you as you shifted to curl your arms against your chest and draw your legs together tightly. You wanted to shrink away and disappear. Wake up from the nightmare.

What the fuck were you going to do now? Was this your life now? To be bred and kept like livestock and bolstering the future generations of Legion until you died? The thought of such a bleak destiny made your head spin and your heart race. 

You lay broken on the floor, catching your breath between tears. Feeling empty where he stretched you open. It was a hard feeling to reconcile. You had no concept of how much time had passed, only that it felt eternal, and you felt alone. Wanting for something that you couldn’t define.   

None of the other legionaries touched you, but you could feel their eyes on your broken body. Feel how much they wanted to. Perverse thoughts and immoral intentions being projected at you with their hungry gaze. Leaving you there vulnerable and subdued felt as much a test to them as it was punishment for you. 

You felt the tiniest comfort inside that you could not quite explain. Not gratitude, but some faded semblance of it. Acacius had been merciful in a twisted way. He stripped you of your dignity and your freedom, but he didn’t give you to the wolves. 

–

One of the decanus commanders came in after some time and approached you assertively. His face was covered up with a red cloth and black goggles, and his helmet was covered in black feathers flowing backwards. He looked ready to run into battle. 

He tossed a garb at you. A plain, linen dress style tunic except for a red X painted on the front. The mark of a legion slave. 

He brandished his knife and reached for your wrists to cut the rope binding your hands. The marks left behind were raw and bloody.  

Without your hands bound it changed very little other than some minor relief. There was no place to run and no way to escape without being hunted down in an instant. If you didn’t get picked off by a bullet, one of the mongrels would make quick work of you. Even if you somehow managed to get away, you would die in the Mojave with no supplies. Your hands were more useful to them being untethered and put to work. You weren't going anywhere.    

With your new found freedom you threw the dress to the side and turned away from him, wrapping your arms around your knees to withdraw the best you could. Was he expecting you to be grateful for something to cover up with? You’d rather be naked than wear those dehumanizing rags. 

What came next caught you off guard.  

The sting of his hand on your cheek shocked you. He had backhanded you, holding back nothing. The delayed pain came with a vengeance and your eyes welled up with tears. 

“Put it on and get outside with the others. We’re leaving.” 

You did.

– 

You and the few other women left were all given the same modest garbs to wear. Easy access for the taking whenever they wanted to. The thought made your stomach churn. They didn’t even give you proper footwear. You were expected to march with what were essentially socks.

You didn’t speak to the other women and they didn’t speak to you. They were all behaving compliantly. In shock from the neverending atrocities. Shells of their former selves. They had been broken too, just as you were. You didn’t know any of them from your short stay at Sunhollow and that realization further exemplified the feeling of truly being alone.

You were rounded up between two formations of soldiers and followed in line with the others as you moved out. You were given supplies to carry and you wondered how your body could possibly manage this for miles. It did, because there was no other choice. 

The sight of the pyres and burning buildings reminded you how Sunhollow would be forever transformed into a desolate graveyard. Inhabitable and soon the scraps would be picked over by raiders until nothing remained but bones and ashes.

You only saw Acacius from a distance. He had cleaned up since your last encounter with him, no longer covered in blood and his armor polished. He had a crimson cape draped over his pauldrons and was positioned to the front of the march. He looked regal and intimidatingly powerful.

He was leading the Legion onward to the next place to destroy. Legionaries near him were holding red banners with the signet of the bull. Anyone within eyesight of them wouldn’t dare intervene with their march. The Legion’s reputation for cruelty and brutality made them feared by everyone.

An unexplained pit formed in your stomach. He felt so far away and unreachable. While it should be a good thing to get as far away from him as possible, somehow it felt wrong. Dangerous even. It was hard to reconcile with the way you felt. 

You were safer with him than without. 

Crucified bodies lined the street as you were led away from your past life. Walking towards an uncertainty. You wondered if you would be better off to be strung up like them. At least their battle was over… until you noticed a few of them still breathing and left to die in the sun with a slow and agonizing death.   

You followed in line with the others, silent and defeated. Marching onward with strangers to an unknown future. 

–

It didn’t take long for your intuition to be proven right.

After a full night and day of walking across the Mojave with minimal rest, the army made a proper camp for the night. Basic tents were quickly setup along with fires to cook food and stay warm. Everything was done with efficiency like a well oiled machine.

The tents were basic and simply used for sleeping quarters. No comforts other than a bedroll. A place to rest with a fabric roof over their heads. Everybody was beyond exhausted and quickly off to sleep after eating. A few guards stood on the outskirts to keep watch, but for the most part, it was quiet. Almost peaceful with the stars above looking extra bright in the night sky. 

You recognized where you were from your extensive time on the road with the caravan. You were following the Colorado river, and heading closer and closer towards New Vegas; the heart of the Mojave. The place where sooner or later the big showdown between the Legion and NCR Army would come to a head. Hoover Dam and New Vegas were the big points of contention, and you had been strategically distancing yourself as things escalated. Now, that was completely unavoidable. 

You and the other captives were left out in the open surrounded by tents in the cold, night air. The only comfort was the rags you were laying on and letting your feet rest. You were exhausted, and barely had time to think about it before falling asleep.

You were startled awake when you felt a cold blade graze your cheek. 

Your eyes fluttered open and you started to panic and let out a shriek until the man pressed his knife across your throat, daring you to make another sound. If anyone else woke up, they pretended not to see anything. 

“You think you’re special, don’t you? Well, I’m gonna see what’s so special about you myself.”

His eyes were blown out, black with evil intention.  It was this time you recognized this was the same soldier that was mouthing off about Acacius earlier. You had humiliated him without meaning to, and he wasn’t going to let that go. 

“No profligate is worth keeping alive, even if she’s a looker.” His tongue wet his lips and your face contorted in disgust. He was a repulsive man. 

The soldier was reaching his arm up your dress and you didn’t dare move a muscle with your throat a hairline from being slit. You tightly closed your eyes and heard a loud blast. A gunshot. Hot liquid splattered on your face. Blood. 

Acacius came out of the shadows and silenced the legionnaire with a single bullet to the back of his head. 

His lifeless body fell to the ground with his hand still resting on your inner thigh. Running his mouth had, yet again, been his downfall. Alerting Acacius who was restless in his nearby tent, and masking his footsteps.

Your heart was pounding with adrenaline from the close call, and gratitude for your savior. You looked him in the eyes and they were dutiful. He was protecting his spoils on the outside, but you saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes if he had been too late.   

Acacius dragged the body off of you and spit on his fresh corpse after he said something disapproving in a latin tongue. His insolence had reached its limit, and his now dead body was left there as a reminder that insubordination had consequences. 

The commotion at this point had awoken several of the men. The prying eyes of the obedient soldiers accompanied silence. They knew better. That soldier had it coming and Acacius had swiftly ended that incident.

You locked eyes with Acacius again, and he simply nodded towards his tent and turned on his heels. 

You got up to follow him, trailing behind like a lost puppy as he went back to his tent. A modest, semi-private cloth housing with nothing but a bedroll and a few supply crates. The thin door covering did nothing for sound but it provided the tiniest privacy from prying eyes.

His armor was laid near his bedroll along with his weapons. He tossed his sidearm in the pile and raked his hand down his face. He was wearing just his red tunic and looked so much more vulnerable; unarmed and frustrated. 

You feared following him to his tent was overstepping, but your adrenaline high from the recent assault made you do it anyway. 

“Thank you,” you gazed down, afraid to see his reaction as you approached. Afraid he would disapprove of you speaking to him. 

He reached towards you cupping your chin and forcing you to look up at him while he pulled you in closer.

“No one is going to take what’s mine. Nothing more than that.”

There it was again. Mine. 

His words were dismissive of what this really meant to you, but you could see through him. Now in a more private setting without the eyes of his subordinates he didn’t have to put on an act. There were cracks and an opportunity for you to explore his true intentions. Was he claiming you just for the sake of control or was there something more? He seemed brash on the surface, but underneath maybe you could strip away the noise and see what kind of a person he really was. 

He let go of your chin and pulled a rag out from a water bucket by his feet. He wrang out the excess and held your face against the palm of his hand while he wiped the cloth across your cheek. The bridge of your nose. The other side. Wiping away the blood of the man who dared to touch you. He was being gentle. Tender, even. He wasn’t making eye contact, focused instead of brushing away the filth.

You watched him intently. Impossible to read, but you couldn’t deny your intuition. He had a guilty aura about him. Guilty for what the man tried to do to you, or sympathetic for bringing you into this cruel world to begin with. You were going to find out.  

“Clean yourself up,” he said quietly as he handed the rag to you to finish the job. You could feel the blood still sticking on your skin and imagined you must be a sight. 

You kneeled next to the bucket and washed your skin the best you could, relishing in the cool kiss of the water's touch.  

Acacius groaned as he sat on one of the supply crates, using it like a chair. His posture was so tired and almost docile. It was hard to imagine he had just killed a man with zero remorse. Unphased by taking a life. 

What overcame you was that same undefined feeling you had earlier. You wanted to be closer to him, and give him a reason to want you close. While he had just saved you, you had only narrowly escaped. 

You crawled on your knees in front of him, slowly and with an eagerness to thank him. His tired eyes narrowed on you as kneeled between his legs.  

You reached for the hem of his tunic and found his cock half-hard. You gazed up at him with glossy eyes. 

“Let me thank you properly.” You paused with apprehension.

His cock twitched at your offer but he kept his face stern. It was hard to read him and know if you were overstepping or if this would be condoned. You swallowed back your hesitancy and pushed on, hoping for his approval.

You slid your hands up his thighs and pushed back his tunic all the way to his belly so you could have unobstructed access. You opened your mouth and let your tongue poke out, giving his tip a lick and placing a kiss. It was almost playful. You weren't sure what came over you, but you embraced it when he stifled a sound that you recognized. A pleasurable groan. 

Of course any man would enjoy this act, but this was a man that was used to taking. Not this unsolicited softness you were bestowing on him.  

He tangled his hand in your hair and urged you in closer, using his other hand to hold his cock steady at the base.

“Knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he said with a low and breathy voice. The praise from his words made that darkness inside you stir again. You wanted his praise.  

You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, lapping gently at his leaking slit and relishing his flavor. You could sense his body was tired and resigned to letting you do all the work. It felt like a test too, to see how much you would do without him forcing you. See how much you wanted him and how far you would take this on your own volition.  

You took in more and more of his length, letting your tongue lick up the underside of his cock and feeling it stiffen even more. You were just now able to really marvel at its size. He was thick and weighty with a slight curve to the left. You traced the prominent vein that trailed along his shaft with your tongue, pulsing under your touch. You were getting sloppier with your mouth as he was getting harder and it was becoming a lot more to handle than you were used to.

The tightness in your core was starting to wind up. A heat spreading that called for attention you tried to push aside.    

Your hands left the tops of his thighs briefly to reach for his balls. They too were hefty and he stifled another moan as you worked them with your fingertips. He seemed to really enjoy that and you had a mind to give them more attention with your mouth if he didn’t have such a grip on you already.

He was fully hard now and jerked into you, losing some control. You relaxed your throat enough to let him thrust inward. Your hands returned to his legs to brace yourself as he bucked a little too hard and you gagged on his cock. The throaty groan he made watching you struggle was heavy with arousal.

“Easy. Take me nice and slow,” he ordered. It was easier said than done when he was the one bucking into you. He brushed his thumb to push back your hair and you melted at his tenderness and how his hands engulfed you effortlessly. 

You relaxed as best you could, taking in more and more of him. Both of his hands were twisted in your hair now, pulling your head to bob on his length slowly. He wasn’t holding you tightly, but you could feel his fingers curl into your scalp when you hollowed your cheeks.   

You looked up at him and saw his mouth parting open slightly. His eyes were intently locking with yours. He was submitting to your tongue in a way that felt new for him. Relinquishing some control even if it was just for a moment. 

You savored the pearly beads of precum that trickled out and wanted to receive more. His musky, sweaty scent combined with the saltiness of his taste made it all feel so raw and primal. 

Seeing your mouth stuffed full with his cock made him twitch even more and you could tell he was getting close. He was trying to pull you off of him slowly. You sucked the tip hard and it made a wet pop as it released from your lips.

It was turning you on too, and you could feel how wet you were getting between your legs. You initially just wanted to placate him, but it felt like it was becoming so much more. You wanted him to spill into your mouth so you could drink him down. Hear the way he moaned when you sucked him dry. It was a thirst that overtook your reasoning and you mouthed his tip again in defiance.  

There was a shift in his energy. That dutiful look returned as he fought against your needy mouth. 

“Not wasting my cum in your throat.” His words came out biting but heavy with need. Reminding you of your role to play. 

He yanked you off sharply and pulled you up to straddle his lap. Sitting over his meaty thighs he hooked his hand behind your back to hold you in place. You reached your arms out to hang off of his shoulders.

He grabbed the base of his cock and dragged the head along your swollen clit. He was already wet from your spit, but he gathered your slick for good measure. You moaned when he pressed into your clit and you caught the way he looked so pleased with himself. He was studying how your mouth gaped from his touch.

“Needy thing you are,” he groaned, low enough that you wondered if he meant to say it out loud.   

You were good and ready, and he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer to get his release. He pulled you down hard on his length, filling you to the hilt in one motion and looking you dead in the eye when he did it. Watching you gasp at the stretch and your eyes widened. You were so needy for his cock and it felt right having him inside you again. The pain from the sudden invasion inside your body was overtaken by euphoria. The emptiness finally being soothed. 

He held you like that for a moment and you wanted to beg him to move. You needed that friction to alleviate your aching hunger. He needed it too, but he was enjoying seeing you get impatient for his cock. You could feel him swell inside you and in this seated angle he nestled inside you even deeper.  

“Acacius…” you whined and tried to lift up on his shaft but he held you still. He pressed his thumb into your clit and rubbed. Holding you down, impaled on his cock; unmoving. Making you start to convulse on him and moan under his touch.  

“You’re gonna let me do what I want,” he said as his thumb’s motion intensified. “And I’m going to fill you with my cum.” More pressure on your clit. “Again.” Another circle. “And again.” Harder this time. “And again.” 

The pleasure blooming was becoming too much and he knew he had you.

“And you're going to be begging me for it.” With those words he thrust into you, teasing the release you were chasing.

You let out a whimper and tried to speak, but your words were swallowed up by your moans. He thrust again. 

“Fuck. Acacius… yes. I want..” he thrusted again “..want you to fill me.”

He hammered into you and the drag of his cock against your walls combined with the pressure on your clit was too much. Your orgasm washed over you in a way you never experienced before. A crescendo throughout your body, overtaking your flesh and soul. Clenching him and begging for him to cum. 

His seed blasted into you and you felt him filling you up. His heat seeped into you as he groaned. There was so much, filling you deliciously with his cum, just as he promised. 

He left you there for a moment, his cock slowly softening inside you but still plugging you up so nothing could escape while you caught your breath.

As the high of your orgasm began to fade it left you with a mix of emotions. Fucked out of your mind and also terrified of what you were getting yourself into. You knew he ultimately wanted to impregnate you, and you knew that you never wanted to bring children into this fucked up world. Still, the deep seeded fear of getting pregnant faded away when he was filling you so perfectly. He was right, you were going to be begging for it, and that future terrified you. 

It also felt like a problem for another day. Right now, you had to live in the moment and figure out how you were going to make it to tomorrow. As you began to fall for Acacius, you were certain of one thing. Keeping him content was your only chance.     

The tent was quieter now with you still in his lap and your shared breathing calming to an even rhythm. You didn’t want to leave his side. With him you were safe. He wasn’t going to hurt you, and he certainly wouldn’t let anyone else touch you if there was a chance you were carrying his child. It made you feel sickened to think of another potential life as armor, but it was the reality you were living in.   

“Can I stay here with you tonight?” You asked, sheepishly.

There was something you could not shake about Acacius. While his words and actions were cruel and despicable on the outside, something about him seemed shaken. A legionary who showed any sort of wavering would be killed without question. Loyalty to Caesar was above all paramount. He had no choice on how to conduct himself in the eyes of the other Legion soldiers.   

But you saw something in his eyes. Unexplainable but tangible. Something that gave you just enough hope that he wasn’t as evil as you thought. Maybe he was different after all. Maybe he was redeemable. Maybe he just needed someone like you to help him see the Legion for what it truly was. 

You had to try.   

“Not letting you out of my sight.” 

To be continued…

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[invinciblerodent]

woke up very in my feelings after talking just a little bit about this girl last night actually

there is something so compelling to me about the idea of an Orzammar-born dwarf who, instead of confusion and apprehension (which also compels me so so much), took in the surface with sheer wonder. someone who spent their formative years hidden away under a rock, staring at the walls, and then as an adult took to open sea and open sky, and found that it moves something in them, then yearns never to be confined again.

.... anyway so I've decided that she indeed does write profoundly horny sapphic poetry, but most of it is, in at least a roundabout sort of way, about sailing, and the water, and the inherent eroticism of it

whether it's the chopping waves of the Waking Sea, the embrace of Rialto Bay, or the quaking, frigid depths of the unknown that is he Sundered Sea, she's just so deeply entranced by the beauty and vastness of the world that she just... can't help it.

"The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all."

(also this is a great reason for her to actually have the mermaid tattoo that I had been picturing her with, since mermaids in sailor tattoos are generally a symbol of that beauty and danger represented by the ocean.)

I love giving my little hobbies and interests to my characters (partly for authenticity's sake, and partly because I think every little guy benefits from having a hobby), so like Arvid crochets and is interested in philosophy, Iona is a jeweler (I'm, like, super fascinated by historical jewelry-making techniques and symbolism), Petyr does all sorts of weird DIY shit, Tristan does embroidery, and I'm really considering giving Tanner some sort of a writing-related hobby, for those long hours of downtime one has on a ship

I can't decide what'd be more fun: to have this burly, pirate-adjacent, helplessly butch dwarfette writing gorgeous, lavishly written travelogues and memoirs under a pseudonym with sales numbers rivaling Genitivi and Tethras, or for her to like, write actually kind of incredible, and profoundly horny sapphic poetry that never sees the light of day

maybe both

...... and this is not at all because my death grip on my knee turns into a horny grip at the thought of a dwarven stud with a smoker-voice and a sailor's hands tenderly reciting the poetry that she had written for Harding at the small hours of the morning

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Alles zu seiner Zeit

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, mentions of death and loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Fifteen years after a plague struck Wisborg, the widower Harding continues to visit his wife and daughter at the cemetery where you work. His devotion spans across seasons but it might be more than those he lost drawing him back.

Characters: Friedrich Harding

Note: this is a new character for me so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Winter 

Bristles scrape on stone. Each push of the broom tugs in your arms, the layers against the chill inspiring a slake of sweat along your back. The trickle makes you itch as your efforts scratch across the ground, sending clouds of snow into heaps. 

Where once greenery blossomed and flowers smiled at sunlight remain only bristly sticks and frozen dirt 'neath the rug of January's malaise. The sombre grey skies form a thin curtain against the shadow of memories. The spectre of plague and whispers of a curse carry in the winds and swirl the flakes around your skirts. 

You were young the winter the sickness came. You'd known eight up until that blight and your brothers knew no other. They were of the forsaken, left in pine boxes to be buried when the frozen ground could be cracked with a spade. Your mother joined them soon after, though of a different malady; despair. 

Your father suffered the same disease but to a very different effect. At the bottom of a bottle. He lingers there in the depths of distraught distraction.  

You sweep the path clear to the doors of the mausoleum, then perpendicular around the perimeter. When the walkways are done, you will put your mind to the stones. And by the time those are revealed, a new sheet will litter the ground and your work will begin anew. 

Emmett, the youngest of the diggers, sits in wool and a leather cap, drinking hot barley from a cup. He shivers as you pass, mindful not to push the snow his way. He doffs the cup amiably. 

"How's it, fraulein?" He greets. 

"You would know so well as I, herr," you reply, moving the bristles anon. Your mittened hands cling tightly as the cold nips through to your knuckles. You keep your chin tucked into your scarf, 

"Frigid, ja," he cradles the cup and curls into its warmth. Adelaine, daughter of the sexton, must have offered the kindness. She does make certain to know all the diggers' names. "Would you do all this by your own?" He peers around the rolling expanse marked by headstones and monuments. 

"Someone must mind the spirits," you carry on without hamper.  

"For a pretty thaler or so, I'd pray," he remarks and clucks. 

You will not tell the truth. It is a thaler for the whole of a fortnight of sweeping and clearing the cobwebs; of breaking the frost from the keyholes and dusting away the musty leaves and stirred pebbles. 

"I pray you keep warm, herr. The almanac calls for a long winter." You bid as you progress away from him. 

"And you, Fraulein. Mind the ice," he girds. 

You keep careful steps as you press on. Emmett rises with his cup of barley and retreats to the shed with the shovels. A mean gale blows around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

You steady yourself as you plant the broom and chatter against the deathly gust. There's a shrill whine from behind you. You turn as Adelaine clings to her fur-trimmed hood and hides behind a statue of the Holy Mother. 

"Fraulein," she trills in her creaky tones. "Have you seen Herr Emmett?" 

"Mm," you hum in hesitation. Her father, Wilhelm, warned you against encouraging her comingling. He is a pious man, minding the sacred grounds and all. "I'm not certain where he's strayed, Fraulein Adelaine." 

"Mercy," she huddles down against another violent draught. "The bishops says it's not been so cold since... well, he would not speak of it." 

She makes the sign of the cross and bows her head, clutching her hand where her golden necklace is hidden beneath her dress and cloak. Many would not wear holy icons so gregarious in their clothing. Simple wood or iron is more in line with the protestant pragmatism.  

The gate bell tolls and she cranes to see beyond you. Snow blows across her cheeks as the wind billows in her hood. Your own lets the bitter chill right through its weave.  

"There he is," she exclaims before your mind might follow her previous allusion. That corrupt wintertide. 

You turn to peer across the ivory swathes. Henrick and Emmett approach the gate and open it to the visitor. A figure on a horse rides through impatiently, nearly catching Henrick beneath the hooves. The gentleman wears simple black though the richness of its cut can be seen even from your purview. The breed of his coldblood steed attests to his fortune.  

Adelaine gasps and steps out close to you. You have seen the man before. As often you've seen the drape of his cloak, you would only know him by the emblem pinned upon the horse's harness.  

"It is the widower, Harding." She whispers.  

The man draws his horse around the stone crypt marked with his name. The one barren of any other decoration; no flowers in Fruhling, no ornament upon the door, nor even a cross carved into the lintel. You note the plainness each time you tend its grounds. 

He drops off his horse heavily. His boots send up a cloud and you grip the broom tighter. How quickly it's piled up all over again. Flecks fall along the folds of his cloak as he marches to the doors. You can hear the twist of the key as he lets himself within. The door slams sonorously and casts a pall over the grounds. 

"My father says he was young when his wife and daughters succumbed to the ague," Adelaine says. 

"Do not speak of it," you chide. "It is ill tidings to call upon the dead who wish to remain undisturbed." 

She tuts, "he comes every day. He disturbs them oft enough." 

"They are his to disturb," you sniff. "I should be certain it does not snow him in." 

She would not know what it is to have those beyond your grasp. To spend the nocturne longing for them to be there again. To hear them sing a lullaby or tuck you into sleep.

"Have you ever been inside? Even a glimpse? Father does not have a key." She grabs your sleeve before you can depart. "What do you presume he does within? I've heard him talking..." 

"It isn't of my concern," you tug away from her. "Nor yours." 

"Hmph, mind your lip," she sneers. "Or I'll have father find another broom sweep. Perhaps one more droll, ja?" 

"Apologies, fraulein, I only mean to do my work," you say. "The snow comes more and more. Perhaps you should go within, be warm." 

"Perhaps I might and perhaps I mightn't," she retorts and rubs together her gloved hands. "Very well, go about and do you work, little dormouse." 

You part before her temper can rise. Adelaine can be as prickly as she is pleasant. One moment a giggle, the next a growl. 

You retrace your steps along the path, uncovering the stone with the bristles as you do. You glance over at the yellow crypt as the wind wails as a wraith might. None are permitted within but the widower. It is a rule never broken. Never questioned. All know of the heartbroken Harding and his sorrow, even beyond those gates. Even as he hides within the walls of the house he once made a home of. 

Fruhling (Spring) 

As the annual thaw softens the earth, the frozen ground churns to mud, and the air bristles with the damp threat of rain. The early sprigs of green poke up from the flattened grasses and the cracks between the stonework fill with wet sludge. Your bristles clump with mud and you trade the broom for shovel to scrape it all away. 

Adelaine’s song carries with those of the songbirds, returned from their winter nests. She sits upon a bench and chimes as Emmett and Matthias dig into a new plot nearby. Her ploy is not subtle. 

Even as the season marks rebirth, death is to be expected. The hole is meant for the wife of a cobbler who did not survive her child. The infant, as you heard, is well. A reverence carries on the whispers as the old wives and grandmothers praise her noble sacrifice. It is as close as a woman might come to the bravery of man, though there isn’t much choice in the matter. 

Your mind wanders as the tedium of your work inspires preoccupation. Adelaine will be a wife one day. Will she end up in the ground upon her own sacrifice? Or will she sing then to her child instead of the diggers? 

What of yourself? You are no lady, your father is not rich but a drunkard feeding his demise off your tuppence. Should you have a husband when he succumbs to the rye’s dark tides? It would be practical. You father has no son, his house cannot pass to a daughter. 

With your days spent in the cemetery, you know that inevitability is closer than you should like. Your father should’ve died the night he was kicked in the skull by that old mule he slapped while in his cups. It is a miracle he lived to laugh so bawdily about the farce. 

You sigh and carry on, as you do many things in life. You will need to think on it more thoroughly before Winter comes again. It is a godsend your father did not catch the same ague as poor Frau Elke. You spent wakeless nights listening to his snores, searching for a cough or a choke. 

The day wears on and the burial happens in a bout of sunshine which beams down sardonically on the party’s grief. When the forsaken mother is buried, never to kiss the face of her child, they depart. Emmett and Matthias pat firm the earth as Sexton Wilhelm whistles for you. 

His daughter has been sent away. She cannot stomach the funerals. Ironic given her lot in life. Her family is not from Wisborn, they did not witness the plague, only heard of it. Her mother is well and alive, she never had any sibling, and her father is in fine enough health for a man his age. 

“These flowers are for the woman’s plot,” he gestures to a crate of marigolds. 

“Yes, Herr,” you reply diligently.  

“I will have one of the diggers assist,” he assures and struts off. 

You turn to face the plot. You heard the woman was younger than even you. A new bride. Not even twenty. You trace the cross over your chest and shoulders then pick up a basket of the marigolds 

Matthias comes with two hand spades. You take one and begin your work. You transplant the rooted flowers into the ground carefully. He grumbles as he kills more than he preserves. His hands are not delicate but calloused and well-worn. 

“Herr, I will finish,” you say. “You’ve done plenty today.” 

“Are you certain? There are still very many.” He glances over at the crate. 

“Too many. I will find them homes,” you promise. 

The gate bell rings as if supporting your suggestion. Matthias rises and dusts of his hands. Emmett and Henrick run down to open the doors to the visitor. Black velvet flaps over short bristles of reddish-brown. The widower canters in as the thick hooves clop over the stone. 

You pack down the earth around another stem. Harding dismounts as the diggers keep their distance. The lock grinds and the door drags on its hinges. It closes with a clunk as your shovel bites into the earth again and again. 

When you have lined the plot with the pleasant orange blooms, there is still a basket left. You peer around the fruhling blossom. Your eyes are drawn to the most bland swath among the sprawl. The yellow crypt and its vacant brick walls. Not even the ivy grows upon it. 

You are not so presumptuous as to disturb the soil. You cut the stems and bound them together with a headless one. Little bundles all snug together. You place them along the front of the crypt. They will die and blow away but it is a small blessing for the lost. 

You set above wiping clean the foot of the statue of the splattered mud. As you do, the crypt opens again. The cloak almost seems to float as its wearer remains hidden in its folds. He stops only two steps from the threshold. 

You scrape off dried muck with your fingernail as the clouds shift above. The sudden frantic scuffing and stomping draws your attention. Harding crushes the petals into the ground, decapitating the stems, twisting them into strands with his heels. His hood shifts you think for a moment he is looking at you. 

He kicks away what is left of the bouquets and approaches his dulcet steed. The beast is still as its rider mounts. It trods around the crypt then up the path to the gates. You frown and watch the widower’s departure. You did not mean to offend. You hope that Herr Wilhelm does not hear of this error. 

Sommer (Summer) 

Pollen floats in the air, tickling nostril and throat, mingling with the aromas of June. In the early morning dim, a cool breeze stirs the hem of your skirts and wafts around your clogs. You walk with a stick in hand, using it to traverse the cobbled roadway, chipped by the passing of carriage and hoof. 

Your trek to the cemetery is peaceful in the sommer. In the winter, it can grow quite eerie with the whistling winds like wailing wretches and the spindly branches like skeletons. In the summer, the trees are lush and rustling, waving like companions, and the grass ripples like water beneath the gentle flow. 

That morning, you hum to yourself as you peer ahead at the distant cemetery wall. There are houses along the old street but most still sleep in the dawn’s hue. You must be early to the graveyard so that you may ready the plots and paths. 

As you plod along, the posts of the cemetery gate come clearer over the rooftops. Your low melody is punctured by a sudden tempo. Slow and plodding. You move aside as you sense the nearing horse. The merchants rise as early as you; eager to deliver or claim their cargo at the dock. 

They do not hurry. They do not change measure. You traipse along and await their passing. As the shadow of the great steed nears, you do not count the creak of a wheel or axle. It is only a rider. 

Yet, they do not continue past you. The hooves keep a patient pace in tune with yours. You’ve never heard or seen a horse go so slow. Any beast you ever saw would tremble to be at full tilt amid the meadows. 

You peer over your shoulder curiously and follows the white fur around the wide hoof up the brown leg to the reddish sheen further up, the strands of a well-brushed main draping around the coldblood’s thick neck. Black velvet pleats around its rider but does not catch the wind. The fabric is too heavy for riding and for the season. 

The emblem on the horse’s chest gleams in your eye. It is him, the widower, in his mourning ebon. His hood shrouds his face as ever and he is silent as his horse walks beside you, as if an escort. 

You wait but he does not canter nor trot. He keeps the gait. You look ahead again then back to him. You wouldn’t want to be uncouth. 

“Guten morgen, Herr Harding.” 

As you’ve never heard him speak, you’re not certain you’ve ever heard any speak to him. Not the bold Adelaine or the stern Sexton Wilhelm. He only ever brought dire silence with him to the crypt. And then, as always, he remains quiet. 

You gulp and once more put your attention ahead of you. You are nearly at the gates, though you would not enter through the mainway. There is a smaller door round the east corner.

The gentleman and his horse bear down on you, their shadow rippling in the rising sunlight. Sweat trickles down your spine as a chill speckles across your skin. You feel as if he watches you but dare not look upon him in turn. You don’t believe you would see anything beneath his hood. You do wonder if the widower might indeed be a phantom himself. 

He steers to the gates and you pass them and head for the door behind the English oak. You pull the cord to lift the lever and glance over at Herr Harding. The widower’s hood shifts in your direction. You cannot see his eyes but you feel them. Like worms crawling over a corpse. You press inside and quickly swing the iron door shut. 

The gate bell pierces the early din of tweeting birds and skittering critters. Dandelion dust powders the air and bristles in your nose. You go to the shed to fetch your broom as the gates open at the widower’s behest. 

When you come out, he is gone. His horse is by the crypt and the doors are closed. You are deliberate in your work. Since that day with the marigolds, you’ve not gone near the yellow brick while Harding was as visitation. You always wait and say a silent prayer for his family as you clear the debris. 

There is much to do in the aged cemetery. There is no shortage of dead, forgotten or new. The stones must be cleaned or repaired. Wilhelm takes care to apply mortar to new cracks are to fix an eroded etching, so long as a thaler is offered for the effort.  

You brush the broom back and forth, pausing to watch a bee pollinate a flowerbed or a caterpillar make his slow progress over the stone. There is so much life here despite the purpose of the land. Where others come only to see death, you see what is still there. 

The sun ascends higher and higher. You leave your shawl in the shed and take a can to water the blooms. You marvel at how some petals seem to open and drink in the moisture. In the sommer, there is splendour. In sommer, you can hardly believe that winter could ever be. 

As you come around the path, the horse stands by the crypt, chewing the patchy grass. You pass by its swaying tail as you return the can to the shed. While there, you steal a handful of feed meant for the horses that draw the wagons of the lost. 

You cautiously near the large beast. It has been some hours since your arrival and it is a hot day. You open your palm, curving back your fingers to avoid the flat gnashing teeth. The horse smears spit on your hand as he eats the oats. 

The crypt door whines on the thick hinges and you wince and back away. You tuck yourself into an alcove as the door shuts heavily. You press into the brick as your heart races and you spot the littered trail of feed that leads to you. 

As Herr Harding comes around to mount his horse, he spies it too. He pauses as he bows beneath his hood, the edges of lifting slightly as he follows the seed and oat to you. You stare at him haplessly. You don’t know what to do or say. 

He turns and grabs the reins. He hauls himself onto the hours and clicks his teeth, driving his heels into its belly. The horse snorts and obeys, its hooves dusting along the stone toward the main gates. 

Herbst (Autumn) 

Summer wilts with the crisp bite of Herbst. One last breath of life before the grey winter. The leaves mellow to rustic tones of umber and gold, the pine cones litter the dirt, and the wet grass shine from the kiss of the morning fog. You sweep aside the wet leaves with your broom, skirts sodden along the hem. 

As you follow your usual progress across the grounds, the gate bell chimes. The echo rolls through the air and earth. The steady chafe of bristles guides you through the musty mist. It is a beautiful season but wet. 

You pause to brush leaves that have caught on plinths or statues, to wipe away the twigs across the stones embedded in the flats, and to tidy the plots of the leafy carpet. You can only count the blessing that it is not snow. 

Adelaine’s laughter flutters up to you. Her father helps her into a carriage. She has been entertaining a suitor as of late. She always spoke of a summer wedding but it seems a winter one may be on the horizon. She is off to see the bishop and her betrothed.  

Emmett and Matthias open the gates with little heed to their employer and his daughter. They must feel spurned after so long of her fawning over them. It is unfair of her to give them such false longings.  They shut the gates and stomp off back to their digging.

There was a family that perished in a fire. They will each need a hole among their designated plot. It is sombre and back-breaking work. You do not envy the diggers for more than their wage. Were you a man, you could take a shovel and make at least a thaler more than you do now. 

You shiver again. You’ve not been warm for days. You’ve not the money for fuel so the hearth remains dormant in favour of your father’s habit. The drink keeps him warm and you are left to wool and the friction of your palms. Thank the lord you have walls at the least. 

The voices of the men fade as they climb to the new plot and you come down the low incline toward the main row of the cemetery; the large mausoleum for the fallen soldiers and the next for the vaunted nobles.

As you near the yellow crypt, you are met with a most unlikely sight. The doors are open. You search around the desolate grounds.

The coldblood is not there awaiting his rider. The gate bell rang but you did not see the black hood enter. How can that be? Perhaps he did leave it unlocked the day prior. 

Looters are not uncommon. Henrick chases them off in the mornings as they sleep in an alcove or on a bench. Though, unless they have a chisel, they do not claim much. 

You rest your broom against the yellow brick. You stand before the open doors. Both are drawn wide. You look up at the arch as shadows plume within. As you stare inside, you swear you can see the darkness furling and unfurling. 

You make yourself move. Step by step you approach the doors. You grab the large iron ring on the left one and pull. It is much too heavy. Or you are much too weak. You grunt and try again, shifting it a few inches. 

A scratching noise stills your efforts. You squint as you try see through the thick gloom. 

“Allo?” You call through, “is someone within?” 

You wait for an answer. There is nothing, but then, a skittering noise. A rat, perhaps. 

A swirls of leaves blows around you and skid over the stone floor within. You look over your shoulder, hoping someone might pass and help you shut the place up. There is only you. 

You take your broom and enter cautiously. You hold your breath as you gather the leaves and push them back out. You might shove a door shut from within then use the broom to somehow leverage the other. 

You bat the last of the clutter out and turn to peer out at the red sky. Your feet leave the stone and your cry is smothered by a gloved palm. You kick out in fright as the broom clatters from your grasp.

You claw behind you blindly as you are spun to face the crypts black belly. You jolt back with your captor as he pushes the door closed with his weight, then the other. You writhe and flail, grabbing at the arm hooked around your waist.

He pants but does not speak. He carries you forward as your soles bounce off the floor. 

Your stomach meets something hard. A stone ledge engraved in tiers. You brace it as you’re crushed against it. Your arms shake as you try to shove yourself away, try to free yourself of this treacherous adversary. 

You whimper and wiggle your head helplessly, unable to free your mouth from behind his hand. You know by his strength, by his size that it is a man indeed. He shushes you and squeezes your jaw.

You quiver and splay your fingers on the stone shape before you. It is a sarcophagus. You shudder as your throat tightens. 

He presses flush to you. His warmth seeps through the damp layers of wool wrapped around you as his nose brushes up the brim of your ear. He exhales and his breath wraps around your neck. He sucks in air and nuzzles along your hair. He’s smelling you. 

He buries his nose in you locks and purrs. The deep gristle makes you quake. He continues to smell you, to feel you as his hand spreads on your stomach and grazes up your bodice. You tap your foot around in a frantic search for his, driving your heel down upon his toe. 

He grunts and brings his hand up to tap your cheek. He hums derisively. That noise alone freezes your blood. There’s something so base about it. 

He slips his hand down again and the other follows. He keeps you penned in with his arms and removes his gloves, letting them fall to the floor. His fingertips dance up your bodice and back down. He kneads and pokes and caresses. He fondles you until you’re a trembling mess. 

“Herr, please--” 

He nips your ear and snarls. You close your eyes but it cannot save you from this. You are only deeper into the darkness. He drags his nose down to your neck and nuzzles into you there. His hand curls around your hip, squeezing before climb up your back and down again. 

He draws his face from your neck and his hands descend further. He tugs and yanks at your skirts, bundling them up in his grasp. He pulls them up to your waist and leans into you until your middle is right against the stone, your body bent with his. 

He hooks his arm under the layers of your skirt as his other hand wanders beneath. His nails skim your skin, goosebumps rising with his touch, and traces down to thighs. He pokes beneath them meanly and forces his foot between yours. He kicks your boots wide and you whine again.  

“Herr, please--” 

“Ta ta,” he warns in a hiss. 

He pushes his hand between your legs, cupping it over your cunt. He inhales again as he takes in the scent of your scalp, his nose once more delving into your hair. He slips his middle finger between your lips and rubs you. Gently at first, then firmer, quaking as he pinpoints on your clit, rolling it beneath his fingertip. 

Your legs tingle and tremble. You dip your head down and he growls. He spreads the slickness that rises with his uninvited touch. Your lips form around a silent prayer as you beg the lord for forgiveness.  

He pushes his finger into you, his hand against your cunt as he rocks in and out. He does not heed your babbling pleas or the shattering of your body and soul. He takes what he covets without repentance. 

He continues to pet you, coaxing you until you are heavy, writhing in a maddened state. You do not welcome him and yet it is pleasureful. It is joy like you’ve never known. And it bursts within you like damn, coursing free as a river as it slakes down your thighs. 

You wail between your teeth as you bite down on your shame. Father, Mary, forgive me. I do not want this. I swear it. 

He groans and exhales into you. He pulls his hand back and leaves you hollow and squirming. He reaches between your bodies and fusses with his own clothing. You squeak and try to crawl over the sarcophagus. He keeps you trapped as he clutches the rumpled fabric of your skirt. 

He once more scoops his hand around your pelvis and along your cunt. He spreads you and guides his cock along your bottom. You whimper and reach to stop him. He ignores you as he delves down along your cunt. He stops at your entrance and wets himself with your sinful excess. 

He snakes his hand up to your hip and pushes you onto him. Just his swollen tip. You gasp and gulp as you twitch around him.

He lets go of your skirts and they fall down over the front of your legs, the back caught between your bodies. He tilts and slowly impales you.

His hand crawls up your bodice and he pushes beneath the taught fabric. He squeezes your breast, two fingers framing your nipple as he snarls and burrows into you with subtle and slow thrusts. 

You tense and tremour as he gets deeper, crying out as he breaks past the last thread of innocence. He huffs and bows his head down. His lips brush over the meat of your shoulder close to your neck and he bites into it. You sob again and he bucks his hips. 

He puts you on your toes as he repeats the motion. He pulls back then snaps against your rear. Each time he bites harder, he gropes you tighter. He pumps into you, faster, more furious, more frantic. 

His voice trickles out between his eager rutting. He teethes at you as he pinches your nipple. He bends you over the sarcophagus as his breath billows all around you.  

He pounds into you so that the stone cuts into your hips and stomach. You snivel as your tears soak your cheeks and your head thrums. You grip the lid beneath you and hide your face against your arm. 

He spasms and buckles, his legs seeming to give out, though he keeps his hips moving. He fucks you until he cannot any longer. Until he is weak and panting into your nape.  

He sniffs and reaches to cover your hand on the stone. He slips his palm away and feels the sarcophagus. He slowly eases out of you and leaves you to hang off the lid.

He chokes into the blackness, “forgive me, Anna.” 

Your legs give out and you sink onto the floor. You hang your head as you barely keep yourself from heaping into a puddle. Herr Harding weeps over his wife as you do the same for yourself. 

[dalishious]

Notes on Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain from The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilgaurd

ELGAR'NAN:

With Solas, we established that hair loss would be the only outward indication of an ancient elf's age. Elgar'nan wear sa wiga ttached to his crown.

The shards of lyrium around his collar were each taken from a slain Titan during the war between the first elves and the Titans. They have become corrupted by their time in the Black City.

Elgar'nan uses an eclipse shape language, a reference to being the god of firie and shadow.

His costume was meant to reflect the general or dictator archetype; he proudly brandishes the medals of his previous conquests as a symbol of authority. The badges on his coat are more modest at the bottom but become more and more ostentatious as his victories (and his pride) increase. He also wears around his neck a vial of dust, taken from the same spot where his spirit self-formed his body from the dust.

GHILAN'NAIN:

Goddess of monsters. Mother of the Halla. Ghilan'nain was once an elf chosen by Andruil, the goddess of the hunt, to become a god as reward for her devotion to the world's animals. She then became part of the elven pantheon.

She is the goddess of monsters, creating countless twisted creatures. She has modified herself so much over the years that whatever her face may have been, its long forgotten.

Her mask tells the story of how she was made the youngest of the gods. On the first day, she struck down the monsters of the air. On the second day, she drowned the giants of the sea. On the third day, she killed the beasts of the land.

Ghilan'nain's horns are meant to reflect a hunting bow in reference to Andruil.

Ghilan'nain is our sinister mad-scientist god, using her blighted magic to create horrors out of Thedas's people and wildlife. She mutates the darkspawn into even more powerful and "efficient" forms, for example, and also warps the Antaam who foolishly come to her for power.

Ghilan'nain wants to restore the old elven empire so she can continue her work. Analytical and curious, she sees everyone as potential stock for experiments (except for fellow god Elgar'nan, with whom she gets on well). Ghilan'nain is pitiless about her work—she'll happily slice open a hundred people for parts—but she's got a soft spot of pride in her monsters once they're complete.

[geezmarty]

new grey warden just dropped 🪽

not a hero of ferelden but a TTRPG girl I made to play with some friends! the youngest of a BUNCH of dwarven noble siblings who decided to run away from orzammar and see the world only to immediately catch the blight 😔

[antihibikase-archive]

Decided that Lillith is unfortunately dead for plot reasons </3

Updated Slater family tree! I've been thinking about making a certain someone Cheren and Grimsley's dad, and I've decided to go through with it. :]

Kabu, all your sons are very busy and influential.. meanwhile, the cousins are all different levels of. Well. Involved in their respective plots.