#tirs lilt

[mystery-salad]

FELLIN REAL HEROIC IN THIS GAME TONIGHT LET'S GO LADIES!!!

[mystery-salad]

YEAAAAAAAAAAAA this is so beautiful, I'm chewing on your art Tirs looks stunningggggggg!!! Always a delight to commission you Vex thank you so much 💜💛

Tirs for @mystery-salad 🥰💖

[teirabhaile-a]

Some basics becuz I'll nOT be making bio & lore any time soon sorry, here go:

Caitriona is a faerie, she's being trained & educated on all sorts of magic & things to help her become a good chieftess. She loves her land & her ppl but she's also very tired a lot of the time becuz of them.

She's 16 years old & 4'8", she's literally 2 apples tall :(

Very regal & elegant with a touch of wilderness, she's tending to her clan she's frolicking in the fields she's haunting the forests she's good-natured but the fey urge to go out and cause a little chaos can't be helped sometimes.

Grey eyes & very very long red hair. Also being a faerie, she's naturally extremely stunning to human eyes.

She can ride horses, she hasn't figured out what weapon works better with her so she's trying a lot of them. She's also training to cast spells and maybe curse your bloodline. She's not a really good musician, but she can lilt her way into anyone's heart.

She's often seen riding a sleek black horse with bright golden eyes. It's, in fact, not a horse. It's a shape-shifting puka who's sworn her loyalty & friendship very long ago. Acts as her personal guardian & ride but also they're best friends. If you want to be Caitriona's friend you have to win the horse's trust first.

teirabhaile "teir abhaile" means go home, think of the Celtic Woman song "Go home, Meiri" cuz it was one of my biggest inspirations when writing cait many years ago. also go listen to Tir na nog by Celtic Woman, FOR THE VIBES!!!!!

Caitriona is autumn!!!!!!!! She's the cloudy days and the thrill of change she's the kind winds & the dying leaves she's the decay & the life that thrive upon it she's the nostalgia & the horror. she's in your walls and she just wants to say hi :>

[emsartwork]

ask dump pt. 2

1. Cinderella is bound to the source of craftsmanship, covering glass and metal found along the french Italian border. Pythia, the major fairy of prophecy is bound to the prophecy source, covering time and divination magics. Mulan is the major fairy of war who was training Nebula to take over before the wizards trapped Tir Nan Og, she has the same source as Nebula in Norway. Vasilisa is the major fairy of transformation, her source deals with change and a little bit of time magic, and can be found deep in a Russian forest. Scheherazade is bound to the source that deals with narratives, connection, and some night related magic, in the desert on the Saudi Arabian Peninsula. Maria “La Muerte’s” is the major fairy of life and death, a uniquely dual source in central America, while this source contains incredible healing powers, it also deals with a magic concerning the soul and for a long time people who encountered it were either spontaneously healed or randomly died if they didn’t have the proper magical protections in place.   @drops-of-moonlights 2. nah, it’s just lynphea. I guess the sun they orbit could be called Marigold? but its def a planet not a moon. 3. about 10 years. 4. Yeah I can do a chart for Male magic users and witches! it wouldn’t look the same as the fairies one lol. Yeah no anybody that tried for sirenix while Daphne was tied to it basically died. I’m still thinking on the religion one.... cus like the great dragon is kind of real??? so is it a faith or a reality or both??? Red fountain is a boys only school and they don’t have any satellite schools. There are lady paladins for sure tho!! The alfea staff are either non-human (paladium and wizgiz) or they are a magic wielding paladin (avalon), or they use fairy transformations(faragonda is actually a nymph and griselda uses enchantix primarily). You can only use one transformation at a time, and the enitial act of transforming uses a lot of power that is sustable only because of the looping connection between the core and the wings(like a car battery) so while a fairy COULD switch between transformations at will, they would be absolutely drained and is they push too far could die. 5. most pick their title based on what spells they like to use. Bloom is tied to the dragon flame so that is predetermined, but she could call herself something else if she wanted to hide it. Stella is also tied to the second sun of solaria through her bloodline, but since she’s half luna she calls herself the fairy of the sun and moon. @nondescriptfrenchfry 6. that is the exact mood i was going for, og pythia is NOT sunshiney lmao 7. It was actually just based on which hand would show the bracelet better lol! @x-i-l-verify 8. Thank you! and youre welcome lol i enjoy drawing the girls @greetings-fiends 9. its possible but not advisable because it messes with the magic users head. Most of the transformations are highly specialized and cannot be used at the same time as another so no the bars would be still be separate. 10. I might try to include the magic of joy just based on the pretty outfits, and food is at least....... a real concept....... but sports and paintix are all kinda boring and don’t seem to serve a purpose. I might try to make greenix a full fledged nature transformation since my version of sophix is just a boosted version of believix lol 11. hmmmm.... i”ll probably end up drawing their nymphix forms but idk if they woudl really need it.... i could see bloom earning it because daphne did, and weirdly maybe flora? idk why tho 12. Yaaasss helia  --Helia’s dads’ would let him paint little doodles on their arms and stuff but Helia used to secretly mix paint into his dads’ food because he “wanted the pretty colors to be inside too” and accidentally gave them food poisoning several times before they figured out what was going on lol @jackiewinters 13. nah. there isn’t really a “standard” wedding, usually it depends on where they live (like if a Lynphean and Zenithian are getting married but they’re living on Lynphea they would do a Lynphean wedding) but if its on magix or in a big mixed races city people pick and choose what ceremonies they want.  14. Yes i will!  15. I FEEL THE POWER OF THE OOOoooOOOOCEAN, CONNECTING WITH THE DEEPEST PART OF MEEeh sirenix is a boring af transformation but the song is an EARWORM @simplychillcakes 16. oh wow, so im not super good with stuff like this but i’ll try my best. Lynpheans have rich soothing voices, usually deeper toned with long pauses. Zenithians are snappy, not because they’re mad, but because they are quick and efficient and taking time to breath isn’t really a concept for them. Melodians vary a lot, but all have a very clear, crisp, almost ringing way of speaking. Solarians are loud and quick, usually mid to high range tones. Dominians speak a lot with their throat (think scotish/israli) and have mid range tones. Andros has a lilting (think japanese....weirdly enough) pattern of speech, and their talking speed varies HEAVILY based on their mood @its-all-about-that-fan 17. so Bloom has the great dragon which might be a natural source or might be more etheral but idk. But she would probably use a flame or lava related source. Stella is almost basically able to use danix because of her family’s reliance on the second sun of solaria, so she would probably use that. Aisha would be a major fairy wind and water, so like a cliffside source. Flora would probably use nature in general(like diana) or specifically a source of trees and forests. Musa would probably use the caves under the golden auditorium, and be the major fairy of sound. Tecna could connect to the core of zenith and be the major fairy of electricity and mechanism.  18. mostly good? like every family has its issues.  musa is close to her dad, and he’s come around to supporting her music career but theres still some unspoken hurt there for both of them. Aisha isn’t super close with her parents, as she’s grown up shes tried to get to know them as people, but she still holds bitterness over them isolating her for most of her childhood.  tecna is, by zenithian standards, outrageously close with her parents, which by other standards is decently close. They can go pretty long with out speaking tho it wouldnt be weird to them.  flora is closer to her mom than her dad, not that she doesn’t love him or anything its just she has more in common with her mom.  Stella loves both her mom and dad, and if its just the two of them with out the other parent she has a great relationship, as soon as radius and luna interact tho Stella ends up feeling torn and hurt and guilty. She’s trying to stop blaming herself but that would release her deep seated anger towards both her parents for putting her through that. Bloom still feels a little awkward with her bio parents, but tries to spend every other week on domino when she’s not on a mission or at alfea. She spends the other week on earth. Mike and Vanessa are always pretty flexible with Bloom’s magical oddities, and they encourage her to spend time on domino. Bloom will always have a place with them, but now that she’s essentially moved out, they’re thinking about adopting another kid. 

[karlaaqualight]

Legend of Zelda: In The Land Of Spirits Ch.1

Please, note that I have never played a Zelda game in my life but I have always been fascinated by its characters. I have become a trash of @figmentforms ’ A Tale of Two Rulers as well as @s-kinnaly , @mintiture , @ridersoftheapocalypse. I thank them all for the inspiration, this is for you guys.

Go check their work, people. Seriously. I apologize for the messy writing and grammar errors. English is not my native language. And it’s quite short.

-Edit-

Post it again because Tumblr. Thanks @mrneighbourlove.

-----o-----

Chapter 1

Okay. Alright…This was the third time he spots the mark on the bark of the tree. I’m officially lost, Kerugan thought with a grunt of annoyance. The jungle was a mass labyrinth of dense bushes and trees, the sun followed him like a lodestar through the tangled heads of the trees. But he couldn’t pick up what time it was.

He has traveled for hours or that seemed. Kerugan suspected that he was walking in circles. Just when thought that had advanced, went to see the mark he has done with one of his daggers. No matter how much he tried, he could not change his way.

A frustrated growl escaped from his mouth. He was confuse, hungry and quite tired. Sighing heavy, he continued his journey. It didn’t pass more than a few minutes when he came to hear male laughing at the distant.

He rapidly approaches to where presumably heard them to find no one. Kerugan frowned. Was he imaging things already? He shouldn’t be surprise if the heat was playing tricks to his mind, it was almost unbearable. Even more so with his Northern attire.

He had felt the heat of Loreidi forests, where his cousin, Queen Luimaya, ruled and he had become accustomed of it by the few times he had visit. But this jungle was like burning oven. Kerugan continued to walk under the shadow of trees towering over him. A sudden cold breeze traveled through the leaves, whispering a secret. Kerugan stops momentarily, his guard up. Listening very carefully.

Watching the sun quickly disappeared behind the clouds as they gather in the sky. The beautiful cocktail-blue shade, with which he arrived to these lands, was beginning to darken into gravel-grey. A pattering soothing sound came to his ears and Kerugan began to walk again, quicken his pace. But not even a drop of water fell. Probably because it had yet to pass the emergent layer of the rainforest.

He was tented to use his magic to either locate or be located by his sister and their men. But he stopped himself. He couldn’t risk attracting the unwanted attention of savages animals or enemies. And something, or someone, was watching him. He could feel it, even before getting separate from Audlin.

The feeling was unnerving but he made no obvious movement or statements about it. Giving the illusion of been oblivious of his watcher. Until he saw a pair of brilliant eyes watch him in the distance, between the raptures of branches and everlasting green leaves.

Kerugan couldn’t make out what it was, but they were hypnotic. As if it was whispering, luring him. He took a few steps towards. It was unwise, but he did it anyway. However, when he turns around Audlin and the group of scouts were gone. And so was the pair of eyes. Now he was in this predicament for his curiosity. He smiled to himself. His sister will never let go of this.

He gave himself the task to look for a shelter, water and food for the time been, because even if Audlin send men to look for him, Kerugan was sure it was going to take a while until they find him.

In the distance, a screaming roar, ragged and terrible. Along with a soft crack of thunder from the sky. A shiver spangled up his back. Whatever it was that thing, it was a big.

Kerugan’s heart began to quicken as the thought of running came to him. The forest was silent, save the sound of rain falling. He waited, crouched on his feet. Again the dreadful roar. It was enough to tell a direction. He plunged through the woods.

He ran like a deer, slipping over and around some obstacles, then ripping through others in his haste. Pearls of rain dropped, soaking his clothes and hair. The sound was like the glassy clinking of a champagne flute, lilting and clear. And soon a sheet of rain passed over him and the sound intensified.

He sped up, leaping a wide gorge, setting a group of startled bats and birds into iridescent flight. He landed gracefully on the other side and touched his daggers and sword, making sure they were still on his back.

Another roar shivered the air, suddenly too loud, too close. Kerugan pulled up short so quickly he nearly lost his balance. He slipped over to a massive tree, where the shadows of the trunk would hide him. He tried to quiet his heaving breaths, flicking a bead of sweat and rain from his eyes. His heart thudded in his ears, drowning out the forest sounds.

He hissed suddenly when a sharp pain traveled through his right hand. He jerked his hand to loosen whatever bit him, quickly looking at the wound. Two small punctures on the back of his hand. The thing fall in the sloppy ground gyrating away through grass and dirty; a snake. Just his luck.

He forced himself to calm down, listening to his heart as it gradually slowed. Good, slow breathing.

And then the ground trembled under her feet. And again. Again.

Something huge was approaching, pounding closer to the other side of the trunk. He lifted his face to the air and his nose flared as his scented the breeze – an antelope, he knew. But only one. It must have been separated from a herd nearby.

Kerugan’s mouth was suddenly dry with fear when a thought came to his mind, and his heart was again in his throat. The coming beast had set a trap for this animal, and he had walked right into it. He pressed his back against the tree trunk, casting about with wide, concern eyes. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breath.

On the other side of the tree, he heard the animal give a startled snort, as it too tasted the air. Perhaps smelling Kerugan, or sensing the approaching predator, the antelope suddenly turned and rushed away. Another thunder strikes, louder this time. Kerugan sighed quietly and stepped away from the tree.

The roar this time shattered the air, left his ears ringing. From around the tree facing Kerugan the predator’s massive armored head emerged. It’s bristling quills from his neck and spinal portion twitched and vibrated, and it turned to look straight at him with eyes red of hate. It was muscular with the height and weight of an adult werewolf, with a massive distensible jaw and long sharp teeth. Its skin burnished in black and dark brown.

He fled as fast as he could, because he noticed with desperation that his breathing changed dramatically and his vision started blurred. The snake was poisonous. He wouldn’t make it that far, but there was even less hope of fighting it. He cursed himself. This trip was full of surprises.

He went lithe through the forest scrambling through roots, dodging through thickets of grass and brambles, trailing a spray of blood where a thorn ripped through his skin. Rushing black monster, closing the distance, bending and splintering trees, smelling blood and meat and fear. It leaped.

Kerugan screamed as the beast’s paw knocked his to the ground. He yanked himself along the ground, gritting his teeth as the behemoth’s giant claws tore gashed down his back. He regained his feet, disoriented, and stumbled forward again, hearing nothing but a high sliding sound of his sword out of his scabbard.

The beast leaped up beside his and swept its armored tail at his back, sending him sprawling again to the ground. He groaned, coughing blood into the dirt, and then he was up again, his sword out of reach.

He heard the beast leap again, felt the breath of his strike, and formed a desperate plan in that instant. The Direnor warrior leaped forward and twisted in the air, throwing two daggers as he fell to the ground. With the daggers stuck on his back, slavering, growling in pain, the dark beast fell from above, dwarfing him. He held another dagger, the burning sensation while gripping it intensified.

The dark beast wrestled, snarling, trying to get Kerugan’s head as the wolf with his left hand strangling and using all his strength to keep it away. The explosive roar shakes his ears when with the dagger pierced the tender area of the beast jugular.

Kerugan twisted the blade to aggravate the wound rolled away as the beast rearing up on its back legs, stumbling from the massive blood lost from his neck. It landed heavily on its feet again and hissed at Kerugan, crest rising and falling. Then it staggered to one side and fell heavily to the ground.

He scrambled away from the body, lightheaded with shock and blood loss. He shook his head and fell to his knees, and all the sound of the rain and his own ragged breathing came back to his ears.

He stared dumbly at the huge creature. He could have defeated it by transforming, but he normally avoids it and uses it as a last resort. He stumbled away, looking repeatedly over his shoulder at the non-breathing monster until it was out of sight.

The beast’s tail had broken something in his back – each step was sharp, bubbling pain. He was bleeding heavily from the slashes in his back, less so from a dozen other wounds. Not to mention his hand was bright red and swelled up where the snake had bite him, the venom burning through his veins. He wanted to stop, at least to heal himself a little.

He moaned when his knees gave in and his shoulder hit a tree, falling to the mud. Then, he saw a figure. Kerugan couldn’t see its face, it was raining too heavily and the hood on its head wasn’t helping. But of what he could distinguish from his clouded vision, he recognized it as a female.

She started walking to him and Kerugan panicked. Was she responsible for the beast’s attack? Was she there to kill him? He could only lie there, threading in and out of consciousness, unable to make himself move. He was weak and so tired.

“Who…?” he said weakly.

The figure didn’t respond. She simply kneel down by Kerugan’s side moving her hand to his head and gently caressing his wet hair. In the way you try to comfort a hurt animal. His heart beat lowered, but not enough to give up…yet.

Eventually, mercifully, unconsciousness claimed him.

[tirmorheir]

"oh I'm sorry, I disturbed you" most wouldn't apologize but Elora always felt bad for doing so. The ring upon her finger sparkled multi coloured as the moonstone glistened within its gold band. The moonstone was a gemstone found frequently within Tir-Mor. She placed the helmet on the table, even in armour there was something ethereal about her, the way the sun hit her hair making it glow like the sun. "I was just wondering if you had any more sleeping drafts?" She asked, plagued with nightmares most nights. "I could have asked Gaius but I wanted to ask you" at the end of the day Merlin was a friend. "I'm also nervous for this ceremony tonight" she was to be crowned officially as a Princess given she was now in her twenties.

"Ask me to command armies,fine.. but this, I do not feel as if I am ready" She admitted giving a small shrug of her shoulders. "My people believed that all life is sacred, even the trees" Blue eyes looked out briefly a small smile forming on her features as she felt the sun upon her face. "In our language we would say Tumnë talmar rahtainë nixenen umir" Elora turned her head again toward Merlin, fiddling a little with the ring. "It means, the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost." Elora rarely spoke her mother tongue if at all, afraid that some would see it as words of magic, for it had the same lilt, but she trusted Merlin more than anyone. "I realise I am no longer that same girl who first entered Camelot, that I am older and supposedly wiser.. but the uncertainty that lies ahead is what I fear most"

@destinedlightt gets another thing

For nine years Elora had been in Camelot where she had learned to grow as both a person and a leader, in both politics and fighting. She had become a formidable opponent, that much had been clear very quickly. Armour had been made specifically, gold detailing in the silver, the sign of a star upon the chest piece, her sword had also been specifically made with gold detailing upon the hilt. She had been known as the evenstar of Tir-Mor, and so Elora wanted that to be clear in her armour too.

She headed toward Gaius and Merlin's chambers, helmet under her arm, long silver blonde waves resting upon her shoulders, piercing blue hues had become wiser throughout the years and yet her beauty was still ever apparent. "Merlin?" Elora called after knocking upon the door, she had grown in height by a good couple of inches, the once girl was now a woman. "Merlin?" Elora called again, unlike Arthur she was fairer to the manservant.

[requiemesque]

drink me & kill me for the ask game

she hates it. this feeling like prey. feet wet with blood and arms scraped raw from abuse of the trees, she swears she will never feel this way again. not if she has to kill every last one of them.

she is haggard and half frozen by the time winter thaws to spring, snow melting to dew that drips from the overhanging branches. the undergrowth no longer tries to trip or ensnare her in its thorns. she does not trust it. she avoids the roses at all cost. it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t know where she is; she is alive. do not touch the roses.

her head aches and her stomach turns, empty for gods know how long. there aren’t any gods here. there aren’t any in the world she was stolen from. she remembers little of that world, but she knows that much.

the light of the sun makes it hard to see. everything spins around her. colors are too bright. scents are too vivid. everything is too much. stopping to rest against a tree, the girl takes a deep breath since she first started running and almost chokes on how sweet the air is. sweat drips down her temple and makes her shirt stick to her back.

“miss? are you alright?”

chi starts upright from sleep, lodging her heart in her throat. when did she fall asleep? fuck.

in an instant she is on her feet, staggering as the hunting party in front of her tilts an unnerving shade of sideways. there are more of them than she wants to acknowledge, but only two that seem to be of any consequence, males in regalia heading the front of the column. one eyes her with wary disinterest, his hand on the sword at his hip. the soldier. and the second, golden and warm. this male slides down from his horse like melting sunlight, brows drawn beneath a plainly twined circlet. the royal. he frowns, the corners of his mouth soft and bewildered, and steps towards her, hand outstretched.

without sparing it a second thought, chi lunges forward to close the distance between her and the male. hip check—elbow to solar plexus—lock ankles. in seconds, she has the fae’s blade to his throat, her teeth bared. those fawning behind the pennants gasp in dismay, murmurs flitting about them like startled birds. the soldier is halfway to drawing his own sword when the fae she holds captive holds up his palm.

“easy,” he says softly. “can you understand me?”

“unfortunately,” chi spits back, the grating edge of an accent learned in the unseelie icelands in stark contrast to the honey-warm and lilting accent the male possesses. “call off your huntsman.”

“roman.”

the soldier on his horse lets out a low snarl, slamming the hilt of his blade back to its sheath. chi’s grip on her stolen blade grows white. tilting his head to avoid the sword’s cutting edge, the golden fae fixes her with one eye. his irises are the pale green of spring’s first leaf and the honey you’d pour in your tea.

“consider him called off,” he says. “can you give me a name to call you by?”

chi stiffens. the blade angles up. do not touch the roses. do not make a promise. do not give a name.

the male fae clicks his tongue and tilts his neck. of all things to do next, he laughs. how does laughter sound like rain? fae magic makes no sense.

“i’m not going to take your name,” he says gently. “i give you my word that you will not end up a slave in my court—is that enough to get you to lower your weapon?”

holding the weapon is tiresome. her wrist aches and her fingers have begun to tremble. but contracts mean everything to the fae.

she mutters a curse and steps sharply away. she does not put down the sword. she does not give a name.

but, that is enough for the fae. he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before turning to face her again. chi takes a wary step back and flexes her trembling fingers around the hilt of her stolen sword.

“come now.” the golden fae holds his hands out in a plaintive gesture. “the least you can do after holding me with my own blade is to introduce yourself properly, right? doesn’t neven have to be a true name, bambi. just something so i can address you properly, hm? if you give me a name to call you by, i will give you a name to call me by, and neither of us will keep power over the other, by my word.”

shifting on her feet, chi winces, fresh blades of grass stabbing into the raw pads of her feet. her tongue is thick and dry in her mouth. her vision dances with flashes of light that are not all will-o-the-wisps from the forest.

against her better judgement, her name falls like snow from her lips, “chi,” just a whisper in silence she wishes she and the creatures before her would choke on. “i don’t trust the word of fae.”

the huntsman curls his lip, but the male in the crown merely smiles tightly. “no.” his eyes fall to the blood leaking into the grass, the raw wounds on her arms, the wintered exhaustion in her eyes. “i don’t suppose you would. it is a pleasure to meet you, chi.” inclining his head, mael presses his hand to his chest in a bow. “your heart is racing,” he says to the leaves at his feet, vaguely amused. “how long have you been running, chi?”

“not long enough.” there is a deep ache in her bones, her toes cold and cramped.

“it won’t ever be enough,” the huntsman speaks up, meeting her glare with an equally frigid silver stare. “you will be hunted to the ends of this world and yours if you persist on your own. the winter court does not forgive easily.” he narrows his eyes when she opens her mouth, silencing her snarl before it leaves her throat. “the smell of blood and snow is all over you. you are not one of my lord’s court, human or elsewise. you would do well to pick a side.”

chi stiffens, and mael straightens from his bow. he gives his silver companion a wearied look, shaking his head, before turning back to chi. there is pity in his eyes. she wants to gouge them out.

“you must be tired,” is all he says. “can i offer you a drink?”

“no.”

“can i suggest one, then?” mael purses his lips and holds out his hand to the huntsman who, with a roll of his eyes, unfastens the wineskin from his hip and holds it out to his king. “this realm’s climate is far different than tir na nÒg. even were it not for  the running you have done, your human body will dehydrate faster here if you are not used to the heat. so please, have a drink from one friend to another?”

he holds out the wineskin to her. chi bares her teeth and takes half a step back. her knee locks; she catches herself against a tree, carving her nails into the bark to keep from falling.

“we aren’t friends,” she says hoarsely.

“as a favor, then,” mael offers, eyes bright. “take a drink as a favor to me—then i will owe you a favor of similar magnitude in turn, isn’t that so?” the huntsman stares at him, agape, and chi cuts her eyes from the wine to the crowned man. to garner a favor from the king of the seelie court? that is tempting. too tempting. it tasted like a trap.

“why would a king want to owe me a favor over some poisoned wine?” chi wrinkles her nose and curls her fingers tighter against the tree. “i told you, i don’t trust fae.”

the hunting party behind the pennants stirs restlessly. mael exhales through his nose and rubs at his temple—she’s never seen a faerie act so human. even his huntsman still sits with unnervingly still grace on his horse, his sword-edged chin tilted haughtily. mael, though, uncaps the wineskin and tips it back against his lips. she watches a line of golden liquid drip down from the corner of his mouth, feels an unsettling urge to lean in and lick it up, and distracts herself with the fascinating roll of his throat as he swallows.

“it’s safe,” mael says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you have my word. roman would have kept me from drinking if it weren’t.”

the huntsman—roman—mutters something beneath his breath. mael holds out the wineskin. unscapped, chi can smell the fermented fruits inside, the sweetness of the juice. her head swims, and the forest threatens to upend itself again. how long has it been since she had wine? since she had water? since anything? she could choke on the taste of her own tongue.

“your word,” she repeats. “your word that it is safe and that i will not wind up a thrall of your court. now.”

“don’t dare to presume that you—”

holding up his hand to cut roman off, mael nods his head and offers the wineskin to chi once more.

“my word,” he says. “you will be safe, and you will not be made a thrall of my court unless you so choose.”

the words and the wine hang in a tenuous silence. at last, chi takes first one step, then a second forward, hurrying past the pain to snatch the wine from mael and retreat. she means to take it slow. she means to take only a single drink. she does not mean to upend the wineskin, lukewarm ambrosia spilling past her lips and staining her cheeks. god she’s never tated anything so good. if sunlight were a fruit—no if fruit were the sun. if life were a drink. she drinks greedily, swelling with the golden taste, the warmth, the…the…

her fingers seize around the wineskin’s neck. with a choking noise, she drops the drink and falls to her knees. as if she were no heavier than a falling feather, a firm arm catches her at the ribs, cradling her against a warm and solid chest. she cannot feel her tongue. her spine feels foreign. what is skin.

“you…gave …word.” the words lurch out of her chest; breathing is a monumental effort, like inhaling dust or glitter instead of air.

“i did,” mael says softly, scooping her up as her vision wavers, “and i’ve kept it. you will be safe. this was the only way i could be sure. sleep, bambi. i haven’t lied.”

liar, chi wants to say, but she cannot even summon the energy to open her eyes anymore. the fae cannot be trusted.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 6

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 3695 CW: None Chapter summary: In the middle of the night, word comes to Highever of an ambush Chapter pairings: None

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Third day of Guardian, Wintersend morning, 9:32 Dragon

The dog’s eyes shuddered in his sleep. He was splayed across the foot of the canopy bed – his designated spot since growing too large to cuddle against his mistress’ shoulder. Even in deepest slumber he guarded her against harm, his ears restless as he filtered the sounds of the castle about him, from his mistress’ deep, even breaths to the hiss of embers in the grate and the rattle of rain on the faraway roof. Everything was as it should be. A log in the fire sparked, jolting the dog from his doze, but when nothing came of the sound he allowed himself to settle back, stretching out his paws with a doggy sigh as his wide, blunt head found a convenient pillow on his mistress’ calves. By morning her feet would be numb from a lack of circulation, but she wouldn’t mind so long as he was comfortable.

A new sound alerted him. Voices, approaching the atrium that served the whole family; one, he had known since puppyhood, but the other was unfamiliar, rasping and urgent in its inflections. In one smooth wave the dog’s hackles stood on end along his back, and his war-rage stirred the air in the pit of his lungs, pushing it through his throat in a growl that could turn a charging horse. The warning reverberated in the night-time quiet, finally waking the woman whose poor senses had so far kept her oblivious to the danger. He growled again, louder, but it did not receive the attention he wanted.

“Cuno, go back t’ sleep. ‘s just Marcena lighting the fires.” And she rolled over with a grunt, intent only on ignoring him.

Cuno huffed. It was not the first time this had happened.

The voices stopped outside the chamber door, their argument muted by the early hour but no less venomous, and the potential threat in them could not be ignored. Stiff-legged, the dog hopped off the bed with a low wuff and marched to the door. A draught breathed through the crack, bringing a cloud of odours to his nose: cold, wet, hunting smells that had no business being inside the castle. It only made the growl rumble louder in his chest.

“Maker’s breath, Dog.”

Rosslyn had finally sat up in her nest of winter furs, rubbing one hand down the side of her face as she cursed and tried to locate her slippers in the dark. Cuno watched her fumble from his position by the door, wagging his stub of a tail in encouragement even as his muzzle twitched towards the intruders in the beginnings of a snarl.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled. One arm of her dressing gown still trailed on the floor from the struggle of putting it on and having to walk at the same time. “I swear, if this is about Oriana’s cat again, I’m going to -”

Her hand stilled on the doorknob, all traces of sleep drained away as she picked out the argument in the corridor.

“For the last time, my lady is sleeping. You are not to disturb her!”

“If she’s sleeping, wake her up.”

“Lower your voice, churl. Any news you have can wait until morning.”

“I will not be diverted by a mere house servant. I come from the Teyrn himself. Wake the lady up.”

Graela’s indignant retort was lost as Cuno chuffed, his nose keen against the crack in the door, bristling with offence at the alien smells in his domain.

“Easy there,” Rosslyn muttered, as much to calm her dog as her own racing mind. She pulled her dressing gown close around her shoulders and wound her fingers into the loose skin at his neck. “Let’s see what’s going on, first.”

The dog groaned in complaint but stepped back obediently.

“Good boy.”

As Rosslyn hauled open the door, the two arguers faltered, frozen mid-sentence with shock at being interrupted until decorum reasserted itself and the both dropped into hasty, repentant bows. Cuno padded officiously past her so he could sniff the stranger’s boots, his head held at an imperious angle as if the entire scene were beneath his dignity.

Graela recovered first and had already begun lilting apologies, but Rosslyn’s gaze never wavered from the messenger, who hadn’t changed out of her travel-stained surcoat or cleaned the mud from her boots – or waited until morning to deliver her news.

“You come from my father?”

The messenger’s cheeks, flushed with colour from the cold, darkened further at such direct scrutiny, so that her birch-blonde hair stood in starker contrast to her brown skin. Though she looked human, the woman had elven ancestry, judging by the unusual paleness of her eyes and the fine angle of her cheeks, which might explain Graela’s particular hostility.

“I – yes, my lady. Glenlough has been ransacked.”

Rosslyn felt the blood drain out of her face. “Ransacked?” She knew Glenlough from her studies, could picture it perfectly on the map of her family’s lands that she had been taught to know since infancy. It was a settlement in the teyrnir’s heartland, too large for a village but too small to properly be called a town, that owed its prosperity to the Culodhne Road, which transported raw materials from the wool industry and a smattering of open cast mines rich in volcanic aurum. Its wealth made a tempting target for raiders, but its size and fortifications should have discouraged any but the most reckless attack. For it to have been completely destroyed – without even a call for help…

“How long ago?”

“No more than a few days, my lady,” came the reply. “We found the Vale envoy station burned to the ground two days ago, so His Lordship asked us to scout the land ahead for the culprits. When we found armed men camped in the town, they attacked us. Only a few made it back. He sent three riders to seek the aid of Arl Howe, and me and two others back here while he went on ahead, so we could warn you.”

“Where are the other two riders now?” Rosslyn asked. She felt her nails dig into her palms and knew there would be crescent-shaped bruises there later.

The messenger squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to fend off a bright light. “They’re dead, my lady,” she croaked. “We were ambushed along the road and they… they held back to buy me the time to get to you.”

Rosslyn swallowed. She had always been taught to respect the soldiers under her command, the people who went out onto a battlefield and died on trust that it would be for a greater purpose, but until that moment it had always been an abstract concept. It hadn’t been real. Hesitantly, she stretched out her hand to clasp the messenger’s shoulder. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she let go and turned to Graela, who was trying to demurely conceal a yawn behind her hand.

“Wake my mother,” Rosslyn commanded.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then send for Aldous, Ser Gilmore, and Masters Tolly and Canavan. I wish to see them all in my father’s study without delay.”

“At once.”

“What is your name, Lieutenant?” she asked when her maid curtsied and slipped away.

“Morrence, my lady. Ada Morrence,” the messenger replied, still astounded that one so high-born had actually touched her, sodden armour and all.

Rosslyn nodded, already sweeping towards the stairs. “Come with me.”

Morrence shook herself out of her daze and jogged to catch up. The lady’s legs were longer than hers, and every so often she had to take a ridiculous hop forwards to avoid being left behind, but did not dare ask for a slower pace. Beneath the loose cotton sleep clothes, fur slippers, and embroidered robe of luxuriant Highever felt – materials costlier than any her father, a tailor, had ever been trusted with – the teyrn’s daughter walked with the powerful stride of a general in full armour, her eyes fixed rigidly ahead, black hair feathered back over her shoulders by the force of her march.

As they continued down into the public section of the castle, Morrence realised her mistake; the balled fists and straining neck weren’t the manifestation of a daughter’s anxiety for her father, but the opposite. Rosslyn’s was the alertness of a courser after a hare. She was excited.

They turned the final corner into the teyrn’s study, where a whirl of servants still in nightclothes busied themselves opening the room. Flames already blazed in the fireplace, throwing warmth and light onto the stacks of papers and books that had been moved off the desk to make way for a map of Highever so large it filled an entire druffalo hide. Two chamberlains held it flat while a third pressed bronze paperweights onto each corner to prevent it from rolling back up. Across the room, still others had set up a trestle table and were laying it with bread, butter, cold meats, and fruit in case anyone should get hungry.

Morrence stumbled to a halt in the doorway, mouth agape, until a page carrying a teak chest under his arm irritably told her to move. Not even professional soldiers achieved such a level of organised chaos, and certainly not without a staff sergeant barking orders, and yet these people, who had surely been fast asleep not half an hour before, seemed telepathic in the way they bustled about, almost but not quite colliding.

Rosslyn, who had cut through the mob with the grace of a swan through weeds, glanced over her shoulder and noticed the nonplussed expression on the messenger’s face, and beckoned her over.

“Can you mark our army’s position on this map?” she asked. “And that of the enemy?”

Morrence nodded. The same page who had been rude to her before stepped forward, offering the now-open chest, which contained a selection of small wooden blocks, almost like children’s toys. Half were blue, stamped with the Laurels, while the rest were dyed black and bore no mark at all. All too aware of the stern gazes on her back, she wasted no time arranging the tiles to reflect what she had seen on the road.

“I can’t be entirely sure about these units here,” she explained sheepishly. “And this information is a number of days old now.”

“Nevertheless, thank you,” Rosslyn replied, her arms folded as she surveyed the map. “There’s a few moments yet before the others arrive,” she added, nodding towards the trestle in the corner. “Rest, eat something.”

“Oh no, my lady, there’s no need, I -”

“The night is not yet over, and I may still have need of you,” the lady interrupted. “Besides which, there’s nothing more for you to do right now. Take the opportunity while it’s available.”

“But… uhm. Yes, my lady.”

As it turned out, there was little time to savour or even swallow the food. One by one the people Rosslyn had sent for arrived, in various states of dishevelment. First came the Teyrna, wrapped in furs to keep away the chill, her face drawn into deep lines of worry. She embraced her daughter, asking for details, but Rosslyn remained firm that she would wait until everyone had gathered to avoid repetition of the facts. And in they came, first the teyrn’s elderly chamberlain, already with quill to paper, followed by the castle’s horse and arms masters, their uniforms crisp despite the early hour. Last to arrive was Ser Gilmore, who flushed crimson at the sight of his liege’s daughter standing before him in nothing but her nightclothes.

“Oh don’t start that,” she snapped when he started to protest. “This is important.” She signalled to Morrence and the messenger stepped forward to relay everything she had seen.

“Seems to me Glenlough is nothing more than bait to a trap,” sniffed Canavan, the grizzled arms master, when she had finished. “There’s other places with more gold, that in’t along the main road.”

The rather portly Master Tolly grunted. “Bandits don’t destroy towns so utterly. Too much risk involved. They raid, they burn the odd farmhouse, but this – this was to send a message.”

“Indeed,” Eleanor replied darkly. “However, it would help to know who would go to such barbaric lengths to get my husband’s attention.”

“Th-they bore no standard, your ladyship,” Morrence stammered from her place at the end of the table. “Any who did get close enough to see got shot down.”

“They’re a threat. That’s all that matters.”

All eyes turned to Rosslyn. She had straightened, the set of her shoulders an exact, unconscious echo of her father’s.

“Whoever these men are, they have murdered innocents within our borders, and they tried very hard to make sure nobody here would know about it.” Her eyes blazed a challenge at each of them in turn. “Why?”

“An ambush,” Gilmore answered, his gaze on the map. “They want to make sure no reinforcements arrive.”

The arms master hummed her agreement. “This’d be Loghain’s doing, somehow, wanting to take his opponent’s biggest supporter off the board. No militia matches Highever’s for training or equipment.”

“Then we have to stop him.” Rosslyn’s tone was mild, but her hands had curled into fists on the edge of the table.

Of them all, Eleanor knew best what that meant, and her heart constricted. “Daughter…”

“These tiles show where Highever’s forces were early yesterday, still a good distance from Glenlough. I know my father – he would wait for a full day before launching an attack on a stronghold like this – which means as of now, he hasn’t made his move, and that means there’s still time for us to help him. But only if we move quickly.” Rosslyn forced a calming breath into her lungs and looked up expectantly.

“How?” Tolly eventually asked into the uneasy silence.

“The cavalry is still here,” Rosslyn reminded him. “Any other force would be too slow.”

“But – but they still lack training!” he spluttered in reply. “Most learned to ride barely three weeks ago! And who would lead them? Commander Anthras won’t be here until next week, and -”

Rosslyn drew herself up to her full, considerable height. “Master Tolly, as the highest ranking cavalry officer left in Highever, and the only one with battle experience, I am returning to you your old rank of Captain.” Her tone allowed no argument. “Have your troopers ready to leave in two hours, travelling light. We must reach Glenlough with all speed we can muster.”

The newly promoted captain opened his mouth to argue, his jowls quivering, but she cut across him before he could organise the pattern of his thoughts.

“They’re the only force that may stand in the way of our army being wiped out, my father and brother along with them.” She grinned. “I know you can do this, Tolly, I have faith in you, and your abilities. You taught me to ride, remember? If you can do that, you can do anything.”

Defeated, Tolly sighed. Over the hill he might be, his bones cracking with every movement, but he remembered how it felt to charge forth with his sword held high and his throat bursting with a battle cry. He raised his chin.

“It will take at least a day and a half to reach Glenlough if we are to pace ourselves ready to fight,” he informed her. “What if the battle is already lost?”

Rosslyn’s smile turned feral. “Then our enemy had better pray their injuries are not too grave to face a second one. Lieutenant Morrence, can I count on you to guide us?”

Morrence jumped at being directly addressed. “Uh, yes, my lady. Of course.”

“Thank you. Go with Tolly to see to oversee the preparations.”

“I’ll get going as well,” the arms master grumbled. “I’ll open the armoury for your lads, and call out the guard for drills. If some bugger wants to come and play Capture the Flag, we’ll be ready for them.”

“Good to hear.”

The door swung shut behind the arms master with a clap that seemed to take all other sound with it. Despite the cold seeping through the stone, the air in the teyrn’s study felt close, crackling like an August afternoon brewing with storm clouds on the horizon. Rosslyn’s gaze returned determinedly to the map before her, but not even she could fool herself that she was finalising strategy. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her.

“You’re not going,” Eleanor told her quietly.

Rosslyn ignored her. “Gilmore, I’m leaving you in charge of the garrison here. Have the city watch alerted, and whatever steps can be taken for a siege in the next few days, see that they are done. As soon as possible, send a message to Bann Teagan at West Hill and have him bring his forces east. We need to be prepared.”

Gilmore swallowed, his sight darting between the two women as he tried to work out whose side he should take in the coming argument.

The Teyrna’s patience snapped. “Rosslyn!”

“There’s no one else, Mother,” came the tired reply. “Tolly has no experience as a battle commander.”

“And you do?”

“Ross- my lady,” Gilmore interjected with nervous cough. “I beg you to listen to your lady mother. Let Captain Tolly and the lieutenant go.”

Scowling, Rosslyn shook her head. “We have few enough officers as it is. It must be me.” She turned to face her mother at last, only to quail under her long, hard look and the downward turn of her mouth.

“Leave us,” the Teyrna ordered Gilmore. “Go to your duties. Now,” she added, when the young knight stepped forward as if to argue.

He froze, halted by the icy tome of command, as his training had taught him. For an instant he struggled, but having been dismissed, he might as well fade into thin air for all the attention he would get. With reluctance, he bowed and turned smartly on his heel, casting one last look backwards at Rosslyn as he marched from the study. She stood with her hair tumbling over one shoulder, arms folded and feet planted, without any trace of the girl he used to play with, who joked with him in the sparring ring and told all her secrets; she had grown out of his reach, and he could no longer protect her.

“So,” Eleanor pressed when only the two of them remained. “It appears you’re getting your wish. You get to go to war after all.”

“Mother…” Rosslyn bit down on her argument. “I have to do this.”

“No you don’t,” came the weary reply. “And yet, there’s too much of both of us in you to ever think you would just sit quietly behind. I had hoped you wouldn’t be swept up in war.”

“You were, once.” Rosslyn took a step closer to her mother, hardly daring to breathe. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“Would you change your mind if I did?”

“No.”

A bittersweet smile touched Eleanor’s lips. “I wanted you all safe. But we each have our parts to play, and I won’t wail and tear my hair just because life isn’t to my liking.” She scoffed, drawing herself up. “We are Couslands, and we do what must be done.”

Rosslyn felt her eyes prickle. To her, the stories of the Seawolf’s exploits during the Occupation had always been a distant thing, a legend to add to all the others that was fundamentally disconnected from the soft, comforting presence known as ‘Mother’. The woman before her had grown wiry with age, and the stress of recent days had carved ever deeper lines into the high angles of her face, but she remained undaunted, and for the first time Rosslyn was truly able to see Eleanor Mac Eanraig as she had been, the commander of the pirate all Orlesian captains feared. In comparison, she herself was nothing but an eager child still playing with toy swords – a pup, just like her nickname.

She wanted to be more.

“I’ll bring them back. I swear it,” she said, moving to clasp her mother’s hands in reassurance.

“Time is wasting.” Eleanor returned her daughter’s grip, a tight smile hidden in the corners of her eyes. “You’d best go get dressed. Nobody goes to war in their nightwear.”

“I suppose armour would be more practical,” Rosslyn agreed with a smirk.

The two pulled briefly into a hug, and then there was no more room for softness. Rosslyn rolled her shoulders back, fully a head taller than her mother, and, whistling for Cuno to come to heel, marched into the hall, calling for her arms. She failed to notice how her dog paused in the doorway, his head cocked to the side as he looked back at the old woman and saw the pride on her features crumble into pain. He wagged his tail once, twice, but gained no answering relief, so with a whine he turned away and trotted to catch up to his mistress.

In what seemed like no time at all, the long line of cavalry was clattering across the Marl Plain, strung out under the torches they used to light their way, the fire reflected tenfold off harness and mail to create the monstrous illusion of a dragon twisting in the dark. The rain had eased in the preceding hour, rolling off to the south in surrender to the frost and the pinkish glow of Sevuna low on the horizon. Despite the cold and the early hour, the riders whooped and sang to stir themselves for battle, answered by whinnies from their horses. The noise rattled up and down the column and echoed with such force it sparked lights from curious city windows. On the battlements of Castle Cousland, the Teyrna closed her eyes to the clamour. Her head bowed against the wind, which tore at her cloak and the snapping Laurels flying from the gatehouse tower, whittling into her bones. My last child gone. Down beyond the river, bells began to ring as first one chantry tower then another tolled the first hour of Wintersend morning.

[dk-thrive]

Strong one moment, vulnerable the next

YouTube. Early into the performance (1980— A Piece by Pina Bausch), a woman begins to skip around the stage in a large circle, waving a white handkerchief. “I am tir-ed, I am tir-ed,” she chants in a lilting rhythm while Brahms’s Lullaby plays in the background. Round and round she continues as real exhaustion catches up with her. Her chant grows halting, her steps clumsy. Her arm quakes with the effort of holding the handkerchief in the air. Pina Bausch created this work soon after her longtime companion and closest collaborator, Rolf Borzik, died of leukemia. Sometimes we falter not because the ground beneath our feet is unstable but because it’s exhausting to keep moving, to keep trying, to keep performing the same actions again and again.  Strong one moment, vulnerable the next, we falter because we are alive, and with any luck we recover.

~ Kyo Maclear, Birds Art Life: A Year of Observation (Scribner. January, 2017)

[mystery-salad]

Words can not describe how much I LOVE this, look at those two wonderful gals this is so beautiful 💜

don’t let your dreams be dreams~

@mystery-salad has a beautiful salad whomst Rho needed to kiss

[mystery-salad]

How ‘bout those new boots!!!

[commandnt-blog]

💀i love to die and be killed

loghain mac tir. oh, how her grandfather had spoken his name with such venom, spat it as he regaled in tales of the occupation, the rebellion. why couldn’t those dirty dog lords lay down with their bitches and do as they were told? he’d curse, cigar between his fingers as he stared at the fire roaring. dominique had only cared that the battles had claimed her beloved uncle. she hated ferelden for that.

once the hero of the river dane. now, he was but a warden, and a warden under her command. an orlesian placed firmly in the depths of the ferelden grey wardens and told to rebuild and lead that order. she’d already recieved their ire – she was more than ready to deal with more. though there are a good few inches of height difference between them, dominique’s posture is taught and stiff, her anger hot like molten gold in her veins and her dark eyes are narrowed as she faces up to him. ❝ whatever you think of me, warden mac tir, i am your commanding officer and i will have respect in front of the new recruits! ❞   the anger was barely repressed in her words, orlesian lilt twisting the syllables, but her intent was easy enough to be seen. she would have him bow, break to her authority, even if the process was long and fraught with their deadly spats. did he think that she liked it here? if she had her way, she would still be in orlais, with her family, with her son. but she was not, and if he was going to stoke her ire, he would damn well deal with the fallout.

❝ just do what you’re told, like you always do. ❞   her leaving remark was finished with a pointed look at the door of her office. he was dismissed, and if he wished to stay and argue, then she would not be so forgiving this time. bloody fereldans.          /     @atonings. meme. accepting !!

[aelockhart]

Spam for Samhain

“Help me with the sword, Annie!”

Annie grabbed the silver prop and gasped, drawing her hand back.

“Ouch! Real weapons in a library, the children’s department of all places? Dr. McKee, have you lost your mind?”

McKee pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here, let me wrap that for you. It’s not bleeding much. I’m so sorry. I must be more careful.”

The telephone rang. McKee patted her hand and strode to the desk. “Mount Union Public Library, Children’s Department, Dr. Errol McKee, director, speaking … hello? … hello?”

“Hang up, Dr. McKee. It’s another spam call. They’re coming every day lately. I must learn how to block them.”

McKee hung up and returned to fussing over Annie’s hand. “Spam calls! I think not. That call came from Tir na Nog. The liminal time has begun. Samhain is here. The fairies want a feast set for them.”

An ache pulsed behind Annie’s eyes. “Dr. McKee, I quit my last job because of the stress. Some days working here makes Goldman Sachs look like child’s play.”

McKee high-stepped to the window, knees slapping against his open hands. “Today’s story time will be epic, my dear! My brother is coming to play Aillen, the fire-breathing giant. Of course, I’ll be Finn McCool, legendary warrior who slays Aillen. My brother performs with a burlesque troupe, have I told you? He actually is a fire breather!”

The phone rang again. This time it was the mother of a first-grader who had been traumatized at last year’s Halloween celebration when McKee had built a Samhain bonfire that caught a piece of carpet and razed an entire wall of young adult fiction before the fire department had arrived.

“Yes, Ms. Simon, it was very upsetting. I have no idea why it took so long, the fire house is right across the street. I made sure they’re on standby today, … I know. … I assure you, little Joey will be fine. I’ll carve the gourds and the children will bob for apples, so … no, nobody will drown.  … well, no, I can’t promise … Ms. Simon, please—”

Annie rubbed her temple and endured the interrogation.

At 3:30, several princesses, a few pirates, and three Supermen arrived at the children’s reading room gripping plastic pumpkin pails. Annie shepherded them to the table and picked up Child of Faerie, Child of Earth, by Jane Yolen. Children’s hands shot up.

“Is Dr. McKee going to set the library on fire again?”

“Are the fairies coming to get us like Dr. McKee said they would?”

“Do you have Band-Aids this time, just in case?”

“Who’s going to throw up this year?”

The phone rang. Annie answered. Nothing. She hung up and willed her heart to stop pounding. A wail rose from the stairwell and an answer sounded from behind the bookshelf.

“Hark! I hear the fire-breather, Aillen! Come no closer, demon! I’ll not let you pass!”

McKee heel-kicked his way into the room, sword glinting at his side, a smile alighting his lips.

The children clapped and giggled as McKee danced and hummed. The wailing resumed.

“Fear not, children! I will protect you from this monster!”

McKee’s brother, in the shape of Aillen, burst from the stairwell, his head thrown back, a plume of flame rising from his open mouth. The children shrieked and crouched behind Annie.

“Dr. McKee! That is quite enough!” Annie clapped twice and the brothers McKee stopped in their tracks. “Out! Both of you! At once!”

Aillen shrugged. “I’ll see you at Ma’s for dinner, bro. Be good.” He bounded back up the stairs.

McKee looked at Annie, who had already pulled out gourds and was putting apples in a big bowl of water. She didn’t look up.

“Out! Man the desk, sir. The phones need answering.”

McKee walked to the main desk and sat down. Failure pressed on his chest. The phone rang.

“Mount Union Public Library, Children’s Department, Dr. Errol McKee, director, speaking … hello? … hello?”

The silence on the other end of the phone cheered him. He didn’t care what Annie said, he didn’t believe in spam.

He hung up and looked out the window. Mist had begun to curl around the historic oak tree that fronted the library. Within minutes, the entire tree was shrouded.

“What in the world—” McKee stepped outside and advanced on the hidden tree. A ball of yarn rolled toward him, green as shamrocks, the loose end resting a foot from where he stood.

He reached for it. At his touch, the ball rolled backward, into the fog. He held the yarn and followed, step by halting step.

By 5:30, Annie had finished wiping up the last of the splashed water. She had cleared the gourd guts and reshelved the books. At closing time, she walked into the fog, pleased with the day.

Annie returned at 8:15 the next morning in sunshine and good spirits. McKee had been upset when she’d sent him out yesterday, but she knew she could bring him around. She would play the voicemails that had come in from mothers whose kids had come home with candy and gourds—and no injuries. She would credit him with the win.

When McKee didn’t arrive by 9:30, Annie began to worry. She called his home. There was no answer. She noticed his car where it had been parked the day before. A flash of green caught her eye. Annie walked outside toward the oak tree. An unspooled ball of yarn stretched from the sidewalk to a ravel at the base of the tree. She bent to touch it and stopped, a lilting tune filling her head.

Annie ran back inside, grabbed the phone, and dialed 9-1-1. “This is Annie Belmont at the library. I’m calling to report a missing person. I need the chief to come down here right away. … I don’t know what’s happened. All I have is some yarn and a feeling.”

This story secured my advance into Round 2 of YeahWrite Super Challenge 6. Happy Halloween!

[a-byronic-heroine]

Kly’s eyes narrowed as she watched the figure reveal itself. Human more than likely. Far too clunky to be an elf. Even a half breed like one of the Aen Seidhe. Unlikely to be anything more than a bandit or wanderer. The village was off the main trade routes, so it wasn’t likely to be any kind of mercenary. Much like her, he wore a cloak that his many key features which made putting him into any sort of category outside “not-elven” difficult. She took pause, however, when she saw his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t human after all. Then she recalled having seen eyes like that before, but only once. Back in her home dimension in Tir na Lia, where the creature called Gwynbleidd had been held hostage. He’d been used to draw out that half-breed girl. The one of the Hen Ichaer line. Zireael. The name alone was enough to raise her ire.

“They hardly need their belongings anymore,” she said, her voice had a lilting accent quite obviously not used to the grunting words of the common tongue. “Besides, I’m well aware of the dangers of the Wild Hunt. Likely more aware than even you, stranger. But what of you? What is someone like you doing snooping around a mass grave such as this? My intentions are quite obvious,” she tossed the coin purse in her hand in the air and caught it again. “But you...are still a mystery. Like you said, it’s quite unsafe to ride the coattails of the Hunt.”

onemusemanyfandoms:

Kly pulled her cloak closer around her as she walked through the abandoned village. Well, not abandoned. Slaughtered and pillaged was a more accurate description. While the air outside the village was actually quite mild, the temperature in the village was frigid. Cold enough that an unnatural ice and snow hung from the hollow buildings. Kly recognized all of this. The Wild Hunt had been there. She had laid a false trail leading there, and they followed it. This confirmed her suspicions then: they were still coming after her. Ever since she’d had her throat cut, she’d been careful. She touched the still healing magical scar carefully. It was still red and inflamed and tender. She walked among the corpses, taking coin purses or belongings from them as she went. She walked over the bodies of men and children without blinking an eye. No women though. So they’d taken slaves. She’d seen and done worse than slaughter a village of filthy humans. This was nothing. Their lives meant nothing. The humans would just make more. Plenty where these came from. She paused though in her looking around and scavenging when she heard something behind her. She whipped around but saw nothing. “Who’s there?” she barked.

“Creative, looting after you’ve let someone else do the dirty work.” The voice belongs to a Northerner. A keen ear would recognize him as Kaedwini. From the shadows of a half-burned hut emerges a rather short man with a travelling cloak drawn over him, thus obscuring the look of his armor or any weaponry he might carry. From beneath the hood, however, two unnatural, sickly golden eyes shine with the brightness of an animal caught in torchlight on a dark night. “Not that I’m judging, necessarily…just not something I’ve seen very often. Especially when it comes to an enemy as dangerous as the fucking Wild Hunt. But…then again…”

Something’s different here. Something about this stranger isn’t registering correctly. He wasn’t expecting to find anyone here- no, he was chasing signs of the Hunt, with goals of his own in mind. To find someone brave enough to pick through the wreckage suggests a connection, or utter idiocrasy. It’s evident the first must be the answer from the guarded reaction.

“No need to shout. Might wake up something else you don’t want to meet face-to face.”

[mystery-salad]

3, 4, 12 and 19 for Tirs from the newest ask list? :D

TIRS TIME WE LOVE TO SEE IT 💛💜

3. Are they an outsider? Do they feel like one?

To an extent she is, just by virtue of traveling constantly and avoiding strong connections due to trust issues. But she's also such a genuinely fun person to be around and very to know that she doesn't really have the energy of a typical outsider! Most people she meets assume she's more open than she really is, until they try to be closer to her.

4. How do they feel about their past/younger self?

She feels sorry for her younger self. And wishes she could go back to stop the relationship that ruined her trust. She knows none of it was truly her fault but she missed signs she should've seen if she hadn't been wearing rose-tinted glasses.

12. Generally, what's most people's first impression of them? + What impression do they *want* to leave on others?

That she's carefree and fun, such a free soul constantly looking for thrills and adventure! This is intentional and exactly the energy she wants to give off. She genuinely wants to have a great time and live life to the fullest. So long as she can keep people at an emotional arms length away to avoid getting too attached to notice warning signs again. She tries to make sure no one gets the impression that she wants a deeper connection.

19. Do they love easily (platonic, familial, romantic, etc)? Is love easy for them to express?

She used to love so easily, but now she's much more critical and closed off! It's tragic because love really is so easy for her and she's so earnest in it...but she's been burned badly and she's terrified to have it happen again. She makes friends easily everywhere she goes and has flings all the time, but familial/romantic relationships are carefully guarded against these days.

[mystery-salad]

From shame and secrets: 2 and 3 for Marta and 10 and 11 for Tirs? :3c

Ooooh yes girl time!!!!!

TIRS

2. Does your oc have any embarrassing memories?

Oh so many, it took her a while to really get her footing on the outside world and how to interact with people she thinks are pretty! Tirs had a learning curve to becoming as cool and suave as she is, and she's intent on keeping that learning portion far in her past where it can't embarrass her now ;3

3. Is there any weird habits your oc has?

She's a bit fidgety, will pick at dried leaves on herself like some people pick at peely skin. If there's a dog in the area she needs to talk with the owner and make sure it's being taken care of. If there's a sylvan hound in the area she will derail anything to go pet it and just hug it for a moment.

MARTA

10. Is there anything your oc wants or likes that they have to keep secret, like a guilty pleasure? Anything that would get them ostracized, attacked, or just insulted for saying it out loud?

Not really, her favorite hobbies include reading, hunting, and tanning leather. She's a very handy person to have out on a trip and is well spoken and skilled. Not to mention any hobbies she has that others would consider silly, she would consider the person silly for ridiculing her for it. Every hobby has its place, what makes someone better than others for disliking one?

She does have a moment she tries to hide from those she can though, and that was her time as Jormag's champion. Not a great look among other norn.

11. If your oc could go back in time and change one moment from their life, would they, and what moment would they change?

She wouldn't have helped Jormag, she would've told herself to ignore their words and turn away. Having the power to protect norn homelands wasn't worth the control she lost in the deal.