#this could be an olden tapestry
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hello my beautiful mutual. silly goofy little ven for you :)
hello my beautiful lovely mutual !!! this is soo so cute oh my goodness, the little halo of teal behind his head and the floaty braids (!!!!!!)(floaty braid ven that is so 🥺💕) and his :3 :] what a cutie pie. he is having such a good time living his best life
the colors of this are so lively too :o !!
#this could be an olden tapestry#also are those blue flowers on his hat ?? thats very very cute omg#and sorry for !! how late this reply is !!!!!!!!!!#passed out 😭#BUT HOLDS HIM SO SO GENTLE …. the guy ever ….. thank you arson :]#you draw him so roundt its amazing#like his cape shape#and pinchable cheeks and the hat#lantern replies#mutuals !#arson art :]
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Gemstone Megalon & Ozymandias
So, I’ve been toying with the idea that at some point pre-Space Crystal Cordyceps (PSCC), Ozymandias encountered the Seatopians and through them Megalon. And this was at a point when Megalon was relatively more chill towards other Titans (thanks to Seatopia not yet deciding it needed to fuck off entirely from surface affairs), albeit with the caveat that they prove themselves via combat and don’t try to say, convert the Seatopians to their own followings (on pain of being drilled to death) or expose too much about them - again, on pain of drillings.
Suffice it to say, Ozymandias passed with flying colors - but not without coming out with broken limbs, dozens of open wounds, and feeling more tired than he had in centuries. Megalon however didn’t see anything wrong with that, only remarking that it was “THE MARK OF A TRUE WARRIOR”.
And that was how Ozymandias started his odd not-quite-friendship with the literal God of War.
It wasn’t quite a mentorship and it wasn’t exactly the same as the sort of ‘professional’ gatherings between other Titans. It was moreso a very, very, very old elder instructing and guiding a junior - a junior who had only ever believed that Megalon was a myth, a fairytale to spook fledglings until this moment.
He never told his dad or little brother about his meetings with Megalon, still being somewhat naive at that point and being under a sworn oath to leave the Seatopians out of most of the world’s wider affairs, since tensions between the Apes and Godzillasaurus were very much on the rise.
And despite it all, Megalon did enjoy the company of another Titan to teach and tell stories of the olden days to. There was the Light Mother of course, as there always would be, but their differing philosophies had caused them to drift over time. And the Preservers - those designated 'Battra’ by mortals- cared not for anything that wasn’t preserving the world as a whole. Ozymandias was the first time in millennia that Megalon had met someone or some thing that he could impart the wisdom of War and its intricacies upon. Or at least, one who was not of his own people.
Then one day, long after their first meeting, he was taken. Snatched away by a nightmare from the stars. And though Megalon has not and will never weep, for War is ever enduring and the pain of loss everpresent, he still felt like he had lost something then.
And because he is War and War is a constant in all things, he also knew that whilst his friend was not 'dead’ as mortal kind would understand it, the agony he endured would have made any death preferable - his domain stretching across the gulf of time and space to relay the awful feelings that the Space Crystal Cordyceps placed Ozymandias under. And even beyond that, if Megalon focused far enough back, you’d get a whole history of dead or ruined worlds by the predator that was Gigan - a tapestry of insanity woven by a madman.
He naturally never told anyone of course - Seatopia distanced itself from the world above and retreated to untapped depths of the Hollow Earth and he only vaguely knew of Ozymandias’ father and brother from what little he caught during their discussions after battle and philosophy had been spent. To Megalon, they were not those who had faced him and proven their worth, so to him, he couldn’t care less. War takes. That is the nature of the universe.
But the hatred of the loss of someone who could have been a pupil, taken before their time, the rage at the senseless violation of all that he stood for and represented, the sheer hate of a worthy foe being denied their right to a glorious end was still there and that only doubled as the Seatopians slowly began to become one with their God.
This incidentally probably added to the fury he assaulted the world with post-awakening.
When SpaceGodzilla arrives, Megalon is likely amongst the first to respond. Not because of protecting the surface-dwellers, or defending territory. But to simply grant a proper death to a worthy warrior who deserved far better than to become a slave to a parasite.
---
Man, as if Ozymandias being taken by Gigan’s fleet and the SCC couldn’t be any more of a loss, here comes MEGALON! This also nicely gives the big ol’ bug more depth, which I like a lot.
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AI in Supply Chain Management: Streamlining Logistics and Distribution
Once upon a time, in a world not so different from ours, businesses were entangled in the complex web of supply chain management. Picture this: a bustling warehouse filled with stacks of inventory, a logistics manager frantically trying to coordinate with multiple vendors, and a delivery driver navigating through labyrinthine routes. It was a world where chaos was the order of the day, and efficiency was as elusive as a unicorn. Enter Artificial Intelligence, or as I like to call it, the superhero of the supply chain world. With its cape of algorithms and shield of data, AI swooped in to save the day. It promised to untangle the knotted threads of supply chain management and weave them into a seamless tapestry of efficiency and productivity. And boy, did it deliver! Chapter 1: The AI Revolution in Supply Chain Management The story of AI in supply chain management is nothing short of a revolution. It's like the plot of a thrilling movie where the underdog rises to the occasion and changes the course of history. In this case, the underdog is AI, and the history is that of supply chain management. Before the advent of AI, supply chain management was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube in the dark. Businesses had to grapple with unpredictable demand, fluctuating prices, and logistical nightmares. But with AI, it's like someone turned on the lights and handed them the solution. Take the example of a global retail giant. In the pre-AI era, managing their vast supply chain was a Herculean task. Predicting demand was a game of hit and miss, and inventory management was a constant balancing act. But with AI, they were able to accurately forecast demand, optimize inventory, and streamline logistics. The result? Increased efficiency, reduced costs, and happier customers. The revolution didn't stop there. From small businesses to multinational corporations, AI has transformed the way companies manage their supply chains. It's like a magic wand that has conjured up a world of possibilities and opportunities. Chapter 2: The Magic of Predictive Analytics Now, let's dive deeper into the magic of AI, starting with predictive analytics. Imagine having a crystal ball that could predict the future. You could foresee market trends, anticipate customer demands, and plan your inventory accordingly. Sounds like a dream, right? Well, with AI-powered predictive analytics, this dream has become a reality. Let's take a trip down memory lane to the days when businesses relied on historical data and gut instinct to predict demand. It was like trying to hit a bullseye while blindfolded. But with predictive analytics, it's like they've been given a pair of x-ray glasses that can see right through to the bullseye. Consider the case of a popular online fashion retailer. In the past, they struggled with overstocking and understocking issues, leading to lost sales and wasted resources. But with AI, they were able to analyze vast amounts of data, identify patterns, and predict future demand with remarkable accuracy. It's like they had a personal stylist for each customer, who knew exactly what they would want to wear in the future! Chapter 3: The Power of Real-Time Tracking Next on our journey is the realm of real-time tracking. In the olden days, tracking a shipment was like trying to follow a treasure map without the 'X' marking the spot. But with AI, it's like having a GPS that guides you right to the treasure. Real-time tracking is a game-changer in logistics and distribution. It provides businesses with visibility into their supply chain, enabling them to monitor the status of shipments and respond to issues promptly. It's like having a pair of binoculars that can see across continents and oceans. Take the example of a global logistics company. With AI, they were able to track shipments in real-time, predict delays, and proactively inform customers. It's like they had a crystal ball that could foresee obstacles and navigate around them. The result? Improved efficiency, reduced costs, and enhanced customer satisfaction. Chapter 4: The Efficiency of Automated Warehouse Management Now, let's step into the world of warehouses, where AI has brought a wave of efficiency and automation. In the past, managing a warehouse was like playing a game of Tetris with oversized blocks. It required precise coordination, strategic planning, and a touch of luck. But with AI, it's like having a warehouse manager who never sleeps and always knows the best move to make. Imagine a bustling warehouse filled with shelves stacked to the ceiling. In the pre-AI era, workers would spend hours manually searching for items, trying to navigate through a maze of boxes. But with AI-powered automated warehouse management systems, it's like the warehouse has come alive with intelligence. These systems use advanced algorithms to optimize the layout of the warehouse, determine the most efficient routes for picking and packing, and even automate repetitive tasks. It's like having a team of robots that work tirelessly to ensure everything is in its rightful place. A prime example of AI-powered warehouse management is a leading e-commerce company. They implemented AI-driven robots that can navigate the warehouse, locate products, and even assist with packaging. It's like having an army of efficient little helpers who never tire and never make mistakes. The result? Faster order fulfillment, reduced errors, and increased productivity. It's like the warehouse has been injected with a dose of superpowers, transforming it into a well-oiled machine. Chapter 5: The Role of AI in Last Mile Delivery Ah, the last mile delivery—the final leg of the supply chain journey. It's a critical phase where businesses strive to deliver their products to customers' doorsteps with speed and precision. In the past, it was like trying to navigate a maze without a map. But with AI, it's like having a GPS system that knows all the shortcuts. AI has revolutionized last mile delivery by optimizing routes, improving delivery time estimates, and even exploring innovative delivery methods. It's like having a delivery driver who can anticipate traffic jams and take the fastest route possible. Consider the case of a food delivery service. With AI-powered algorithms, they can optimize their delivery routes based on real-time traffic data, weather conditions, and customer preferences. It's like having a delivery superhero who always knows the best way to get from point A to point B. Furthermore, AI enables businesses to explore alternative delivery methods, such as drones or autonomous vehicles. It's like stepping into a sci-fi movie where robots deliver packages to your doorstep. While it may sound futuristic, companies are already experimenting with these technologies to enhance the efficiency of last mile delivery. The result? Faster and more reliable deliveries, delighted customers, and a competitive edge in the market. It's like the final piece of the supply chain puzzle falling perfectly into place. Chapter 6: The Future of AI in Supply Chain Management As we near the end of our journey through the realm of AI in supply chain management, let's take a moment to gaze into the crystal ball and explore the exciting possibilities that lie ahead. The future of AI in supply chain management holds immense promise. It's like opening a treasure chest full of innovative solutions and endless opportunities. Here are a few glimpses into what the future may hold: - Smart Inventory Management: Imagine a world where AI algorithms can predict demand fluctuations, optimize inventory levels, and automatically place orders when supplies are running low. It's like having a supply chain fairy godmother who ensures you never run out of stock and never hold excessive inventory. - Autonomous Supply Chain Networks: Picture a supply chain network where machines communicate with each other, make real-time decisions, and adjust operations to meet demand. It's like a well-choreographed dance where every participant knows their steps and moves in perfect harmony. - Ethical and Sustainable Supply Chains: AI can play a crucial role in promoting ethical practices and sustainability in supply chain management. Imagine algorithms that can trace the origin of raw materials, verify fair labor practices, and ensure environmentally friendly operations. It's like having an AI-powered conscience that guides businesses towards responsible choices. - Collaborative Ecosystems: The future of supply chain management lies in collaboration and partnership. AI can facilitate seamless collaboration between suppliers, manufacturers, distributors, and retailers. It's like a symphony where each player contributes their unique expertise, resulting in a harmonious melody of efficiency and success. Of course, the path to this future is not without challenges. Privacy concerns, data security, and ethical considerations must be addressed to ensure the responsible use of AI in supply chain management. But with proper safeguards and regulations, the potential benefits are boundless. Conclusion In the ever-evolving world of supply chain management, AI has emerged as the catalyst for transformation. It's like a magician's wand that has turned complexity into simplicity, inefficiency into productivity, and chaos into harmony. From predictive analytics to real-time tracking, automated warehouse management to last mile delivery optimization, AI has revolutionized every aspect of the supply chain. And this is just the beginning. The future holds even more exciting possibilities, where AI-driven innovations will shape a new era of supply chain management. So, as we bid farewell to our journey, let us embrace the power of AI and embark on this transformative path together. With AI as our ally, we can streamline logistics, enhance efficiency, and create a supply chain ecosystem that is both resilient and responsive. The future is bright, and the possibilities are endless. Let's seize them with open arms and embrace the AI-powered supply chain revolution. This article was originally published on my blog: https://www.cosgle.com Read the full article
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Hiiiii! Hope you're feeling okay and happy. I love your work!
Could I request a modern vampire au with Feysand, where her blood is not only tasty but an aphrodisiac? 🙂
Bite Me, Prick
Warnings: language, horny vampires I guess?? vampire shenanigans? let’s just say NSFW
AN: Okay, if I’m being entirely honest… I had no idea what to do with this. Vampires are not really my thing. In addition to that I haven’t written smut in a long while and it feels so cringy as I reread it. But I did my best so hopefully you’ll enjoy this, and hopefully you’re still around to see it since this prompt has been in my inbox since July 😅
Smut//4766 words
“Very bad idea, Feyre,” Lucien hissed.
Feyre shot him a glare. “Not my idea, first of all, and second, it’s not like anything bad’s going to happen. I’ll be fine.”
“Sure you will,” Cassian whispered ominously. He was the one who’d first suggested this trip, which had resulted in her being dared her to spend the night in the castle, which was said to be haunted. As if.
Feyre rolled her eyes. “I’m not an idiot. Magical creatures are not hanging around in there. I’ll walk in there, maybe wander around for a bit, then find somewhere to crash. I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Don’t forget, you have to wait until sunrise to come out,” Mor said. They were just making up rules as they went, Feyre was sure of it, but she didn’t argue.
“Fine. Sunrise. See you then.”
Feyre gave the three of them a merry wave, turning and starting down the stone path.
This little escapade probably warranted an explanation. See, in the small village of Velaris, there were certain requirements to becoming a “true citizen.” One of these included going into the Velaris castle and spending the night inside. Beforehand, however, it was tradition for the graduates (people who had already completed the task) to tell ghost stories about the building to the initiates, as Cassian and Mor had done for her and Lucien. Once both were properly frightened—once Lu was scared and Feyre was amused and skeptical—they had conducted The Ritual (played eeny-meeny-miny-moe) to decide which of the two were sentenced to go inside. Lucien had been relieved for it not to be him yet, but worried about Feyre.
Cass and Mor had both already spent the night in the castle, of course, and Feyre could tell from their lack of ability to lie that despite all the stories about ghouls and near-deaths, neither had actually spotted anything remotely terrifying inside.
Which meant that this night would be easy and uneventful.
Little did Feyre know, it would be anything but.
—
The large oak door (seriously, were people in the olden days giant?) opened with a series of loud creaks and groans. Feyre turned as she closed it behind her, and thought she could make out her friends in the distance, on the other side of the long rope bridge she’d crossed to get to the entryway. Knowing they wouldn’t be able to see her, Feyre flipped them off before shutting the door.
She turned. The stone entrance opened immediately to a stone staircase, framed by a stone handrail. Was everything stone? Surely at least wood existed when this castle had been built.
Feyre started up the stairs fearlessly, finding her way to a hallway that split in two directions. Choosing the left at random, Feyre followed the hall for a ways, peering in rooms curiously but sticking to the main hallway so as not to get lost.
After a decent chunk of time, Feyre stumbled upon a dining room made of the same stone but decorated with all sorts of nicknacks displayed on the walls and the grand dining table. The table itself was a sturdy wood with carved chairs surrounding it of the same composition. The table was bare and the room exuded an emptiness that couldn’t be feigned, yet not a speck of dust coated any surfaces.
A blue and silver tapestry hung on the wall on the other side of the table, grand, delicately woven, and containing little figures in some sort of image, too faded for Feyre to make out. It was beautiful.
Feyre pulled out a chair in the middle and sat down. She settled, imagining a grand feast, the type that would have resided here long ago.
The image in Feyre’s head and the sight of the long wooden table had her growing a bit famished. It was late at night, perhaps nearing ten o’clock, so of course she’d already eaten dinner. But suddenly a pit opened in her stomach as she eyed the area. Her stomach growled at the thought.
“I can get you something to eat if you’re hungry.”
Feyre spun around in her seat, a gasp tearing from her mouth.
A man—only a man—leaned casually against the doorframe, dressed in black, his rich, dark skin and flawless features instantly drawing her attention. He didn’t look threatening at all, not with his amused smile or relaxed stance.
“Who are you?” Feyre dared to ask.
The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m Rhys. What might your name be, darling?”
Feyre frowned, knowing she should be wary but somehow only feeling calm and slightly sluggish in his presence. “Feyre.”
“Feyre,” he repeated, tasting the name on his lips. “That’s beautiful.”
Her breath hitched. “Who are you?”
Rhys tilted his head inquiringly. “You already asked that, darling.”
Feyre shook her head. “Not your name. Why are you here?” She got the feeling he wasn’t another twenty-year-old staying the night because his idiot friends dared him to.
“May I sit?” Rhys asked.
Feyre opened her mouth, debating how to respond. “Yes, I suppose.”
Rhys gracefully sauntered over and pulled out the chair next to Feyre. “Let me get you something to eat, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about me.”
Feyre didn’t have a bone in her body that could summon any resistance to his pretty eyes.
Rhys smiled at her apparent lack of opposition. He waved his hand lazily and Feyre’s eyes widened as the table filled with a whole feast, exactly as she’d imagined. A giant sliced turkey sat as the centerpiece, surrounded by mashed potatoes, and soup, and roasted vegetables, and pudding, and all sorts of other fancy foods.
“I.. that’s…” Feyre stuttered. “I wasn’t really that hungry.”
Rhys shrugged, his lips twitching. “Eat however much you want.”
Feyre, half terrified and half intrigued, grabbed an apple. She slowly took a bite, not taking her eyes off of Rhys.
Who was he? What was he? Feyre knew some creatures had magical powers—she’d never been skeptical about their existence, merely their presence in some run-down castle in Velaris—but creature was the last word she’d ever use to describe Rhys. He was a man. A beautiful man.
Rhys smirked as if sensing her thoughts. “I told you I would share. Where should I start?”
Feyre swallowed, ridding herself of both that mouthful of apple and the lump in her throat.
“Are you human?”
Rhys smiled at the question. “No.”
His blatant answer should have frightened Feyre, and it did, but she felt no surprise whatsoever. “What are you, then?”
“What do you think?” Rhys purred, flashing a grin at her. His smile was wide enough for Feyre to notice two fangs inside of his mouth.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Rhys leaned forward. “Do I scare you, darling?”
“Yes,” she answered bluntly.
He smiled again, his eyes crinkling. “You’re very honest.”
“Not really, just a bit stupid.”
Rhys laughed, throwing his head back. It was the most breathtaking thing Feyre had ever seen. “I don’t believe that for one second, Feyre.”
She shrugged mindlessly. “Just out of it, then. My mind feels foggy. Are you making me like this?”
“I wish I could deny it. It’s not intentional; humans merely find me enchanting.”
“You’re awfully full of yourself, huh?” Feyre asked, picking up her apple once more and taking another bite.
Another laugh floated out from Rhys’ delicate lips. “I suppose you could say that.”
“Well?”
“Well what?” Rhys asked.
Feyre squinted. “You said you’d tell me anything I want to know. You can hardly reveal you’re a vampire and expect my curiosity to abate.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in Rhys’ eyes, and Feyre got the feeling he wasn’t often questioned. “Of course, darling. Shoot.”
“Why are you here?” she asked, twisting the apple in her hand.
“I live here,” Rhys said simply.
“But Mor and Cassian—those are my friends—have both been in here, and neither seemed to be telling the truth when they were telling me all their silly ghost stories.”
“I didn’t appear to either of them. I haven’t shown myself in centuries.”
“It must get tiring,” Feyre said, “having your home invaded all the time by a bunch of fools.”
Rhys snorted. “Sometimes. I have fun, though, messing with the so-called fools. Making noises and shadows that leave them screaming. It’s not a bad life.”
Feyre tilted her head. “Why did you appear to me, if you haven’t to anyone else in centuries? I’m nothing special.”
“Now that,” Rhys responded, “is not true. You are very special, Feyre darling.”
She frowned and finished her apple, taking a moment to think that through. She set the core on the table and said, “I suppose I probably have a higher IQ than most of the idiots who pass by here, but I’m not special. Besides, I thought vampires only go after virgins. I’m certainly not that.”
Rhys bent over the table laughing, and the gesture was so human it was hard to remember the fangs. After a moment, he straightened and started speaking, none of the humor gone from his face. “That’s a myth. And I’m not going after anybody. And you are beautiful and intelligent and I’ve been drawn to you since the moment you walked in. Does that satisfy everything?”
“Hmm. I suppose so. Though if you’re not going after me, what are you doing? Don’t you want to suck my blood and murder me or something?”
Rhys’ lips quirked and he appeared to be making an effort not to laugh again. “I have no intention of killing you, darling. Though sucking your blood isn’t something I’m opposed to, if I had your permission.”
Feyre blinked.
“But mostly I’m here to see what you want. I haven’t spoken to a human in a long while.”
“I… what I want?”
Rhys leaned in closer. “What do you want, Feyre?” He lifted his hand, and a shiver ran down Feyre’s spine as his fingers gently caressed her cheek.
She leaned into his touch shamelessly. “I want to walk out of here and not be dead,” she murmured. “If I don’t run now, is that still going to be possible?”
Rhys was so close that his breath fanned across Feyre’s face. “I won’t hurt you. You have my word.”
“What do you want from me?” Feyre asked helplessly as she gravitated toward him, hand coming to rest on his thigh.
“I want to feel something again,” Rhys told her, his voice soft. “I want to touch you.”
“Then touch me.”
Rhys hesitated, but Feyre’s voice was firm. He trailed the fingers on her cheek downward, moving over her neck and down to her shoulder. Feyre was only wearing a t-shirt and leggings—she hadn’t exactly come into this in an evening gown and a full layer of makeup. But Rhys looked at her like she was something to be looked at, touched her skin like it was velvet.
His fingers grazed over her arm and all the way down, until his fingers could wrap around her hand. He gently brought her hand up and pressed his lips against the back of it, the way people used to do in greeting. The feel of his lips, so soft, so warm, so restrained, had Feyre burning up inside, alight with a fire that paved its way downward and set her body aflame.
Feyre gasped and scooted on the chair, desperate to find some relief. Rhys smirked at the motion and leaned in slowly. His lips made contact and gods… He kissed her the way Feyre had always dreamed of being kissed, and it was so refreshing, like a breath of air after years of suffocation.
“Rhys,” she gasped out again his mouth, and that one syllable seemed to snap every ounce of restraint in his body. Rhys moved in, the new angle pushing their mouths together in a deep, dangerous dance as his arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her. Feyre wrapped her legs tightly around him, groaning into the kiss.
She vaguely registered Rhys waving his hand and the feast on the table disappearing. She barely noticed the walk down the hall, too caught up in the way Rhys’ tongue swirled through her mouth.
A door was pushed open and it swung in smoothly. Rhys finally broke the kiss as he walked inside, not a hitch in his step, the picture of ease. Feyre could only see the wall behind him as he glided in, until he set her on the bed and she looked around.
Feyre was lying on a lavish canopy bed cluttered with silk pillows. The walls surrounding her were mainly bare, aside from several smaller tapestries matching the large one in the dining hall. There was a nightstand and a tall, wooden wardrobe. The stone floor was covered with a massive red rug, bordered with gold.
No coffin in sight. No bottles of blood, no victims, no smell of dead bodies.
It was old-fashioned and cozy and sexy and it smelled like money. Rhys waved his hand once more, and candles appeared on the nightstand, bathing the previously dim room in a soft, almost supernatural glow.
And gods, was Feyre ready to be fucked.
Rhys seemed to follow her train of thought with a wicked gleam in his eyes as she tugged her shirt and leggings off. Feyre had almost gone with a sensual leg spread, before realizing leggings probably weren’t the best clothing item for that move. So she stripped down to her underwear, thanking the gods the black, minimally lacy, scant matching bra and panties set was far from the worst thing she could have been wearing.
Rhys stalked toward the bed at a leisurely pace, looking every inch the predator he was. If Feyre’s panties weren’t already soaked, they sure as hell were now.
Rhys smirked and reach for his shirt, pulling it off and revealing a muscled chest and arms. He had looked strong to begin with, and with his shirt off Feyre couldn’t help but wonder if he spent his free time benching in a cellar or something.
His muscles rippled deliciously as he reached for his pants, undoing them and tossing them aside, underwear and all. Leaving him entirely bare.
Feyre whimpered at the practiced unclothing, practically drooling at this point. She played with the strap of her bra, hoping Rhys would hurry the fuck up, but he just smiled and casually climbed onto the bed, making no move to come nearer.
Panting, Feyre breathed, “Rhys.” It was a plea that she was too proud to voice, and she knew they both could hear the desperation in her voice.
He only raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Yes, darling?”
Feyre pouted. “Rhys,” she repeated.
He seemed to take pity on her—for now—and crawled forward, reaching for her. “May I touch you?” he asked, ever the epitome of manners.
Feyre almost whacked him on the head. “If you don’t, there will be problems.”
Rhys laughed, his fangs showing again, and like the foolish slut she was, a wave of desire washed through Feyre at the sight.
Hands already sliding over her body, Rhys moved closer and whispered in her ear, “You’re mine tonight. Do you understand?”
Feyre gasped soundlessly, her head falling back and hands clenching to fists in the sheets. “Yes,” she replied, shakily but with resolve.
That was all Rhys needed. His hand reached behind her and plucked Feyre’s bra off deftly, then reached down and slid her underwear down her legs, tossing it aside.
Feyre could only squeeze her eyes shut as Rhys’ mouth covered hers and one hand delved straight into her folds. She let out a long groan at the feeling of Rhys toying with her clit the way only someone with both experience and arrogance could do. His thumb massaged the sensitive bud of flesh and Feyre whimpered into the kiss.
“Gods, Rhys,” she rasped.
He kissed a line along her jaw. “You feel so good on my fingers. I love the way you sound when I touch you.”
Feyre bit her lip.
Rhys slipped a finger inside of Feyre, and she released an animalistic sound. He started finger-fucking her, adding a couple more fingers to the fray. Feyre clenched around him in pleasure, though not quite enough to come yet. She needed…
“I need more,” Feyre demanded shamelessly.
Rhys smiled smugly. He pulled his fingers from her sex with the most sinful of noises, then brought his hand to his mouth. Feyre almost passed out at the sight. He inserted his fingers into his mouth and sucked and everything went molten.
Feyre wondered what she looked like now. Hair askew, pupils dilated with lust, dripping for a fucking vampire of all things.
“What do you want, darling?” Rhys asked once he was finished licking his fingers clean of her juices. “Tell me.”
“I want your cock,” Feyre demanded. “I want you in me.”
“That can be arranged,” Rhys replied, voice smooth and smug. He carefully pushed her backward and hovered over Feyre, bracing his hands on either side of her face. His cock slid over Feyre’s folds in the most teasing, edging way before—
“And I want you to bite me.”
Rhys was solid stone above her. “Feyre.”
“I want you to. I give you permission.”
“Are you positive?” he asked. His voice had taken on a dangerous tone.
“Do it.” Rhys just stared at her. “Please,” Feyre added.
Rhys replied with his movements. He slid into her in one slow, sensual thrust. At the same time, Rhys brought his mouth to Feyre’s neck, his fangs out and sliding along her bared throat. She arched her neck impossibly far, giving him more access.
Feyre moaned listlessly, so lost in the pleasure of being filled up that she nearly didn’t realize Rhys’ teeth were scraping along her neck until he applied pressure, and suddenly there were too many sensations for Feyre.
“Oh!” she cried, writhing beneath Rhys. His tongue flicked out and pressed against her skin as his teeth pierced. Feyre whimpered in pure, unadulterated please, back arching.
Rhys groaned too, seemingly lost in the haze of pleasure. He lazily thrust into her as he rested against Feyre’s neck. The erratic huffs of his breath, all bouncing off Feyre’s neck, coupled with Feyre’s panting, occupied the room, the floor, the whole damn castle, it felt like.
Rhys bit harder, adding a deep sense of painful rapture to Feyre’s plethora of sensations with a low groan and that did it for Feyre. She yelled as release crashed over her, shaking her to the very core with the tang of blood flavoring the air.
Rhys wasn’t finished. His hands went to her wrists, pinning them to the bed. He finally withdrew his teeth from her neck and Feyre whined at the feeling. She bucked her hips, no more satiated than before her orgasm, ever turned on by the intoxication of being pounded into by Rhys.
His fingers tightened their grip around Feyre’s wrists and she started cursing as she realized blood—her blood—was dripping from Rhys’ mouth.
“Fucking hell,” Feyre hissed as Rhys’ tongue darted out and applied a gentle pressure to the wound. She dragged his mouth back to her own after wrestling her hands free, groaning at the taste of iron.
Spurred on and taken over by a desire to demand and command, Feyre said, “Stop. I want to try something.”
Rhys measured her words first to make sure she was still comfortable, then pulled out, leaving Feyre wet and impossibly empty. He leaned back and raised his eyebrow, a challenge if Feyre ever saw one.
She smiled prettily. “I’ve always wanted to taste vampire cock.”
Rhys grinned wickedly. “Have you really?”
Feyre laughed. “Okay, no. This is a new thing. Still.”
Rhys chuckled, and the deep sound was enough to have Feyre taking a deep breath to restrain herself from reaching for her own pussy.
Ignoring the amusement in Rhys’ eyes as he observed the way her body reacted, Feyre fluttered her eyelashes daintily. “Don’t look so fucking entertained,” she said. “I think you’d rather like the sight of me playing with myself in front of you, coming undone just for you.”
Rhys growled, and a chill ran down Feyre’s spine at the clearly inhuman sound. “I’ve spent long enough watching. I want to touch. I want to be touched.”
The command was clear enough. Struggling to maintain the dominance that had racked her body before, instead longing to crumple under his dark gaze, Feyre leaned forward. She repositioned herself to be on her stomach, held up by her elbows.
“How would you like me?” Feyre rasped. “Like this?” She lowered her head and licked a stripe up Rhys’ cock, the long appendage she’d been ignoring throughout their conversation in favor of not begging him to start fucking her again.
Rhys growled once more, arousal flowing through Feyre’s veins in synchronicity with her blood. The blood that Rhys enjoyed so thoroughly.
“More,” he barked in response, the single word much, much more of an order than a plea.
Feyre smiled. “Or what about this?” She closed her mouth around his tip without warning, sucking hard on the sensitive area before releasing him.
“Feyre,” he warned.
She just gave his a questioning look, pretending not to understand how she was playing with fire. As if it was possible not to.
Feyre placed a gentle kiss on Rhys’ tip, and she knew the action would get the desired effect: Rhys groaning and growling and reaching for her hair to grab. He got his fingers wrapped around a thick handful of her brown locks and he tugged her forward. “I wasn’t asking,” he snapped.
Feyre just smiled as he held her head where it was, close to where he needed but far enough that he could still berate her before she got to work. She licked her lips and Rhys’ eyes darted to the movement.
“Now tell me, darling,” came Rhys’ voice, something that could slice the very air around them. “Tell me if we’re going to do this the easy way or the hard way.” His grip tightened, tugging Feyre’s scalp deliciously.
She was nothing if not stubborn. “I don’t like doing things the easy way. Why don’t you make me.”
There wasn’t much more Rhys needed to hear. He tugged her head closer and closer to his thick length, Feyre pressing her thighs together in anticipation.
Feyre could only moan as her mouth was forced onto Rhys’ cock, the sinful desires coursing through her painfully mortal body too much for her. She immediately started bobbing her mouth, taking in as much of him as she could get then pulling back, repeating the process before Rhys could grow impatient. His hand didn’t stray from her hair, and his grip lessened none, but he didn’t bother taking over yet, not as she eagerly repaid Rhys for his generous hospitality.
Feyre felt his tip hit the back of her throat and he released a groan. She gagged slightly, unused to so much. She’d slept with plenty of men, but it had never gone down like this, never turned this rough. And rough was certainly the word for it, gods was it as Rhys started fucking Feyre’s mouth, unsatisfied.
All sorts of incomprehensible noises were flowing out of Feyre’s lips, the lips she had wrapped around Rhys, and she could only imagine what the vibrations were doing to him. He was louder than her, louder than most of the men Feyre had been with, and it was driving Feyre crazy.
She relaxed her throat as Rhys’ thrusts got harder and deeper, Feyre gagging on his cock continuously with each thrust. Fighting off the urge to give in entirely, Feyre reached for Rhys’ balls, massaging one delicately. From the progressive heightening in volume as she worked, Feyre decided he rather liked her ministrations.
Wanting to see what it looked like when Rhys came, and wanting to taste him with every ounce of her being, Feyre scraped her teeth along Rhys’ cock as he pumped into her mouth.
But he was having none of that. Rhys yanked Feyre’s head from his cock with a ferocity that scared her in the best way. She was shoved back onto the bed and Rhys lunged before she could so much as beg him for more.
Rhys slid his cock into Feyre. The motion was deep and quick enough to leave her seeing stars, nothing compared to the gentleness he’d portrayed the first time he’d entered her.
Feyre sensually dragged her hands to her breasts, intent on hearing another growl. She flicked her nipple and moaned, but was stopped before she could go any further.
Feyre gasped when Rhys swatted her hands away from her own breasts, instead moving in to take one in his mouth. The shock of his warm mouth laving at her tit was like a push, roughly sending her spirally toward the edge. His fangs made contact with Feyre’s sensitive nipple, the small bud of flesh aching in protest. A shout tore loose from her throat.
Feyre could only relax into the bed, listing each sensation in her head in an effort to keep herself grounded: Rhys’ cock steadily pumping in and out of her slick pussy, Rhys’ teeth scraping and teasing her nipple enough that it would certainly be bruised in the morning, Rhys’ hands, one massaging her other breast and the other at her throat, tracing her pulse point, the spot where Rhys had bitten her before.
All of it was too much, and not enough, and everything at the same time. Feyre had never in her twenty-three years felt such excruciating gratification.
The feeling Feyre chased was gradually building inside of her from everywhere Rhys touched her with his gods-knew-how-many years of experience. A thrill raced through Feyre’s body as that wave crested and coursed through her body. Every limb shook as Feyre screamed.
Apparently the feeling of Feyre clenching on his cock was enough for Rhys as well, for he came with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the castle.
Their combined shouts were probably enough to wake every ancient beast that may reside in the forest. Still twitching limply, Feyre couldn’t even open her eyes, gasping for air. Rhys pulled out of her with a hiss, then started stroking her hair as he collapsed beside her. “You did so well, darling,” he whispered.
Feyre hummed in response, already losing consciousness. She only fell faster when Rhys tugged her closer and changed positions.
Rhys’ slender fingers tracing patterns on Feyre’s bare side, along with the way her body was submerged in the silken sheets and the surprising warmth of his chest sent her to sleep quickly and peacefully. If any night was one to be blessed with deep slumber and sweet dreams, it was this one.
—
The sun was overhead as Feyre took the long walk down the bridge, leaving the castle behind. She felt serene and thoughtful during the trek.
All three of her friends were pacing the length of the path, seemingly agitated. They all lit up at the sight of her. “Feyre! Thank the gods you’re okay!”
Feyre smiled calmly at Mor. “Of course I’m okay.”
“You’re late, Feyre,” Mor replied accusingly. “Hours late. That wasn’t funny whatsoever.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” she said. “I slept in.”
“So no ghosts? No demons?” Lucien asked.
“Nothing bad,” she replied truthfully.
He hesitated. “Quite positive? We thought we heard some… shouts, maybe?”
Feyre almost choked on an embarrassed laugh, but she managed to keep her cool. “I didn’t hear those.” That statement most definitely was a lie.
Cassian sighed. “I told you idiots she was fine. You were all worried over nothing.”
“Please,” Mor scoffed. “You were worried too, you just didn’t want to go in.”
“Neither did you,” he retorted.
Mor scowled. “And at least I can own up to that.”
Lucien sent Feyre an exasperated glance, and she got the feeling he’d been dealing with the two of them for a while now. Their little group started down the path toward their homes, Cassian and Mor still bickering, Lucien glaring at them, and Feyre silent. Absolutely, dead silent.
She felt a twinge of sadness as she looked back at the towering castle, thinking of everything that had happened inside, but her longing quickly dissipated as she remembered Rhys’ last words to her, whispered against her ear.
“Feel free to visit anytime you like.”
———
Tag List:
@aelin-bitch-queen
@charlizeed
@emikadreams
@evolving-dreamer
@feysand-loml
@flora-shadowshine
@gracie-rosee
@infernoqueen19
@leiawritesstories
@lemonade-coolattas
@live-the-fangirl-life
@midsizewitch
@morganofthewildfire
@nehemikkele
@realbookloverproblems
@rhysandswingspan
@rowaelinismyotp
@rowanaelinn
@sleeping-and-books
@story-scribbler
@swankii-art-teacher
@the-lonelybarricade
@thebonecarver
@yesdreamblog
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LFRP: Miko Shiroi
(art is/was by @mizusas but she no longer goes by that name so I’m not sure how to credit her otherwise :c )
THE BASICS ––– –
Name: Miko Shiroi
Age: 26
Birthday: 32nd Sun of the First Umbral Moon (February 29th)
Race: Miqo’te, Keeper/Seeker hybrid
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Pansexual
Marital Status: Single
Server: Balmung (but will world visit!)
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE ––– –
Hair: White, Semi-curly / Worn in a long, thick braid over his left shoulder
Eyes: Medium Violet, shift to various shades
Build: Smooth, Lithe
Distinguishing Marks: Small puncture wound on upper, right lip (barely visible) / Racial tattoos around eyes / makeup stripes applied on cheeks / Red-orange eye-shadow / Henna tattoos (changing, applied daily)
Common Clothing/Accessories: Kimonos, Clothing of Hingan Descent, Robes, Light Colors
PERSONAL ––– –
Profession: Courtesan
Hobbies: Calligraphy, Pan Flute, Reading (particularly romance novels), Writing, Modeling
Languages: Common, Hingan, Doman
Birthplace: The Black Shroud
Current Residence: The Wanderer’s Elysium (Keeper’s Kiss)
Religious Beliefs: The Twelve (particularly Menphina)
RELATIONSHIPS ––– -
Spouse: N/A
Children: Given his occupation, he surely has them but he doesn’t personally know them.
Parents: Unknown
Siblings: Unknown
Other Relatives: None of Importance
Pets: N/A
TRAITS ––– -
* Bold your character’s answer.
Extroverted / In Between / Introverted
Disorganized / In Between / Organized
Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded
Calm / In Between / Anxious
Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable
Cautious / In Between / Reckless
Patient / In Between / Impatient
Outspoken / In Between / Reserved
Leader / In Between / Follower
Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic
Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic
Traditional / In Between / Modern
Hard-working / In Between / Lazy
Cultured / In Between / Uncultured
Loyal / In Between / Disloyal
Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION ––– –
Smoking Habit: Hookah (occasionally) Drugs: Rarely Alcohol: Often
RP HOOKS ––– –
Courtesan at Keeper’s Kiss: Self-explanatory! Miko has been with Kiss for many summers and is a regular face. He not only fulfills his duty as a courtesan but has also graced the stage on cabaret nights a few times before. Maybe your character wants to be a client? Maybe they’ve seen him perform before?
Model at Sunsilk Tapestries: Miko has stuck a deal with Rose at the Weaver’s Guild, Sunsilk Tapestries, in Ul’dah. He wears the clothes around and promotes them with his looks and, in the process, gets to keep said clothes. Modeling is something that Miko enjoys doing. He’ll model anything: from the simple to the garish. He loves the attention. Perhaps your character has seen him strutting around Ul’dah?
Priest of the Twelve: You’re thinking: a courtesan AND a priest? How does that work? Surprisingly well, actually! Miko’s upbringing was at a Temple of the Twelve. As such, he took up the trade of being a priest. His patron deity is Menphina. After all, romance is just another nod in the lady of love’s direction. He has his own chapel located in his Ul’dah apartment. In said chapel he officiates renewals of vows, blessing rites, funerals, and most any other ceremony one could think of! Feel free to approach him for any of this!
Mercenary Past: Wanna spice things up and have them already know each other from Miko’s olden days? Great! When Miko first arrived in Eorzea from the outskirts of Doma, he took up the mercenary life along with his ex-lover. He was 19 summers back then. Now, he is 26. Alongside his ax-wielding partner, he supplied the shields and petty healing. Long-story-short, his ex-lover betrayed and attempted to kill him. Now, he looks back on those days as a dark time in his life. So, of course that means you should bring it up! It could prove to be a very interesting time! Maybe your character is also a mercenary and bumped into him at the time? I’d love if someone would do this!
Romance Novel Connoisseur: Is your character an author? Do they write romance novels? Or maybe your character is a fellow lover of romance novels? Miko would absolutely fawn over any accomplished romance novelist or be delighted at getting to talk about his favorite reads!
WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR ––– –
First and foremost, RP partners who are very understanding and flexible with my schedule. I work at a veterinarian and my schedule changes from week-to-week. I am also a college student and starting back to classes beginning August 19th. I’m only taking two classes, so I don’t anticipate them interfering too much. I do enjoy PvE very much and sometimes just want to focus on that, so I’m looking for partners who are understanding that sometimes I’ll just be in the mood to PvE.
All kinds of RP! Slice of life, dark themes, adventure, all of that is great! I am NOT looking for purely sexual RPs. If we start a RP and it happens to go in that direction, then that’s fine! Please flirt with my character! But please don’t have that be the main purpose you want to RP with me.
OOC INFORMATION ––– –
Hey there! My name is Kyle. I’m a 25 year-old trans male. I’ve been rping since I was 12 or so! I’m a very open-minded and friendly individual, so please don’t be afraid to reach out to me! I know those anxiety feels.
I’m a night owl, so usually the times that I’ll be available for RP will be in the afternoon (1pm-6pm or so) during that days that I’m off or the evenings (9pm-1am) during the days that I work.
I’m comfortable with mature/adult themed RPs. Yes, this includes ERP. No, I don’t want all of my RP to be ERP. I want my character to be a well-rounded character.
The best way to contact me is by messaging me in-game or on my discord at 𝓚𝔂𝓵𝓮 ♡ #0819
@crystalxivrp @ffxiv-crystal-rp @mooglemeet
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@whosxafraid {{xx}}
It had been foolish, she knew it the moment she felt the first drops of her life force splash against the sweet grasses and the very real if eerie sensation that even the moss overgrown on root and stone seemed to be holding its breath and leaning in close. But there was little she could do about it. She’d always believed in faery tales. Not the hatred for the unusual and unknown spread throughout the world on the words of the Grimms and others, but the real ones. The ones that spoke of Gods and eldritch things, the warnings of how to treat Them. She remembers why scissors should always be handed with the blades uncrossed, and why horse-shoes were nailed above doors. She knew why milk was left in moonlight, or why you set an extra plate at your table. The names long forgotten lingered on her tongue like cherished childhood friends. Menehune, the little brown crafting folk of her isles, Leaunhaun and Selkie. The Kindly Ones and the Fair Folk.
And mourning her brother by paying visit to his island. Her entire life packed up in an old tatty sea-bag as she hiked the solitary hills hoping to find some sign that he’d finally earned his rest. Camping out beneath the stars cloaked in her terror of night a small sacrifice to pay for such wisdom, or staying at a village inn here and there. And it’d been two nights before when the dream came to her. A great and golden eyed raven whispering of a lost caern. The promise that mortal tithing could give her what she wanted if only she were clever enough to figure it out. When she woke, the feathers were clutched in her hand, and a heaviness sat on her shoulders.
She spent time hovering at the edges of conversations, listening to the aunties and uncles talk of olden days, and she nudged them with a polite question now and again. Took their answers and wove them into an ill-fitting tapestry, using her own knowledge of the Mythic Threads.
And she’d been drawn here. To this place.
What she hadn’t expected was the voice of ancient earth behind her. How the chill of something inexplicable raised the fine hairs along the back of her neck and covered her in goose-flesh from head to toe. She had no cold iron. She hadn’t even her own magick, stilled in her blood, by that very same feeling.
Slowly, she forced herself to turn and glanced fearfully upward at that rogue bit of Wyck standing like a weathered menhir of flesh.
“Uh....some...coffee would be nice?”
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I got a request to do some monster hunter mike x vampire veruca au stuff
I haven’t done a fanfic in YEARS so yea
...
Mike trudged through the mud of the dim woods. The castle he was sent to was very far away from any villages or towns. He felt like he might get lost trying to find it. He started to doubt if it even existed in the first place. Perhaps his fellow hunters were playing a practical joke on him, he thought. He had been sent to kill a vampire, only known as: VS. He’d been told that this hellish monster had been killing people who strayed too far into the castles surrounding woods. Leafless branches from the dead trees scratched his face and hands as he passed through them. It had rained earlier, causing the ground to turn into a dark mush. He pushed his way past the last set of branches, and stumbled into a clearing, almost falling face-first onto the ground. Mike brushed himself off and looked up. There stood the ancient castle, looming above everything around it. Its giant wooden doors only about 20 yards away from him. He raised his black, wooden crossbow and took a defensive stance, ready for whatever dangers that may come his way. Mike slowly made his way up to the doors, looking over his shoulder every couple of seconds.
He took a deep breath before pushing one of the doors open slightly. Peering in, he could only see a couple feet in front of him. He touched the cold stone bricks of the castle before stepping inside, letting his hand slide off as he walked further into the unlit building. The door slammed shut behind him, without him touching it. Mike jumped, pushing his back up against the wall, palms pressed against the bricks.
“Get yourself together, man. It’s just vampire magic.” He thought, then realized, “Shit, the vamp knows I’m here.”
He knew that vampires have minor magic capabilities, and that he shouldn’t be scared- he’s the one with the monster-killing weapon after all.
Grinning, he gripped his crossbow tighter. Except, there is no crossbow. He pat down his weapons belt frantically, but nothing. His main weapon was no longer with him.
“Oh my God… Oh my God, I must’ve dropped it!” he accidentally whispered out loud
Suddenly, about 500 candles flickered to life, all along the edges of the room. The massive chandelier, which hung directly above the middle, became alight only moments later, lighting up the place fully. Mike, still pinned against the wall in fear, stared wide-eyed. On either side of the room, there were two staircases, both leading up to the second story. The floor was grey, besides two red carpets that lead up to the staircases. On the walls were colorful tapestries, dating back to olden times. Mike heard a cough from the second floor. His eyes darted up to the balcony. A young woman, clad in a poofy light pink dress and the furs of various animals, was standing there. She was very pale, with only a small amount of blush on her cheeks. Her wavy blonde hair was pushed back with what appeared to be a headband or tiara. Her hands clasped the wooden railing. She stared at him intently, a neutral expression on her face. She then smiled, showing off her sharp canine teeth.
“This is my vampire!?” he thought
Mikes eyes got wider, and he stood frozen. He wasn’t trained on vampires very much, especially not female ones. Especially not without a weapon. Carefully, and without much noticeable movement, he nudged with his foot until he felt it hit his crossbow. He didn’t dare break eye contact with her, for fear that she would attack.
There was a slight confidence boost he felt from finding his weapon. A flurry of smoke enveloped her, and Mike took the opportunity to swiftly grab the crossbow from the ground. A second later, she appeared in front of him. With his arms at his sides, she didn’t notice the weapon in his hand. She leaned in close to him, arms behind her back. She seemed to be studying him.
“Veruca.” She said blankly
Mike slowly raised the crossbow up to chest-level, his hands shaking. He didn’t know what “Veruca” meant, and in that moment, he didn’t care. He was scared out of his mind. What is this woman doing? He thought
The vampire looked down and realized what was happening. She took four steps back, she put her hands halfway in the air with a terrified look on her face.
“I-I, What?”
“Y-y-you’ve killed p-people.” Mike stuttered, half a statement and half a question
She gasped; “Untrue! I have never!”, She waves her hands in panic, “I have never killed anyone!”
There was fear and a subtle sadness in her eyes. She locked eyes with Mike, a pleading look on her.
“You must believe me, I’ve haven’t done wrong!” she begs
Mike doesn’t move, but his eyes looked down toward the crossbow. The vampire sighed and closed her eyes, recognizing that she is essentially cornered.
“If I cannot convince you, then do what you must. I knew this day would come, eventually.”
A solid 10 seconds went by in silence. Mike glanced down, and then at Veruca, and back and forth several times. His eye twitched, and suddenly he threw his crossbow down with great force. The tool bounced once with a hard WHACK, then slid for a short distance away from the two.
“I can’t.” he muttered quietly, “I can’t.”
Veruca stood there, dumbfounded. Breaking out of her shock, she took another step back and started to retreat into another tornado of smoke. Mike reacted quickly, lunging out and grabbing her arm. This seemed to stop her teleportation process. She turned to him, surprised.
“Uh…” he said
He leaned in closer to her out of sheer impulse. Unexpectedly, she put a hand on his face pressed her lips against his. She smiled nervously when they pulled away from each other, showing off her fangs again. The smoke began to rise again, and in a matter of seconds, she was gone. Mike wiped his forehead and took a deep breath, trying to catch up with what just happened.
“…So, do you want me to come back?” he shouted into the depths of the castle, not expecting a reply
10 seconds later, Veruca answered faintly; “…I would like it very much.”
Mike laughed awkwardly to himself and picked up his weapon. Unsure of what he what going to tell his boss when he arrived back in town.
#veruca x mike#catcf#fanfic#catcf au#monster hunter x vampire#I guess that's a genre?#veruca salt#mike teavee
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"You make me feel the warmth of a warm soul that caters oneself, lay with me let us watch the cool grey moon and the stars that manage to zoom passed us. You can feel the relaxation of the earth can you feel it baby? Laying on this tapestry as if we could go on a magic carpet ride through the sky like in the fairy tales that have been passed down through the years, seems like a magical time as if those moments have taught us that those wonderful stories surely didnt last long they only were stuck inbetween for those to remember the olden days, we have our story a fascinating romance of a darken love that could last forever getting sunk beneath the surface as your hand is always in mine no matter the way of our emotions that bring us down i know i will sink with you i cannot be left alone here not without you darling."
-Jeremy R. Young
@chill-out-my-brother *
#my poem#original poets on tumblr#deep poetry#soul#dark romance#dark romanticism#true love#true loyalty#fairy tales#a love story
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So I was thinking about the whole "how artists would depict daemons" thing in the HDM world, and I think I came up with something. Daemons of those in olden paintings (manuscripts, tapestries etc) could be painted with a glowing golden line from the Daemon to the person depicting their connection. This could be further emphasized later on in art as the "line" could turn into a rope looping around them both or string tied to them or something completely different!
OOOHOHOHOHOHOHHOHOHO!!!!!!!!!!! I agree that’s so cool
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And dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.
They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away.
And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that they were both happy after a fashion. That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate.
You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song. And the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. I was rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk.
Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves. Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away.
I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the land of Lomar. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the domes of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where I was rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the falls of the tiny Kra. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that I wandered to many cities. And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. For I am Iranon, a singer of songs, he said, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade.
And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.
But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song.
At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests.
I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and the river Nithra, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. And too, I remember the square of moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves.
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For I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city in a fair land?
We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.
And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon.
You shall show me the ways of the granite city, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira.
And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth. I may find Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players.
Were not death more pleasing?
And the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, and the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song.
And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that they were both happy after a fashion. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. The lights of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of marble and beryl.
I like not your face or your voice.
Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate.
Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say.
I am Iranon, a singer of songs, he said, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the land of Lomar. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. And the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Then one night when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai.
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Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties!
Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is so decreed of Fate. In those groves and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. Behold, when I was small like you I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. Behold, when I was small like you I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk.
And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. Let us leave the city of lutes and dancing. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! You are a strange youth, and I like not your face or your voice. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. I am a singer of songs, he said, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade. And the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade.
So Iranon went out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. I sought thee, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood.
It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law. I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not nor turn away. So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. I think not. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and beyond, and I like not your face or your voice. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither should you go and you would sing and have men listen to thee. That night the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. For I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city in a fair land? Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl. Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. And the boy said to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seeks a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again.
And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.
Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city by sunset. I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law. And the boy said to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seeks a far city in a fair land? And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. All here must serve, and song is folly. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure.
And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty.
For I am Iranon, a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. Let us leave the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law. How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra.
And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and the window where I was rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. And glaring, while the lights of the city, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? The words you speak are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Were not death more pleasing? In those groves and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.
Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is so decreed of Fate.
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That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.
That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing.
At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, and the window where I was rocked to sleep. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say.
And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Were not death more pleasing? And the boy said to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seeks a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be the fruits of your toil? On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets.
The words you speak are blasphemy, for the domes of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves. But most of the men of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira.
I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. Were not death more pleasing? But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren.
And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk.
But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is so decreed of Fate. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses.
Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. I old enough to find the way, and thither should you go and you would sing and have men listen to thee. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. And in the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years.
Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and laugh not nor turn away. But I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. That night the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song? At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests.
And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? In those groves and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame.
#H.P. Lovecraft#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Python#Markov chains#1935#The Quest of Iranon#The Quest of Iranon week
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