#they moved to where they are now when their god was slain and their lands became uninhabitable etc etc

[azaisya]

they will remember him as LEYENLI, patron god of the royal House of Leyelorre and their people, god of spring and new love and joy

[javier-pena]

circumstance

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: On a stormy night, you’re haunted by a ghost from your past.

Warnings: dub con | unprotected p in v sex | creampie | unsanitary sexual practices | cheating | coercion | possessiveness | (brief) fingering (f receiving) | biting | oral (f receiving) (mentioned) | mentions of food and alcohol | mentions of blood and war

Notes: God idk what it is with me and seeing random pictures of Pedro characters that make me go feral. Anyways, wrote this in an hour, hope this is anything. I had Latin in school but I’m not vouching for any of the Latin words in this. I mostly wrote this because I’ve had a vendetta against international bestselling author Robert Harris ever since I was 15 years old. This is loosely based on a scene from his novel Imperium that has been haunting me for almost 20 years now. Also based on this post by @ozarkthedog.

***

There’s war. Outside the city, the land is burning. Behind the city walls, life goes on as it always has. There’s decadence and dissipation and life. That’s your part of the story. That’s all you’ve ever known. The comfort and the safety. That’s all you’ve ever needed to feel fulfilled.

During the night, when the city quiets down, when the people return to their homes and the public life ceases, you can sometimes hear it, like a storm brewing over the distant sea, like the rumbling of a volcano miles and miles away, taking deep breaths before spewing its fiery death. On clear nights, nights free of clouds and wind, nights where the air is so heavy it feels like a blanket weighing you down, you can even see it, the light from the battlefield, the glow of a carnage that swallows everything, even itself.

This night isn’t clear at all. This night brought rain and hail and thunder so violent it shakes the foundations of your house. You’re alone, reclining on your triclinium, too drained from dinner to move much. The storm promised some reprieve from the muggy summer air, but the heat is worse now than it was this afternoon. The wine you had with your meal, the glass in front of you now refilled a third time, combined with the weather makes your head feel like it has been wrapped in wool. Even breathing seems laborious.

But there are footsteps against mosaic floors, and footsteps mean visitors and visitors mean business. Business at such a late hour is never a good sign. With a groan you stand, with a sigh you straighten your tunic, and then the footsteps are drowned by a clap of thunder so loud you flinch.

What follows it is not the sight of one of your servants or even your husband. In the gloomy darkness that always follows a flash of lightning a shadow moves into the room, and when your eyes have adjusted to the dim lights of the lucernae all around you, you flinch again, this time with cause.

A man is standing before you, looking like the slain ghost of a soldier from the battlefield nearby. He is covered in dirt and grime, wet from the rain, wet from the blood he has recently spilled. His armor looks black in the darkness, and your eyes flicker to his side in trepidation only to discover that he’s still wearing his sword. He’s still wearing his sword, going against the rules of your house, the rules of your husband.

“Where is he?” the stranger asks, his voice deep and dangerous like the thunder outside.

You could play dumb, you could act like you don’t know who he’s talking about, but in that voice you discover something familiar, like a memory of a distant dream, never quite forgotten.

“He isn’t here,” you reply. “He might come back later, but he’s with the senate.”

The man steps closer, quick strides that take him right to the foot of your triclinium. You step backward until you reach its head, trying to put the piece of furniture between the two of you. Your hands are clammy.

“Good,” the stranger answers with a twitch of his lips that’s all too familiar for all the wrong reasons. “I promised you I’d be back for you, and I always keep my promises.”

There’s a doorway behind you leading through a small peristyle straight to your husband’s tablinum. You glance at the court, at the shrubs and flowers and fountains that you know are there but that are currently hidden by curtains of rain and darkness.

“Don’t –,” the stranger starts, but it comes too late.

You turn and run, skip down the two steps from the porch into the garden itself, your feet splashing into puddles as you run and run. Heavy footfalls behind you, heavy breathing, and a heaviness in your heart, calling back to a similar moment years ago that happened on such a different day full of laughter and sunshine and secret kisses exchanged in secret corners.

You reach the doorway to the tablinum. “Stop!” you bellow, and to your surprise he does. To your surprise, this works, and you don’t know what to do with that. “What do you want, Acacius?” you ask, your heart growing even heavier when you name him.

“You know what I want,” he answers, the rain loudly hammering against his armor, the water dousing his hair, making his curls stick to his forehead. “I came back to collect what you owe me.”

“We were children,” you remind him.

He’s up the steps faster than you can say those three words, the years between now and that summer afternoon seemingly having left no traces.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, the storm raging over the city reflected in his eyes.

You step backwards into the tablinum, one hand protectively slung across your stomach. “You should leave, Acacius. I have nothing more to say to you.”

But there is only so far you can go before your back connects with your husband’s writing desk. And once it does there is nowhere for you to run to.

“I don’t need you to say anything.” His face is cast in shadows now, but when another flash lights up the night sky, you see that his expression is completely blank. “I just need you to lift up those expensive skirts of yours and let me take what’s mine.”

“Go back to that battlefield of yours,” you reply. “Go back and defend Rome like you’re supposed to. Or are you too much of a coward still?”

You should have known he would not take that kindly, should have known that provoking him wouldn’t make him leave. But when you feel his cold, wet hand wrapped around your wrist, when you’re being yanked into his chest, turned around, and shoved up against the desk, it still catches you by surprise. Some part of you, the one that never left that sunny afternoon, didn’t think he’d have it in him. Another part wanted him to.

His body presses into you with such force the desk scrapes against the stone floor with a creak loud enough to be heard over the storm. The sound that cannot be heard is the gasp you let out when he pushes up your tunic, exposing your legs to the humid night air.

“Don’t –,” you start.

He shushes you, one dirty finger touching your lips. You can smell the storm and the blood on him. He can feel your shaky breath.

“Just this once,” he mumbles into your hair.

Maybe you should fight this, but you don’t know how. He kicks your feet apart, and maybe you should kick back, connect your heel to his shin, and run. He bites the spot where your neck connects to your shoulder, and maybe you should bite his finger that is now resting against your lips while the rest of his hand is wrapped around your chin and throat, bite down hard until the bone cracks. He runs his other hand down your backside and pushes it between your legs, groaning at the warmth and wetness he finds there, and maybe you should use this moment of weakness to climb across the desk and search for something to defend yourself with.

All of it passes and you do nothing. All of it passes and you push backward against him, sucking his finger in between your lips. He pulls it out of your mouth, grabs the hair at the back of your neck, and pushes your head down toward the desk, your shoulders straining in protest. The groan you let loose is read as defiance by him.

“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. “Just …”

He trails off and at first you don’t know why but then the hand at the back of your neck is gone and you sigh with relief, a sound that turns into something less human when he pushes two fingers into you.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans, his forehead resting against your shoulder.

“Please …,” you try again, but you’re not quite sure what you’re asking for.

There’s a rustling sound behind you, leather and fabric being moved frantically, and then his fingers are gone, replaced by something thick and heavy spreading you open. You lift yourself up on the tips of your toes, trying to adjust, trying to lessen the burn, but he digs his fingers into your hips and pushes you back down, right onto him.

“Stay,” he orders. “Just … just take it.”

His words are slurred now, and your vision is blurry, your eyes wet from biting your lip so hard you can taste blood on your tongue. He rocks into you, and your nails scrape against the wood of your husband’s desk, leaving marks in their wake. But you do as you’re told.

“That’s better.” He bites your shoulder again and you gasp from the sudden burst of pain, gasp from the way you constrict around him in response. He laughs, a rumbling like thunder, then pushes your upper body against the wood, holding you down, one hand in your hair, the other firmly locking your hip in place.

Another bolt of lightning must have illuminated your face, turned sideways for him to see the trepidation in your eyes because he says, “Don’t cry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

You don’t know how to tell him that you’re not crying because you’re afraid of him. You’re crying because you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way, the last time sex wasn’t just a duty you had to fulfill but something someone wanted from you, and just from you, so much so he would abandon his duty to take what’s his. You don’t know how to tell him you’re terrified of what that discovery might mean for you and your marriage, how you’re hoping your husband is going to walk in right this very moment and free you from the bonds that bind you to him.

Acacius starts to lose control of his body then. He’s pushing himself up deeper and deeper into you, groaning louder with each thrust. You know those sounds, dread them when they’re coming from your husband, encourage them now with desperate whimpers of your own. He grips your hair again, pulls you up flush against his chest so hard you yelp with pain, fumbles with your tunic until he finds that bundle of nerves between your legs that he loved to kiss when you were both free to enjoy each other’s company. But it’s just for a brief moment he considers your pleasure before hitting the desk with his open palm, holding onto the wood, and letting go.

You close your eyes, waiting. It doesn’t take long for him to let out a sigh, to still deep inside of you. You can feel him twitch, you feel his hot release, but most of all you feel the sting of a promise broken. Your whole body is on edge, wound up, pulled taut, and there is nothing he’s going to do about it.

When he’s done, he pulls out of you and lets your tunic fall down around your legs. You turn to face him, your cheeks burning with shame, but his face is once again hidden behind all those shadows that come with a starless night.

“You wanted to take good care of me,” you point out, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I just did,” he says, running his thumb from the corner of his mouth along his bottom lip. “You’re mine now. Leave that between your legs for him to find.”

“Acacius …,” you try, a name once so familiar then so strange now growing familiar again.

He crowds you against the desk, chest to chest this time, and wraps his thick fingers around your throat. The kiss he presses to your lips is hard, devoid of all tenderness. “Mine,” he repeats. “Never forget that.” And then he’s nothing more than heavy footsteps against mosaic floors.

[yuesya]

Gunther runs.

Behind him, there is a bestial roar, followed by a shrill human scream –one that cuts off into horrifying silence all to abruptly with a wet snap, the sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones. Something splatters heavily against his back. Damp, and warm.

Gunther continues running, forcing his legs to move faster, and faster.

It’s all he can do.

Terrifying monsters and ferocious beasts dominate these lands, and humans cower beneath them all. There are many who turn to the gods that walk among them instead, seeking protection, and yet–

And yet–

…

In old legends passed down by storytellers, this land had been ruled by humans, once. It had been an age of peace, and prosperity. But such times are long past, if they had ever truly existed at all. The current reality that they live in is a land where monsters prowl and beasts run wild, and of the few gods who remain…

Relying on the gods? Who could Gunther and his people rely on? The most powerful among the divine host are the beast-gods, and beasts do not care for humanity. Of the ones who are benevolent to humanity… 

The God of Fruit’s power is slowly diminishing, the bounty of her territory gradually declining with every passing season. And the most powerful among them, the God of Rain, had been slain in battle by the Wolf-king. So far, both the God of Fallen Leaves and the God of Mist that Gunther and his kin have approached following that catastrophe declined to accept them. To add more humans under their protection at such a juncture would be a strain, a burden. 

In order to at least ensure the safety of our own.

And so Gunther’s people march on, searching for a place where they can receive protection. Where they can call home.

Hopelessness. Desperation. Despair.

… But giving up is not an option. To give up is to die.

It’s for this very reason that Gunther continues running, running, running, determinedly tugging along his kinsmen beside him. He grabs wildly at the children who falter and stumble, all through the mind-numbing panic of his pulse thundering in his ears–

“DON’T STOP!” he bellows, through the cracked lines of his lips and his dry, burning throat. Through the exhaustion that batters away at his body, the invisible stones weighing down his limbs. “DON’T–”

The ground beneath his feet shakes, and Gunther trips, falls. Hot air scalds his body from behind, the bloody breath of the monstrous hound hunting him and his kinsmen for sport, and the dark shadow of its titanic bulk descends upon him–

–then, freezes.

Only for a moment, the monster inexplicably freezes in its tracks, ceasing its movements entirely.

Gunther is not about to take such an opportunity for granted; he instantly clambers to his feet to continue running. This causes the monster to growl as its prey escapes. Gunther chances a brief glance backwards, only to see the muscles on its body clench as it prepares to continue its chase–

But suddenly, its body slackens, and falls. 

The colossal mountain of a beast just –falls. Plummets to the ground in an ungainly, graceless heap, toppling down. The force of its fall is enough to send another earthquake through their surroundings, and Gunther slips in the mud once more. Something in his chest spikes from the sudden panic, at the knowledge that the beast is right there–

But the beast has fallen.

It falls, and… does not move again.

… 

Gunther stares, wide-eyed. 

It is in this moment, when his mind is still struggling to comprehend that this nightmarish monster is dead, that he finally realizes that there’s… something off about their surroundings. He hadn’t really been paying attention to it, during the mad rush to escape, but now that the imminent danger is gone… Gunther realizes that it’s far too quiet. The silence in their new, unknown surroundings is… unnerving. Unnatural.

Which doesn’t mean anything good.

Gunther sweeps his gaze out and rapidly scans the surrounding landscape. Left, and right. There’s nothing but muddy earth and light shrubbery. Desolate, and empty, save for his fellow kin around him who’ve also gradually slowed their footsteps at the beast’s sudden, inexplicable demise.

But… there’s nothing to explain it. Nothing to explain why the bloodthirsty monster pursuing them suddenly just –just dropped dead out of nowhere. There’s absolutely nothing to explain–

–no.

No, there is.

With a sudden start, Gunther realizes that he and his people aren’t alone here.

For above them, there is a young girl sitting in the barren branches of an old oak tree. 

A small slip of a girl, a little child who looks entirely out of place with her surroundings, pale-skinned and white-haired and dressed in nothing more than a single formless swathe of pristine white cloth wrapped around her body.

Most damningly of all, though, are those disinterested eyes that look down upon Gunther and his kin. A deep, abyssal blue. Blue, but not wholly blue, for there is an iridescent sheen that flickers within those dispassionate, inhuman eyes.

She’s not human. A god?

A sudden shiver runs down Gunther’s spine as he finally recognizes what he’s seeing. There’s no doubt about it.

Yet, at the same time…

“You are the one who saved us, aren’t you?” Somehow, Gunther manages to find his voice. Then, he swiftly bows his head, “Thank you.”

There is a long silence, in which the not-girl does not respond.

“… The dog was annoying.” Eerie blue eyes finally turn away from him, after that non-answer.

The appearance that she possessed, the aura that she exuded, the strength that she so very clearly wielded… there was no doubt about it. Despite wearing the form of a small, young child, there was no doubt that the entity sitting in the tree atop Gunther was a god.

A god who was… alone.

Was it because she was young, that she had no worshipers?

… But even if that was the case, she was still a god. A young god who was strong enough to kill the monster that had nearly wiped out Gunther’s clan without even moving from where she sat.

Gunther makes his decision.

“Please.” He knows full well that could be killed on the spot, for the impertinence to brazenly ask anything of a god. To ask for more, even after the god had already saved them, when they had no obligation to do so.

But Gunther also knows that his kinsmen can’t continue on like this –wandering aimlessly across the lands, constantly having their lives uprooted as they flee from monsters too powerful for mortals to face, always on the run.

“Would you… be willing to give us your protection?” he asks.

“Why?”

Does she not know? No… no, that couldn’t possibly be the case. Then… is this a test?

“Monsters such as the one you just killed number many upon these lands, and we lack the strength to defend ourselves” Gunther bows his head as he replies, forcing himself to steady his voice as best as he can, and slowly sinks to his knees. “My clan has no home, and we grow weary of endless wandering. We do not wish to die like this, as we inevitably will if we continue on as we are. Please, allow us to remain upon your lands. We would serve as your loyal worshipers, o mighty god.”

… There is no response. In this interval of silence, the wind sighs softly. A quiet breeze sweeps gently over them all, and even reaches up to lightly tousle the snow-white strands of the unknown god’s hair.

Gunther remains kneeling, staring fixedly at the ground in front of him while his fingers curl and dig into the dark, cold earth.

He doesn’t know how long he remains in this position. A single instant, perhaps, or maybe even an eternity.

…

“… Decarabian,” the god-child’s voice finally sounds in the air, and Gunther’s head snaps up –just in time to catch the sight of the divine entity uncurling her legs. She stands up gracefully, a movement that briefly reveals a pale expanse of flawless skin upon her limbs.

And it is with those unblemished legs that she descends from her high perch, barefooted. Dark blots immediately soil that fair, milky skin as her feet sink deep into the dirt and mud beside Gunther and his fellow kin.

“You may address me as ‘Decarabian,’” she says. “And… I don’t need worshipers. But you can stay.”

[cielcreations]

"Special Card" (SoliTango/Rancher Duo)

Idea based off @hybbart's Deepfrost Cast AU (aka, the AU where Solidarity is a guide for Decked Out)

"What's this card?"

"What card?" Tango replied, not looking at his communicator, opting to continue to make sure everything was okay (because god forbid if even one piece of redstone gets messed up).

"I don't know, I just never seen it and it appeared."

"What does it say, Hypno?"

"The title just says 'Canary'. There's nothing else-"

"Ah, so you're the first to get that card to show itself." Tango smirked, standing up straight, "Tell you what Hypno, that card is free. Consider it a... playtest for your next run."

"Seriously?! Wait, what does it do?"

"That's for you to find out. But I will give you a word of advice-" Tango smirked more to himself, "-make sure to take care of the canary. Go ahead, spend the rest of your Frost Embers and get out of there, Cub is next."

"Alright! Thanks, Tango! I'm excited!"

The call ended when a message popped up in chat; Hypnotizd was slain by nothing, they survived Decked Out!

Tango chuckled, "I'm surprised you chose him. I for sure thought you would choose Scar."

There was a flutter behind him.

"Alright, alright, have fun. I'll go prepare for the next round."

***

Hypno rode down the minecart as he once again entered Decked Out. When he reached the end, the doors opened, but no compass was given.

"Oh god, hey, Tango, I think-"

Before he could finish, Hypno watched as the canary card fell down where the compass should be. He gasped, stumbling back as a yellow glow came from the card, snuffing out all the light, a silhouette appearing where the card once was. When the card landed on the ground, it instantly vanished, the silhouette slowly taking shape. Two large wings appeared from it's back as it stood up, a large fluffy jacket resting on the male silhouette. They reached into their jacket, taking out a small cage with a yellow light.

The lanterns, torches, and all other lights returned, showing a tall dirty blonde man, staring down at him brown eyes with blue diamond pupils, blue eye shadow resting on his top eyelid, blue freckles and glitters decorating his nose and cheeks that Hypno could see, as a gas mask covered half his face.

"....Woah..." Hypno simply said, in awe, "...Are... Are you the Canary?"

The dirty blonde nodded, bowing a bit. He then took out another thing from his jacket, avoiding the necklace around his neck before he took out a recorder. He handed it to Hypno, the man pressing play.

"Congratulations!" Tango's voice came from the recorder, "You have managed to obtain the Canary card! Now, the Canary is a special thing! He will lead you to the artifact as well as the exit as safely as he can! However, that is not all! You see, the Canary increases the amount of treasure that may be hiding in the dungeon, he decreases your noise volume which means it's harder to generate Clanks, and the Hazard speed decreases! Oh yeah, the Canary is a powerful card.

However, make sure to take care of him. He will be your guide to the exit. One way or another."

Hypno's eyes were wide as he then looked at the Canary, "You do all that?!"

The Canary blushed a light blue, closing his eyes, as if laughing silently. He then bowed and turned around, the doors opening. Hypno stood up and began to follow the Canary, the dirty blonde humming. As they walked, the Canary held out the cage, Hypno noticing the yellow light moving back and forth, acting as the compass, all while the Canary hummed a small tune.

"Uh, nice song. Does it have a name?" Hypno tried to make small talk.

The Canary seemed to ignore him, choosing instead to continue the song.

"Right.... Well, do you have a name?"

Again, nothing, just more singing.

"Okay..." Hypno smiled awkwardly, "Well, I guess we don't need to have small chitchat to find the artifact... Oh, uh, can you tell me how you can track more treasure? Or do you just track down artifacts and the exit?"

The singing stopped and the Canary turned to Hypno. He grabbed the recorder and pressed play, Tango's voice repeating.

"Hey, I was just-"

The Canary held up one finger before pausing the recorder. He pointed to it, as if to say "listen".

"-the Canary increases the amount of treasure that may be hiding in the dungeon-" The Canary pauses the recorder before blinking at Hypno.

"...Oh, you just increase the amount, can't find it?"

The Canary shook his head.

Hypno nodded, "Okay, I get it now... Can you find the exit anywhere?"

The Canary nodded.

"So, if I wanted to look for more treasure, would you come with me?"

The Canary seemed to smile under his mask and nodded.

Hypno chuckled, "Alright, I'll just tell you when I'm ready then!"

The Canary nodded once more before turning around, humming a song once more as he led the way towards the artifact. They sat in silence, Hypno occasionally seeing some coins and running to get them before following the dirty blonde once more.

Eventually, the Canary stopped and Hypno nearly ran into him.

"Oh-" Hypno stopped, "You okay?"

The Canary held the cage up, opening the door. Hypno watched as the light flew out and sunk into the ground in front of them. When it returned, it circled around an artifact, Hypno gasping and running over to grab it. The light flew back to the Canary and into the cage, the dirty blonde closing the door of it.

Hypno picked up the artifact, "Jar of Speedy Slime! Not too bad! I think it's worth at least-" He looked up, gasping.

The Canary brushed off his coat and, before he could look up at Hypno, the man ran past him in fear of a Ravenger.

"S-SORRY CANARY! I THINK I CAN FIND THE EXIT ON MY OWN THOUGH!"

Hypno went to run out of the door, but the corridor closed. He gasped and turned around, ready to meet the end of a Ravenger's horn. Instead, he saw the Canary standing in front of the Ravenger, looking down, the light in the cage spinning in loops.

"Oh? Wait, are you friends with the Raven-"

Hypno gasped, the heartbeat echoing in the dungeon as fast as it could. All the corridors closed, screeches of Vexes echoing with the slowly crumbling dungeon. The Ravenger lifted itself on it's back legs as it let out a roar, the light going haywire.

"C-Canary?"

The Canary spread his wings out, looking up, the blue diamonds turning to a blood red as he glared at Hypno. The arrow on his necklace turned upside down as the light exploded in the cage, yellow birds circling the room akin to ravens circling their prey.

Hypno's eyes were wide as he realized what was going on.

He will be your guide to the exit. One way or another.

Hypnotizd was slain by The Canary and His Coalmine.

***

"WHAT?!" "WAIT, HUH?!" "TANGO, WHAT WAS THAT?!" "WHAT KIND OF DEATH MESSAGE IS THAT?!"

Tango chuckled, turning to Hypno as he entered the waiting room, "Well, well, well, looks like someone didn't take care of the Canary."

Hypno groaned, "DUDE! I didn't know that would happen!"

"I told you to take care of him!" Tango laughed. Suddenly, a blue ball of light came from the wall, circling around the Dungeon Master. He held out his hand and it rested over it, making the blaze chuckle, "The Canary is a powerful and really good card, but he only shows when he wants to. But with any good card comes it's disadvantage." He then turned, smiling, "Alright, I believe it's Grian's turn?"

"Oh, right, right!" The avian ran over, "Wish me luck!"

Everyone wished Grian luck before Tango excused himself to go behind the scenes. Once he was sure no one would see or hear him, he extended his hand out. The light turned into a silhouette, which turned in none other than the Canary.

"Hello, my canary." The blaze smiled, blushing a blue tint, "Quite a run, are you alright?"

The dirty blonde removed his mask and smiled, nodding, "I'm fine! The Ravangers and Vexes didn't hurt me! Though, I did feel bad for Hypno, he just got scared."

Tango cupped his cheeks, "Oh Solidarity, my canary, it's what he gets if he chose to abandon you. He was warned."

"I know, I know. It's just going to take some getting used to. I know how competitive everyone is, I just don't like being the cause of death..."

"You're so sweet, this is why I love you!" Tango kissed his cheek.

Solidarity giggled, blushing blue, "Tangooooo~! Stop it~!"

"Nuh-uh! It's Kiss the Canary Time! I don't make the rules!"

The dirty blonde blushed more and giggled, letting the other do as he pleased, happily sharing kisses with the blaze.

[thinkingabout-girls]

🌻

send me an infodump and I'll send one back we'll trade infodumps

empires smp is a survival multiplayer minecraft server where minecraft youtubers and streamers come together to roleplay a fantasy story using minecraft as a medium

oli theorionsound is a british minecraft youtuber known for minecraft, music, and never uploading. he was introduced in empires season 2 as the mystery person who killed the ender dragon, who was shown to have been slain before any of the other emperors arrived

olis story starts off in afterlife smp, a different minecraft series where players are given 10 lives and roll a new “origin” every time they die. once you lose all 10 lives you are out of the series

after losing his second life to a poorly timed lightning strike after winning a fight to the death, oli went MIA for 3 months and when he returned he found all his friends had used up all their lives and he was left alone in an empty world

after fucking around and losing 6 of his remaining 8 lives, oli decided he was going to fly himself up to heaven to retrieve his best friend, mythical j sausage, who he had sung to death before dying to the lightning and disappearing

he successfully made it to heaven, where he met god, an australian woman named pearl. she told him he could see sausage, but that oli- who was now an angel- could stay with her

oli did not want to be an angel, so he jumped out of heaven and landed in yet another empty world. he fucked around for a while, adopted a dog, his dog died, he defeated the ender dragon, and then he spent multiple centuries floating in the void

after finally exiting the void, he found the world he was in was suddenly inhabited by reincarnations of most of his dead friends, and that not a single one remembered him. he was then arrested, spent 4 weeks in a cage being starved, and was freed and decreed a bard by one of his reincarnated friends

he attempted to return to his previous world, and found that he couldn’t. he was then attacked and nearly drowned by a different reincarnation, and washed up on the shore of an empire belonging to none other than his old best friend, sausage

sausage didn’t remember him either. he nursed oli back to health and helped him get a new outfit, and oli was stuck trying to find his place in a world he didn’t belong in

he fucked around more, started a crossover, ended a crossover, birthed a dragon, ate a child, denied the cannibalism allegations, and eventually decided he’d had enough

he faked his own suicide, and attempted to escape the world with what was left of the rift that caused the crossover. instead he ended up time traveling(?) to a different world, one he lived in almost a decade ago. it was never confirmed if oli managed to leave this world and move on to a new one, or if he’s still stuck there

all of this happened in 4 episodes and doesn’t even cover all of it

[fancytrinkets]

Elden Ring | Grace and monsters

721 words / POV Second Person / Lore (Elden Ring) / St. Trina (Elden Ring) / Vague speculation about Miquella and St. Trina leading up to the DLC / Malenia battle, the exact way I played it / Radagon is Marika / Light Angst / Temporary Character Death / Memory Loss / Blood Loss / Poetry

Altus Plateau

The Grand Lift of Dectus shakes the earth as its ancient gears unlock and begin to move. You stand alone on a platform built to hold an army, and you rise.

On the plateau above, you follow the path towards the capital, slaying creatures as you go. The afternoon sunlight is as golden as the Erdree that looms above all. In its shadow, you feel bereft, bathed in an all-consuming grief that emanates from every corner of this broken landscape. With golden tendrils, it reaches down into your viscera and calls to mind a half-remembered grief that is your own.

The sun sets and at night you grow weary, but you find no rest. Your campsite is close to the road, chosen not for any strategic virtue, but for the remnant of Grace that rises, a flowing pillar of light. It moves like water, pooling in its hidden font. With nerves on edge, you watch it for hours as you listen, alert to every sound. There is danger in the night.

By day, you fight your way through camps of Leyndell soldiers, guarding the capital with sword and shield and trebuchet, with crossbow and ballista. They are the sputtering embers of an age-old flame for war. They fall, one by one, impaled on your blade.

At night, again, you watch the light of Grace, fearful that if you were to camp elsewhere, you'd lose the knack for seeing it. You'd become like the others, substituting some obsession of your own to fill the darkness. And yet you grow so very tired. Desperation rises and you pray to St. Trina for sleep. But she isn't there or doesn't listen. You can't understand what's gone wrong.

Leyndell Royal Capital

You stand before the statue and cast the Law of Regression to reveal a hidden truth.

Radagon is Marika.

And, implicitly, you understand. Because you are that way also, though perhaps you didn't know till now. Someone else exists beneath the surface of your skin, some other person who lived their life and died in exile. And when they were called back by Grace to the Lands Between, it was you instead who woke, disconnected from that other self — the same being and yet altogether different. With Rennala's gift, you changed their form to match the shape of you.

Two and one.

Perhaps you should go back to the broken queen in her darkened library and tell her: Radagon didn't leave the way you think. But no, it would not matter. She is lost in grief and you cannot help her. Since last you met, you have killed both her sons.

The Haligtree

You die a thousand times.

And yet you are chosen by Grace to wake up anew. These many deaths are the only sleep you've managed for a month of nights or more, and so you don't begrudge the loss. You simply get up. You walk down the stairs, down the corridor, and past the doorway arch to the roots of the Haligtree where you face your greatest foe.

You were slow at first, but you have learned. Malenia does not touch you as you slide past her blade. Your knife is small, but where it hits, your enemies bleed. In this, Malenia is no different. In her desperation, the scarlet rot blooms once more. She is fiercer now, but with a thousand deaths behind you, you can see her every move. Nothing hits you.

In the end, it is she who falls dead.

Moghwyn Palace

You have killed the Omen, Lord of Blood. In the stolen cocoon, Miquella lies still, subsumed by sleep or stasis. Perhaps it is best that he does not wake. You have slain Malenia, his beloved sister, in your relentless purge of the broken Order and its demigods scattered across these lands.

Perhaps you could kill Miquella also, cutting him free from his slumber. But here, the child god is no great threat. He is locked away from the world. And you did not kill Rennala either. You are a monster, yes, but not always. And right now all you want to do is rest.

In this blood palace, you sit by the light of Grace that moves, not like flame, but like water. You pray to St. Trina, and you drift off to sleep.

(ao3 link)

[solemn-siren]

Savior of scratchcraft

I’ve been toying around with a version of my persona but as a resident in Storm’s port city and I came up with a concept of a potion maker who is too busy for the life of her to take care of herself and isn’t very good at anything outside of potions.

I came up with this short story concept of alchemist!Siren’s failed attempt at getting dragon’s breath and the god who had to save her… again.

Tw: violence, injury, near death?

To make tipped arrows you need lingering potions, and to make lingering potions you need dragon’s breath.

Siren was just hoping that the diamonds she spend buying end crystals from Jor was worth the amount of pain she had to go through just to get dragon’s breath.

Buying end crystals was only the easy part. When you live in a port city under the eyes of a god and you make potions, you’re already in the perfect spot to rake in diamonds. When you knew how to read the market and predict what customers want, that was how she rose to the top.

She still had plenty left to go around to bulk orders of other ingredients.

She did not have enough to make better gear.

So here she was, in the end, with the dragon she summoned, with no armor. Just her elytra and her bow and tons of glass bottles.

The end crystals atop the obsidian pillars were perhaps the easiest to deal with. All she had to do was fly above the endless sea of void, take aim, and let loose her arrow at the deadly crystal.

The dragon was not.

If she was skilled enough she would’ve captured the acidic fireballs it shot and collected the dragon’s breath within it. Alas, she had already been warned enough times about danger so she decided to not do anything about it.

The dragon hovered above the end portal, its silver claws perched atop the bedrock structure. It reared its head back, and Siren grabbed as many bottles as she could in one hand and a rocket in the other, landing on one of the obsidian pillars, she waited for the dragon to make its move.

“Any second now…”

The ended dragon let out a large breath attack, with nearby endermen fleeing from the cone of draconian energy. Lingering behind where the cone went, was an ether like cloud of its breath.

“Bingo.”

Siren fired her rocket, diving down from her obsidian pillar and towards the dragon. Bringing out the bottles in her hand, she passed it through the ether cloud before using another rocket to take off into the air, soaring above the obsidian pillars.

The bottles were now filled with dragon’s breath, and before any could escape Siren closed the bottles. She had made this special glass bottle for ‘dragon breath’ hunting purposes. They could close quickly with only one flick of her fingers and she could close multiple at once.

Putting the dragon’s breath away, she thought to herself. She had about a stack and a half of bottles left to go.

Can’t be that hard? Right?

Unfortunately the dragon had stopped perching atop the portal and was now behind Siren, its wings sending gale force winds below her.

“You got to be kidding me-“

The dragon shot its fire at Siren, landed dead center on the alchemist who was sent flying into one of the obsidian pillars.

Snap. There went her elytra. If she had a sword or a pick maybe she could slow her fall. She had none of those, so she was doomed to fall onto the end stone below with a splat.

“Ow.”

She flicked her wrist, bringing up a holographic panel. Majority of the hearts that had shown up were black and shattered, just one half of the last heart remained, glowing dimly.

“Half a heart. I’m dead.”

She had absolutely nothing to regenerate her own hearts.

“Maybe I will accept death for once.”

She didn’t hear the thundering sound of the ended dragon being slain or the nearby endermen suddenly acting off for their kind.

She only realized it all when she saw a line of lightning darting between the obsidian pillars before coming down in front of her. The lightning quickly transformed into a tall endermen with silver armor.

Stormlordzeus, the god who built the port city, the god they worshipped.

And her savior.

Again.

Even the endermen around him bowed down and began to chant in galactic as he stood up to his full height. The armor he wore began to shift, completely removed by magic and revealing his hoodie attire.

“…Hi there.” Siren said, raising one hand and slowly waving. Storm glared down, his teal green pearl eyes resembling the eyes of ender in the over world portal.

“You realize we’re in the double digits now right?” He asked, still menacingly staring down at her. “I keep telling you, you can just pay someone else to go get dragon’s breath for you, not go get them yourself! What made you think you could do this?”

Siren shrugged, it was her thing at this rate.

“Wait how did you know I was in the end?” she asked, still staring at the holographic half a heart.

“You don’t do a good job of hiding where you are.” Storm answered, crouching down to her level. “Jor told me you bought end crystals from him, the exact number needed to summon the dragon. And you only have one good reason for summoning the ender dragon.”

You know, he had a point.

“So? What did the dragon do to you?”

“Fireball.” Siren answered, pointing to the singed ends of her hair. Although it was ebony black, several ends of her hair was singed a magic pink, because this wasn’t any kind of fire, it was magical fire.

Storm shook his head in disappointment. “It’s magical injury isn’t it…” he muttered, looking away. “Can you walk?”

Siren raised up the holographic half a heart.

Storm stared at the faintly glowing heart in shock. “Half a heart?!” He shouted, spooking the nearby endermen. “You were lucky, but don’t rely on it too much from now on okay? I’m carrying you back all the way to the port, free of charge, but if I hear that you’re in the end again-“

“-there’s an even worse punishment waiting for you.”

“Alright I get it.” Siren groaned, taking Storm’s hand as the god helped her back onto her feet. It was disorienting and slightly uncomfortable to stand on two legs again, but she couldn’t fly back because her elytra was broken, the splintered wood and phantom membrane scattered on the end stone.

“Still the savior of scratchcraft aren’t you?” She added as the endermen parted from the god as they walked towards the portal. “You’re still the same, god or not.”

“Shut up.” Storm grumbled, but she had a point. As long as the scratchcrafters, the citizens of his city, and the world bowed down before him, he would protect them all until his last breath.

[illumiera]

WIP Not-Wednesday

I was tagged by @jirowrites (thank you! 💖) to share a little piece of a WIP, and since it's been a while since my last update, here's a chunk of chapter six of i fear no fate (for you are my fate) full of timey-wimey dream stuff for you all:

Had she not been too alight with fury to think, she might have guessed he’d bring her to a throne room in full splendour, or a dazzling temple sanctum, or perhaps a hall to rival that of Shor himself. Not a turret bearing the clawed-out marks of countless flights and landings, opening out to a diamond cloak of stars thrown across the sky. Beyond the edge of the battlement, so far down that her moon-spun wings shiver with wild delight, is Solstheim. Miraak’s Solstheim. He stands at her side, pointing out features of the landscape and giving them the names of his era: the patchwork tundra of the Isinfier Plains sprawling all around them, the snow-dusted Hirstaang Forest swaying to the south, and from the north-west rise the Moesring Mountains, where the Snow Prince was slain—or will be slain—atop his winter-white steed. Tiny moving flames no larger to her than fireflies draw her eye when he bids her look down to the settlement surrounding the temple grounds. With an odd little jolt, she realises that they’re torches, each one held aloft by a guard or a servant or an ordinary person oblivious to their silent audience of a dreamer and a woman out of time. In this form, her senses are sharpened twofold. Focusing her hearing, willing herself to empty of thought and just listen, she catches owls hooting, cows lowing, dogs barking, the distant tinkling of bells, and stolen fragments of conversations in Dovahzul and what cannot be anything other than rapid-fire Atmoran. In four thousand years, all of this will be gone. It’s real now, so real that, dream or not, she can run her fingertips along the stone embrasures and feel the wind whipping at her hair and the hem of her nightgown, but to wake will be to erase it forever. Come morning, every single one of the people she’s watching will be either draugr or dust. The snow and tundra for miles around will be scattered with the skeletons of so many dragons, she’ll never truly be able to imagine how it would feel to absorb all of those souls in such a short space of time. Like you could bring down the heavens with the merest whisper, she can’t help but think. Like you’ve torn off your fragile mortal skin and exposed a god blazing beneath. And she could warn him if she wanted, turn to him with the future on her tongue like a bitter aftertaste, but what good would it do? If he refused to bargain with Mora, or hid his rebellion better, or threw his lot in with the three Nord heroes who once asked for his aid, would it unmake the version of him she so painstakingly won from death and Oblivion both? Would it unmake her, since if Alduin were defeated in the Merethic Era, there’d be no need for a Last Dragonborn in the Fourth?

there, that ought to motivate me to get cracking (we're on 7.5k words and I usually write about 10k per chapter, so I don't anticipate it being too long before the update)! I tag @bostoniangirl21, @bougainvillea-and-saltwater, @kiir-do-faal-rahhe (no pressure, of course!) and anyone else who's got a WIP, whether art or writing, they'd like to show! ✨

[skxrbrand]

Ulthuan, N'kari's Palace, Mortal Realm

Kha'xanzyr had heard the susurrus of flapping wings. He had seen the cloud of furies in the distance, heading towards him, and his own pinions flexed and twitched. But flying wasn't a good idea, not right now, when even walking was proving a challenge. Instead he watched and paced, standing on the tallest of the Arch-Tempter's towers as the fury swarm came ever closer.

Against the pale and ornate palace the Bloodthirster was a haphazard bloodstain, easily sussed out by the incoming Furies. Most of them scattered; only the Alpha landed before the Architect, though notably further away. Just out of his reach, or so she had believed. Furies were disgusting little creatures; scavengers that wore their fear for everyone to see. Normally, the Alpha dared to get a bit closer to him than that.

Bad news. It must be.

And it was. The Fury had hissed the outcome of their battle: Victory, but a costly one. The enemy was broken, but Bloodfire falls had taken a beating as well. Qhi'zhek had survived and that had surprised him. Perhaps the old bird wasn't as weak as initially anticipated. Or, the Bloodthirster sent to fight him hadn't been up to snuff himself. There was no way to tell and only the result mattered: The Knowledge Keeper had stood and his enemy had fallen.

But not just him.

" The Feathered Lord spoke of Vhiarn, the illustrious Lady of Hounds." The Fury went on, a note of bemusement in it sibilant voice. Kha'xanzyr's snout wrinkled briefly. He had heard the tone and disapproved of it, but in that moment he was more interested in information than murder.

" What of her?"

" She was slain, my lord, it saddens me to say."

Slain. Kha'xanzyr stared at the fury, blinking, processing. Vhiarn, who had first served Khorsen and slipped oh so easily into his own service. Who had prospered beneath his leadership; he had even seen to it she was rewarded for her efficiency, and made her a Juggernaut. Who had brought him the skull of the traitor, Xharn. Who he was certain would be uplifted by the Blood God's own hand, eventually, into the Deathbringer ranks herself.

And she was gone. First Khazaan, and now her. Both of them taken, destroyed on Khorne's orders. But the Exile was off, gallivanting around the world with his whore. Where were the Blood Hosts running Skarbrand down, ripping away what little he cared for in this immortal life?

Out the corner of his eyes, he caught the reaction of the Fury to his carefully hidden grief. A grin on bestial features, purring in the Alpha's throat as it fed on his suffering. Kha'xanzyr hadn't given away his intentions with a roar or a snarl as another Bloodthirster might've. He had just moved, had just struck, like a thunderbolt. Suddenly and without warning. The Nurgh-mace he had been gifted was brought down upon the impetuous little Chaos Fury, serving it the very death it had been hoping to avoid.

The scent of blood snaked into the Bloodthirster's nostrils and his eyes lit up, his sharp, tightly bound rage unspooling into a berserker fury. He roared, at the heavens, and the depth of his loss summoned black storm clouds above the tallest of the towers. They rumbled with a roar to rival the daemon's own, belching forth red lightning and boiling crimson rain. The sky came alive with the wails of pained Furies, their supple, pastel skin scorched by blood-rain and electricity. They fell in droves into the ocean, taken beneath the swirling waves.

Dying while Kha'xanzyr roared himself hoarse. It was all he could do. All he could do not to explode himself into a shower of gore...

[everthewip]

Prompt number: 2. "Don't worry, I got you."

Fanfiction Fandom: Valheim

Rating: G

Warnings: None, I don't think, but please let me know if there should be one.

Notes: If you've never played Valheim, taken from the wiki page... "Valheim takes place in a world where slain Vikings go to prove themselves fit for the halls of Valhalla. As one such, the player begins with nothing and soon discovers that to reach the Norse afterlife, they must defeat the evils that stalk Valheim.[5] Led only by their instincts and occasional hints from a raven,[6] the player must prepare to fight the sworn enemies of Odin himself."

They cannot agree on who landed the final blow.

“Of course it was I,” claims the one she calls Hunter. “And then I lay in a sea of my own blood, victorious to my death!”

“I was not dead yet,” she answers. “Only silent and watching you bleed.”

Hunter rolls her eyes and waves a dismissive hand. “You spend too much time watching. That is why you died, Watcher.”

“And you do not watch enough. That is why you died, Hunter.”

As they move away from the circle of Gods, their sights set on the feral wilderness around them, they fall into a tense silence.

It is an honor to be given this task by Odin.

But it was cruel of their God to pair them with their enemy.

*

There are moments when Watcher's instinct threatens to take over. She moves beside her greatest foe, so close in the dense forest that their arms touch. Each subtle brush makes her skin prickle, like a beast sensing a great threat. Nothing is stopping them from turning on the other, save for the will of Odin.

They need one another if they are to succeed.

It truly is a wicked purgatory.

*

When they encounter a forest-dweller, it is Watcher who spies it first. Ever cautious, ever keen, her eyes catch the flickering glow of the Grayling's gaze. She has barely pointed the threat out before Hunter is on it, beating the creature to death in seconds.

Perhaps this is why their God has forced them together.

Watcher, reluctantly, admits to herself that they may make good companions after-all.

At least, until Hunter loudly declares her victory and several more forest-dwellers come rushing from the shadows.

*

“This is your fault.”

Watcher leans against a birch tree, refusing to look at Hunter, who stands amidst a carnage of splintered wood and Grayling eyes. For once, Hunter is doing the watching, glaring at Watcher with arms crossed over her broad chest.

“It is not my fault that you are weak,” she states, nearly spitting that final word. Watcher's eyes shoot to her, narrowed and deadly, and she takes a step forward to meet the unspoken challenge.

But then her vision grows blurry. She falters and sways, the after effects of a second death – or as close to death as they are allowed in this place – and resurrection having not yet passed. Before she hits the ground, there are strong arms around her, pulling her up and holding her steady.

“Don't worry, I got you.” Hunter's voice is softer than Watcher has ever heard it before.

She loathes it.

“I am not worried,” Watcher hisses once her vision is cleared. “Let go of me!”

“Suit yourself.”

Those arms release her and once again Watcher tries to walk, only to find herself stumbling again, now without someone to catch her.

Hunter's laughter frightens the birds from the trees.

[waitingforwinterwinds]

Sew Long, Fair Well - 01 SANSA (pages 01)

Sansa makes a final sacrifice for her people, and wakes to discover she's made a deal with a god.

-

The years of war, and the sheer number of their combined forces, the sheer appetite of the dragons, everything had put too large an impact in their reserves. Her people were going to starve before the new crops could be grown to harvest, before the animals could breed and mature enough for culling, the glass gardens were still in ruins, and winter still upon them. Spring hadn't magically come sweeping in when Arya had slain the Night King, the Long Night hadn't mystically given way to the spring dawn.

That's actually something I'll be interested to see when we reach it in the books, how the resource situation is, because with the wars, and The War, resources are going to be so low, I have concerns about the post Long Night survival rates.

“Please,” she asked, “if you know of any way to save my people, please tell me how, please help me save my people.” “What are you willing to give up for them?” It was a test, Sansa knew, and thought of rough hands on her skin, thought of all she has lost, and all she had fought for with whatever she could. With words and looks, and favours and lies, with the blood of others and with her own. “The last thing I have left to barter with,” Sansa told him, hoping it was enough, “the last thing I have which is rightly mine to give away.”

“That's-Not-Bran” Theory at play here. I do kinda like that one, just for the fridge horror aspect of it. I also like the “rightly mine to give” mentality when characters deal with eldritch/ancient beings, cause you could give them anything, including the life of another, a thousand other lives, but where's the personal sacrifice in that. (Also it makes you look like an asshole.) This one showing us just where Sansa's priorities lie, it's not just about the building, it's about the people in it

“Down through the crypts, until the tunnel turns into a cave. Down through the cave to the heart of the hot springs, where the waters of Winterfell are born. Until there's nothing left to give.”

You know, I have now read two fics with Sansa Time Travel that feature the hot springs in the tunnels under Winterfell as the medium for said time travel. Two different types of time travel, mind you, but I see any more and it will officially be a pattern.

In her mind, she could see a golden light flowing through Winterfell, spilling out into the surrounding lands. It was like watching a flower slowly blooming. Sansa vaguely felt herself slip completely below the surface of the hot spring, but she didn't care, didn't fight it. She wasn't sure if she was dreaming, or if she was truly witnessing a miracle, but these were her last moments, and Sansa chose hope.

This would have been such a tough ask though, after everything Sansa survived, after everything that didn't kill her, after everything lost and regained, for her to have this presented as the saving move, when she can't even trust the source it came from, like, not really. For all she knows, That's-not-Bran just wants her out of the way so he can take over.

Anyway, the world is much nicer when people choose hope. (Nicer still when hope pays off.)

Sansa?

Yes, that was right, she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell And she was dead. Were the dead allowed to play games?

“I won't tell if you don't.”

ngl, that made me laugh.

Fun? That sounded nice. Sansa missed nice things, like lemon cakes, and her family, and practising her sewing. It had been so long since she'd last embroidered anything... No, that wasn't right, there had been a wolf... for Jon .

🍋=🥛

She was a child. She was a woman grown. She'd never left Winterfell. She'd been to King's Landing and the Eyrie, she'd even visited The Wall. She was in love with the idea of love, and couldn't wait to be a wife and mother. She was jaded, married twice, and revolted by the idea of sharing any man's bed. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. A summer child. She'd seen the Long Night. She'd died for her people and now she was either in heaven, or she'd had a second wish granted. She was home, and safe, and she had a chance to fix everything.

I feel like I don't see it enough in fanfics, but I do enjoy the use of formatting as a storytelling aid. Like this section, how the two versions of Sansa are put on opposite sides, and then the center alignment to show that the two versions were separate have melded into one being. (tumblr doesn't like left center right alignments, so I've indented the right aligns.)

People format their fics in different ways and some of them are good, and some of them are one paragraph of 8,000 words. This fic has a lot of 1-2 sentence paragraphs. I know one author, different fandom, and I love their premises, but my gosh, there's an epidemic of people who have never heard of “new speaker, new line,” and they are one of them.

GRRM doesn't always start a new paragraph whenever someone new starts talking, and sometimes he'll let someone start talking at the end of a paragraph, but he never really has two or more people speaking in the same paragraph, where readers get confused because you start reading the second voice assuming it's the first. Sometimes he has the speech tag before the spoken line, instead of after, he actually does a really good job of keeping an easy to read flow with conversations and he has a good balance with the speech tags themselves.

...Sansa just accidentally Blood Magicked the mystery Embroidery Hoop. In her defense, as someone who has dabbled with embroidery, can confirm: those needles are freaking sharp. Fiber arts are hardcore, I have such mad respect for anyone who can do them.

The Hoop was on the ground before her. Sansa looked back at her table, where the hoop was not. She picked it up again, and put it back on the table. She turned to dress, and the hoop was back on the ground before her. Huffing, Sansa picked it up again. This time when she put it on her table she said, partly pleading, “at least let me get dressed before I deal with you.” She stepped back, eyes on the hoop. It stayed where it was. … In all honesty, if Sansa hadn't been through what she'd just been through, she would have been freaking out over the hoop far more.

Good of her to acknowledge that she's either having a mild disassociation, or has been struck by the blasé attitude stick a few too many times. Look, don't get me wrong, “nothing can phase me” is a fine personality type for a girl to have, but when all the only -female-characters have it, it starts to grate. Like how “snarky, sarcastic, he'd be an asshole if he weren't so cute, clever, and charismatic” became default male protagonist personality for a while th- … actually I think they're still doing that one.

...../              HELP               \ .../   I've made a deal with   \ /an Ancient God, and now I \ |     don't know what to do!     | .\  (Slide finger from right to / ...\       left to turn to next    / .....\              page)              /

'Oh,' Sansa thought, feeling a little faint, 'so that was real.'

Apparently. Don't worry, I hate when that happens to me too. (Also I shudder to think how long it took to do the console format every time.)

-

So I actually had the message box open and was going to fire off a message to see if @redwolf17 would be cool if I did The Weirwood Queen for this, but then I thought “if my review curse* triggers, I will be devastated, everyone will be devastated!” So I picked one that's been on permanent hiatus for... three and half years? Oh wow, I didn't think it had been that long. Time is an illusion.

Anyway, I have author permission, and I'm even allowed to be as mean as I want. Oh, the evil that could unleash >:3c (I've fiddled with the formatting slightly, just because the layout in the og is very... laid out.) This fic is also more GoT than ASoIaF, sorry, but I poorly worded the fic option in the poll and no one gave me recs.

*I have this unfortunate curse where if I review a fic that's still in progress, something happens and the author drops the fic like 86% of the time. It's not because I'm mean or anything, I don't go for the writing jugular, it just. happens.

Happy April Everyone!!!

[stoportotouch]

today, i present to you... a little... and...? le vesconte playlist.

sorry for the slightly silly title but i cannot stress enough how much the relationship between these two has the potential to fuck me up. it really is... little feels too much as a result of his trauma. le vesconte feels too little because of it. and the one time that they could have stood to sympathise with each other or meet in the middle, when ned was at his very lowest, dundy tries but not hard enough.

i. we will commit wolf murder | of montreal

when i die i want you to die too, not try to stay in this all in a dimension without you, spit on this planet without you i envy you because you could believe in things like i never could and, like, dose yourself into a coma over the bestiality of our race.

ii. big black bull comes like a caesar | munly and the lee lewis harlots

when my brother was a child, he was given an animal he raised it up to be a big black bull; it never did low, or pitch, or sway it never ride on the back of a flatbed

iii. we are gods! we are wolves! | le loup

we spent our darkest days howling at the moon, close enough to see our low condition. and did you ever wish that we were one? have you ever known your maker? could you lead your song aloft the mountain tops? you could never swing that dagger.

iv. alexander's feast, part ii: 'revenge, revenge! timotheus cries' | george frederick handel

behold a ghastly band, a ghastly band each a torch in his hand these are grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain and unburied remain: inglorious on the plain.

v. the killing type | amanda palmer

but i would kill to make you feel; i'd kill to move your face an inch i see you staring into space, i want to stick my fist into your mouth and twist your arctic heart

vi. a soreness so familiar it soon becomes unquestioned | crywank

when i sass you with a smile i see you didn't notice the quiver in my voice, the fact my bow is broken i had a nosebleed when i woke up then i didn't go to work i find my problems are all first-world but still i'm feeling hurt am i just a spoiled brat who taught themselves how to cry? who's so preconditioned now all their emotions are a lie? i close my eyes and look inside; no surprise i find nothing. it's people who shape each other and people are disgusting.

vii. alligator teeth | mother falcon

i will turn my friends to gold, for the treasury to hold them safely while they dream and how they dream, if they dream

viii. land of broken promises | iamx

turn the bad blood into good, bring the laughter, bring the love drink again 'cause everyone forgets in the land of broken promises

ix. puppet loosely strung | the correspondents

in the past you would have been seen as a family's disgrace now they think you're putting on a brave face they might fear that one day they'll wear your shoes but you're the one who's laughing; you had nothing to lose

x. great vacation | dirt poor robins

romans and countrymen, please lend me your ears: there's some late-breaking news i know you'd like to hear but the papers won't print it, and the tvs just won't air. nobody gets the word, 'cause there's nobody there.

xi. incident in a medical clinic | rasputina

quite unbelievably, i want someone to be sweet to me when i'm in absolutely horrible pain.

xii. incitatus | mishkin fitzgerald

my left hand is a whip and a bandage, free to choose where the mark or brand is each one knows how to hide in the carnage: hey're hiding, they're hiding. time's running out for the rats in the playground, cut straight down like a thief in a small town shots rack em up, pin a tail on the donkey: you've got a lot to answer for.

xiii. inside of you, in spite of you | thoushaltnot

i am inside of you, in spite of you with strength and sacred grace but for all you do, i'll carry you from this bitter place

xiv. god help you dumb boy | reverend glasseye

'dumb boy, what are you made of?' my eyes are lazy, my skin doth flake. 'then what good can you do?' not so much as men like you. 'dumb boy, what do you see?' a lesser man, coming down on me. 'tell us, what will you do?' i'll let my axe come down on you.

xv. the hand that feeds | the crane wives

i've seen good men spoiled, chained to their jobs like hounds they work, and sleep, and work again; in the darkest nights they howl their cries are a warning to everyone following: no man should stand to work all of his days and have nothing at the end of them.

xvi. what have they done to you now? | daniel knox

what have they done to you now? old familiar friends to fill your heart with grief and agony a little friendly conversation, character assassination i just don't care any more. i don't wanna know.

xvii. we'll all soon be dead | this way to the egress

the pitchfork's in the hay and we'll live another day as long as we can get through one more night this land's getting rotten, and i have to shake my head 'cause the cattle's sick and we'll all soon be dead.

xviii. lullaby | american murder song

troubles, and marks, and sakes to keep blow out the candle and go to sleep. high hang the moon that looks to the west, tied to your pillow, and twice 'round your chest

xix. danse macabre | the oh hellos

xx. my nightmare | phemiec

in my mightmare tonight, i'll see me, all consumed and attempting to sing disharmonious tunes with you asynchronicity, i am in misery i am in misery! what has been done to me?

xxi. hellfire | the mechanisms

your soul is connected to the world you're in you're dragging it down with the weight of your sin surrounded by temptation, and you just give in. we're falling into the flames.

xxii. edward | american murder song

after the spring, you shall find him after the snow leaves the hill after the spring, you shall find him. 'till then, there's no grave to fill.

xxiii. july | american murder song

outside, the tree coughed up blood 'stead of leaves coughs from the floorboards, coughs from the eaves i climbed the coughing tree, noose on my sleeve: i ain't going nowhere; i ain't going going nowhere.

xxiv. no children | the mountain goats

and i hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say and i'd hope that if i found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell out of my way.

xxv. leather for hell | bitter ruin

euthanasia is gonna save ya; it's the kindest thing to do and you don't know it yet but every time you take that breath ten thousand other people suffer 'cause they feel the way i do.

xxvi. a deer mistaking candles for headlights | crywank

does the blank stare scare you more than the frown? am i the reason that you feel down? distant yet rational; bringer of rage to get to a level where i will engage i am a tentacle; incapacitated obstacle. i am obsolete and apathetic, thoughtlessly apologetic watch my actions (or lack thereof) negate the person that i said i was.

xxvii. eat you | caravan of thieves

i'm gonna eat you, you're my desire i'm gonna sharpen all my teeth and build a fire. i'm gonna eat you; cook and defeat you i'm gonna breathe you in my lungs and make you mine.

xxviii. destroy everything you touch | unwoman

destroy everything you touch today. destroy me this way anything that may desert you, so it cannot hurt you you only have to look behind you, at who's undermined you destroy everything you touch today. please. destroy me this way.

xxix. heretic pride | the mountain goats

i want to cry out, but i don't scream and i don't shout and i feel so proud to be alive and i feel so proud when the reckoning arrives.

xxx. pump shanty | the mechanisms

a transport mission, gone awry attacked by cole and left to fry is no excuse, boys, let us cry: "today is not the day we die!"

xxxi. bremen | pigpen theatre co.

but how long did we think we could walk, we could sing before our voices gave out and our limbs gave in on the road, on the road, on the road, on the road, on the way, on the way, on the way to bremen, to bremen, to bremen

xxxii. automatonic electronic harmonics | steam powered giraffe

i am not an unimaginable thing; my thoughts are tangible though they're full of springs i don't have the heart to send you untruthful words my skin is cold to the touch and made from the earth

xxxiii. never love an anchor | the crane wives

there are times when i still wonder about you: you are someone i have loved, but never known and you'll never see the reasons i had for keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you. i am selfish, i am broken, i am cruel: i am all the things they might have said to you do you ever think of me and my two hands and wonder why they never soothed your fevers

xxxiv. my mom | kimya dawson

and he goes limp in your arms all the peoples' mouths are moving all you hear are car alarms and you wake up and start to cry i will lose my shit if even one more person i know dies so please don't die.

xxxv. allies or enemies | the crane wives

remember when i could tell you not to smile when you were mad and you would always crack, and we'd both be laughing in the end now you're not so quick to forget -- are we allies or enemies what happens now, do we have another go do we bow out and take our separate roads i'll admit, i've had my doubts, but i want to be let in, not out

xxxvi. beneath the brine | the family crest

now my heart is bound, like a plague upon this sound and oh, it slips away, such soft decay -- then it grows oh, young love, young dear, why have you taken me from the fall all of my love, all of my life, given to you, sacrificed stay clear of the wreckage: she goes down, down, down

xxxvii. mars | sleeping at last

though time is ruthless, it showed us kindness in the end by slowing down enough: a second chance to make amends so we found our way back home, let our cuts and bruises heal while a brand-new war began, a war that no-one else could feel

xxxviii. dance while the sky crashes down | jason webley

like that, the earth begins to quiver, and all the oceans turn to black a ship of maniacs with knives are playing blackjack with their lives to kill the time until the giant rats attack it's raining leprosy and acid; the saints were taken out and shot when someone proffers you a pear you sink your teeth in unaware that just beneath the skin lies pestilence and rot

xxxix. animal skin | bryan dunn

i can see it in their eyes: they're coming for you, honey painted faces, sharpened knives. do you think it's funny if you dress it up, you'll have to break it in but you never look better than when you wear your animal skin

xl. love, love, love | the mountain goats

love, love is gonna lead you by the hand into a white and soundless place now we see things as in a mirror, dimly then, we shall see each other face to face and way out in seattle young kurt cobain snuck out to the greenhouse, put a bullet through his brain snakes in the grass beneath our feet, rain in the clouds above some moments last forever, but some flair out with love, love, love

[thysia]

Dreamt I was wandering through a sort of swamp, ankle deep for as far as it stretched. Water strangley clear and umuddied by the soil below. Boxed in on three side by sheer cliffs, on the fourth horizon the swamp opened up into a great expanse of deep blue sky, twinkling with stars. The land fell away there, the edge of the world. The water fell there in ceaseless falls but never dried.

All across the water there were clusters of trees. Tall and with branches only at the top, like some sort of temperate forest palm tree. They were thick with leaves and would block out the sky where they clustered.

At some point the land 'woke up'. Roots would push rocks and ruined structures out from beneath the earth. The trees uprooted in their clusters, the roots at their bases formed like hands that dragged them along. They seemed conjoined at their branches, moving in groups. And where once their undercanopy had simply been thick greenery, now it was like a window. A hole peering into somewhere else. An infinite sea of roots and branches and briars. Sometimes when they'd pass me by I'd peer up into the woody expanse they served as portals to and see great eyes embedded amongst the arboreous tendrils, staring back at me.

I walked to the edge of the swamp, the edge of the world, and the corpse of a giant rose up over the edge. His skin was gray, his face shriveled with the mummification of his flesh. He wore a tunic embroidered with symbols depicting skulls, and was adorned in great multitude with their anatomical counterparts harvested from men. I was certain he was a God. A dead God, diposed of his divine position.

His eyes did not open, his mouth did not move, but he spoke to me. He spoke of saints and alchemists whose unfamiliar histories I had falsely appropriated. He spoke of work both religious and occult and accused me of purposely misreading them to selfish ends. He condemned me for my cruelty and dishonesty, and he condemned the ignorant and animal nature of man. Of man who had slain him.

He did not move to leave or act against me in anger. When he was finished speaking he simply stopped, and sat there at the edge of the world. I stood there too, peering up at him until I awoke.

[a-waterphoenix]

NO NO NO NO BUT HE LITERALLY DOES AND I’M NOT EVEN TALKING ABOUT THETIS TAKING HIM TO SKYROS

In the Iliad, it doesn’t seem like many people actually KNOW Achilles has a choice between fighting and dying a hero or living his days out in obscurity and peace. When Agaemennon sends an envoy to get Achilles back, they not only promise to return Briseis back, NOT ONLY to give him all the riches they’ve been plundering (which includes women cause misogyny), but they ALSO promise to give him rewards AFTER the war:

- “All these things will he give you now down, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe him to sack the city of Priam, you can come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load your ship with gold and bronze to your liking. You can take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean Argos, wealthiest of all lands, you shall be his son-in-law, and he will show you like honour with his own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance. Agamemnon has three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; you may take the one of your choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; he will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give you seven well-established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire where there is grass; holy Pheras and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos. ”

You don’t promise rewards to someone if that person won’t live to see them, and I doubt that they’re trying to gaslight Achilles into forgetting his imminent death if he returns to being a glorious fighter. In this conversation, Achilles is the only one that knows that this war is, at least materially, worthless. When he’s dead, he will not wear the armour of the countless men he’s slain. When he’s dead, he will not have the countless women from the cities he’s sacked. The only good this war is to him is in terms of gaining glory, and by god has he got that. Prior to Briseis being forcibly taken from him, he is a model warrior. For his skill at battle and his commitment to fighting in the face of impending doom, he is revered by everyone. Greece loves him. Troy fears him. Christ, even the Olympians - not just Gods, Olympians - endorse him. When Agaemennon takes Briseis, it’s the first time he and his reputation are openly insulted. His initial reaction might not be interpreted as too much of an overreaction, especially because a) Agaemennon literally displeased a god and had to pay and b) NO OTHER WARRIOR ever got their women shimmied off to serve someone unless they got defeated and killed, but his reaction to full out refuse Agaemennon’s apology definitely seems to be, especially when Agaemennon is literally bending over backwards to get him back. He elaborates why, in the classic Homer style of “the characters speak their feelings”, which gives some more explanation to why he’s being so stubborn.

“Why, pray, must the Argives needs fight the Trojans? What made the son of Atreus gather the host and bring them? Was it not for the sake of Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men in the world who love their wives? Any man of common right feeling will love and cherish her who is his own, as I this woman, with my whole heart, though she was but a fruitling of my spear. Agamemnon has taken her from me; he has played me false; I know him; let him tempt me no further, for he shall not move me.”

He isn’t just mad that Briseis has been taken, or that Agaemennon was such a jerk, or even the slight itself. He is mad, because he has served Agaemennon in a certainly fatal war that he -unlike the men who swore an oath to fight - doesn’t need to be in all for the sake of being a respected hero. He is mad because his father, his country, his SON have been lost to him for eleven years and he will never return to them. He is mad because he willingly chose to die for glory, and during his fight with Agaemennon, his glory did not protect the ones he loved. He isn’t just nursing wounds to his ego - he is questioning his underlying goal to gain a place in history now that he sees how little it actually means for him, and he has come up with an answer:

“If great Neptune vouchsafes me a fair passage, in three days I shall be in Phthia. I have much there that I left behind me when I came here to my sorrow, and I shall bring back still further store of gold, of red copper, of fair women, and of iron, my share of the spoils that we have taken; but one prize, he who gave has insolently taken away”

In the Song Of Achilles, Achilles is still consumed by his (and his mom’s) desire to be revered and celebrated like a god, but in the original Iliad? He wants to go home. Right now, he is cutting his losses to save his life and his own chance at joy because being a hero didn’t help him. And he would have gone home, would have ruled his father’s kingdom, would have married, would have had children, and would have died a peaceful death in bed, if Patroclus hadn’t died.

Patroclus, who he has known from his very boyhood. Patroclus, who has followed Achilles wherever fate takes him. Patroclus, who ran to him weeping like he had never seem when the Greeks where under siege. Patroclus, whose safety he thought was guaranteed by his prayers to the gods who’d always answered him. Patroclus, who should’ve been protected by his armour and his sacrifices. Patroclus, whose corpse came back stripped after a god helped Hector kill him.

When Briseis was taken from him, Achilles realized he was fighting for nothing. When Patroclus was taken from him, Achilles had nothing left to lose.

See if I was Achilles I would have simply chosen to grow old and eat bread with my gay lover instead of going off to war where it was foretold i would die. But that’s just me

[deathmybride]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ these violent delights | davos blackwood *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ❤️‍🔥| Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ❤️‍🔥

ship: davos blackwood x fem!oc

warnings: foul language, serious injury (not described in detail)

summary: during the battle at burning mill, a bracken girl helps a wounded foe to escape the bloodshed.

word count: 1469

a/n: part one of 2-3 I think?? I hope you enjoy this and more context will come in part two. If you know where the title comes from, you get a lil smooch from me :)

Fog suffocated the dawn as the ill-sorted pair staggered through the woods, one leaning heavily on the other's shoulders. With every yard they covered, they left behind the choking smoke that billowed up from the mill, and soon the cries and bloody stink of active battle were replaced by clean, chilly air and eerie quiet. Their feet beat an unsteady rhythm on the mossy earth, far louder than either would like. It seemed to the both of them that they were being watched.

"They're waiting for me to die." The injured one croaked when he noticed the rows and rows of silent carrion crows keeping vigil in the oaks above them.

"Bullshit." The other urged him forward. "There's a feast of corpses back there. They'll move on."

“Foul mouth on you for such a pious girl.” The injured one spit a wad of blood from his split lip, his scarred nose crinkling in fearful fury. "My own sigil up there, waiting to eat my eyes. I'm stronger than that, mangey bastards!"

"Shut up! Just keep moving, Blackwood." She cast her gaze about, half expecting one of her own uncle’s men-at-arms to come bursting through the brush and hack them both to pieces in a battle-crazed whirlwind. "We can't afford to be heard."

"Nobody in this fucking wood." He grumbled, wincing as he put his foot in a divot of earth and sent a stab of red hot pain through his thigh. "FUCK!"

"Do you want to get caught?" She shoved him off her shoulders with ease, despite being a head shorter than him, and pressed his face against the wet, mossy trunk of a tree, speaking into his ear. "You're deep in Bracken land. Shut up, lest you want me to leave you to the wolves."

“Your house is dying by the scores.” He sneered. “Soon this will be our land.”

“I could have slain you where you laid.”

"Why don't you do it?" He hissed through gritted teeth, feeling the dew soak into his hair as his thigh screamed in agony. "Draw your sword and strike. I can kill you just as easily out here as I can on the battlefield, girl… Like I killed Aeron, that craven tourney knight-"

"Would you shut up?" She wrenched her companion away from the tree and pulled him close. "I'm trying to help you. Besides, you haven’t a sword, you stubborn mule. There’s no honour in slaying an unarmed man."

"That’s your sigil." He mumbled, but slung his arm about her and went with her regardless. “Besides, Brackens have shit for honour.”

They stumbled on, each step draining more fire from the Blackwood boy’s belly and steeling the Bracken’s resolve. They had come too far for her to leave him now. As they neared the heart of the wood, the boy’s steps began to slip, and his body weighed heavily on her back.

“What’s your name?” She asked him with a stiff shake.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Bracken.” He grunted, blinking heavily against his drooping eyelids, mouth hanging half agape as he panted.

“Come on, now. Tell me.”

He turned to her, watching with eyes as dark and deep as the God’s Eye, searching for some sign of guarded hostility, but found nothing.

“Davos.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Davos. I’m Cersha.”

“Cersha Bracken. Turncloak.” He scoffed.

“Would you stop that for once?” She asked wearily, and made no further attempt to stave off his torpor.

They loped on in thick silence, heads bowed and boots slipping on the wet roots until Davos tilted back his head and sighed.

“Sorry.” He muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” He grunted more forcefully.

“For?”

“Calling you ‘turncloak.’” The words seemed to pain him as he spoke. “And for implying you have shit for honour.”

“Are you sorry for killing my cousin?”

“He moved the fucking barrier!” That sparked the fire again, and for a few moments he trod more surefootedly.

“What proof do you-”

“Alright! Alright, enough.” Davos closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. “I will swear peace if you do.”

“Fine.” She pointed ahead. “Not far now.”

They made it only a few more paces before Davos faltered again, his foot slipping into the cleft of two roots. His hand flew into his mouth to muffle a scream and Cersha cringed away from the sight of his teeth sinking into it.

“Shh, shh…” She cooed as she helped to lift his foot from the entrapment. “Come on now. You can make it.”

“No… no!” He whined, words a slurry in his mouth. “Just let me rest. Five minutes. Let me sit for five minutes.”

“Davos, if you sit I'll never get you up again. I haven't any bandages here, nor water to boil them in. We'll be safe soon. Just walk a little further.”

“No.” He whimpered. “How far?”

“You can't see it for the fog, but just ahead there's a thicket. Behind that, there's a little clearing to cross, and we'll be safe. Just trust me.”

“Why didn't you just let me die, Bracken?” He sounded on the verge of tears. “You ought to have taken one of your own, saved me this dishonour, this humiliation! Please, gods just make it stop!”

“Listen!” At last, she snapped and grabbed his thin face in her hand. “I'm going to get that bolt out of your leg, I swear it on the Mother. Just pull your sorry self together and follow me.”

“Fine.”

He was too shocked to argue, and he managed the next dozen yards without quarrel, but Cersha could feel him weakening with every step. By the time they made it to the thicket, he was trembling at the knees and clung to her with all of what little might he had left.

“Lean on this tree for a moment.” She steered him to a great oak with deep divots in the bark that he could use for a hand hold. “Hold yourself up, and don't sit down. I'll be but a moment.”

“Mm.” He mumbled, slowly moving his weight from her shoulders to the tree. He slumped as he did, swaying dangerously before he caught his balance.

"Tell me of yourself, Davos." She urged as his eyes slipped out of line.

"Hm?"

"Your life at Raventree Hall, your favourite food, the colour of your betrothed's hair." The last part sent a queer stab into her chest. "Whatever it is, it matters not. Just tell me."

"My grandfather..." He lolled his head, blinking against the sweat that rolled into his eyes. "He was brother to the Lord before Samwell. I ride a black mare... her name... her name is..."

"What's her name, Davos?" Cersha moved quickly, using all her strength to haul the heavy limbs of vegetation aside.

"Bess. She's a good girl." His feet worked pitifully in the mud to keep himself upright. "She never threw me a-" He paused to pant. "-asunder."

It was then that his legs gave way and he crumpled. Cersha barely had time to catch him beneath the arms before he collapsed to the ground.

"I've got you." He assured him, holding tight around his waist. "I've got you."

It was a hard time for them both as she dragged his weak body across the clearing. Davos could see it rising through the mist, a round cottage of stone like a stout, grey mushroom. By now he barely had the strength to step, and she hardly managed to get him through the door and pull a chair out before he collapsed.

“Good boy.” She whispered. “You did so well.”

Davos made no attempt to respond, simply slumping awkwardly in the stiff wooden chair and blinking heavily against the sleep that swam like little black fish at the corners of his vision. Cersha darted about, first elevating his afflicted leg with an overturned milk pail, then piling the table with rags and fragrant little bags and bottles of herbs, and finally setting the fire. 

“You’re burning up.” She said, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand. His eyes widened as he tried to pull away. “I have to get water from the well to boil the bandages. Just sit tight for a moment, please.”

She disappeared through the ramshackle door, and for the first time since the afternoon prior, Davos was alone. In his stupor, he saw only a blink of each moment: dirt caked upon his scabbed knuckles, the tip of a steel broadhead breaking through his breeches, the first rays of sun catching the eddies of dust through the uncovered window. Before he knew it, Cersha returned, and he felt an odd rush of relief at the sight of her flushed face.

“You’re okay.” She assured him. It was the feeling of her hand, turned cold from the chilly morning and rough from years of use as it laid upon his cheek, that lulled him at last to sleep.

[vincewillard-1971]

A Jealous God

Deuteronomy 32:15-44

15. But Jeshurun waxed fat, and kicked: thou art waxen fat, thou art grown thick, thou art covered with fatness; then he forsook God which made him, and lightly esteemed the Rock of his salvation.

16. They provoked him to jealousy with strange gods, with abominations provoked they him to anger.

17. They sacrificed unto devils, not to God; to God's whom they knew not, to new gods that came newly up, whom your fathers feared not.

18. Of the Rock that begat thee thou art unmindful, and hast forgotten God that formed thee.

19. And when the Lord saw it, he abhorred them, because of the provoking of his sons, and of his daughters.

20. And he said, I will hide my face from them, I will see what their end shall be: for they are a very froward generation, children in whom is no faith.

21. They have moved me to jealousy with that which is not God; they have provoked me to anger with their vanities: and I will move them to jealousy with those which are not people; I will provoke them to anger with a foolish nation.

22. For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains.

23. I will heap mischiefs upon them; I will spend mine arrows upon them.

24. They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction: I will also send the teeth to beast upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust.

25. The sword without, and terror within, shall destroy both the young man and the virgin, the suckling also with the man of gray hairs.

26. I said, I would scatter them into corners, I would make the remembrance of them to crease from among men:

27. Were it not that I feared the wrath of the enemy, lest their adversaries should behave themselves strangely, and lest they should say, Our hand is high, and the Lord hath not done all this.

28. For they are a nation void of counsel, neither is there any understanding in them.

29. O that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end!

30. How should one chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand to flight, except their Rock had sold them, and the Lord has shut them up?

31. For their rock is not as our Rock, even our enemies themselves being judges .

32. For their vine is of the vine of Sodom, and of the fields of Gomorrah: their grapes are grapes of gall, their clusters are bitter:

33. Their wine is the poison of dragons, and the cruel venom of asps.

34. Is not this lad up in store with me, and sealed up among my treasures?

35. To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste

36. For the Lord shall judge his people, and repent himself for his servants, when he seeth that their power is gone, and there is none shut up, or left.

37. And he shall say, Where are their gods, their rock in whom they trusted,

38. Which did eat the fat of their sacrifices, and drank the wine of their drink offerings? let them rise up and help you, and be your protection.

39. See now that I, even I, am he, and there is no god with me: I kill, and I make alive; I wound, and I heal: neither is there any that can deliver out of my hand.

40. For I lift up my hand to heaven and say, I live for ever.

41. If I whet my glittering sword, and mine hand take hold on judgment; I will render vengeance to mine enemies, and will reward them that hate me.

42. I will make mine arrows drunk with blood, and my sword shall devour flesh; and that with the blood of the slain and of the captives, from the beginning of revenges upon the enemy.

43. Rejoice, O ye nations, with his people: for he will avenge the blood of his servants, and will render vengeance to his adversaries, and will be merciful unto his land, and to his people.