#title: crueler mercies

[oriolespeaking]

Crueler Mercies by Maren Chase

Personal Rating: 4.75 golden coins out of 5!

I received an ARC in exchange for an honest review. Releases 27 May 2025.

Recommended for lovers of revenge stories, beautiful prose, and forbidden sapphic romances.

Synopsis:

Raised as a beloved princess and daughter, Vita had no reason to expect her father would force her to watch as he executed her mother for being inconvenient, nor that he would exile her to isolated obscurity thereafter. Eleven years later, her only friends are the crows who visit her window. When an army sweeps through her town, she is forced to choose between marrying a brutally ambitious general to grant him legitimacy to take the throne or die immediately, forgotten and without the chance to take revenge on her father. But Vita will have to more than fulfill her new role to get what she truly wants, and her intriguing handmaiden, Soline, will help her, be it through alchemy or cunning.

Review under the cut

Chase delivers the most satisfying revenge story since I finished Projections by S.E. Porter last year, doing a lot of legwork to make the stakes both personal to Vita and believably consequential to the kingdoms her husband's army is conquering (whether that's people trapped between starvation and death by arrow, or the soldiers she is trying to persuade into her command). Vita teeters between her unwavering desire for revenge and her compassion for those caught in the crossfire.

Vita and Soline's relationship had a really interesting build-up. The characters feel a bit flat outside of their interactions with one another, but I appreciated how Vita and Soline both had their moments to shine as agents of their own destiny (Soline as protecting her brothers through theft/Vita through defending Soline from Ardaric by being clever, even if it bit her in the back later). The slow build to how tenderly they treat each other by the end of the book provided some nice emotionality between the political/military moments.

Ardaric as an antagonist is very interesting. He is absolutely brutal, overwhelmingly strong, and ambitious. His ruthless cunning cuts through Vita in such stomach-dropping moments, even when he comes to the wrong conclusions, the consequences for Vita are dire. I was reading this while I was working out, and it wasn't until some of Ardaric's scenes that my heart started to really go LOL. Man's got me running when the treadmill doesn't work me hard enough. Vita's cleverness as she continues to defy him is deserving of all the praise because I would be shitting my pants. Her ending ploy is ESPECIALLY ballsy. Love her.

The book does sometimes drag between major emotional/action-focused moments, though the tenderness in those slow moments does absolutely feel deserved.

started 19 December 2024 / finished 14 January 2025

[fawnforevergone]

the way hozier titles a song "i, carrion (icarian)" where he sings about the self-destructive idea of sacrificing himself by flying into sun to save his relationship, and compares himself to 'carrion', the decaying flesh of animals, often a word used for roadkill. to then go and write a song called "abstract (psychopomp)" about how holding an animal whilst it dies mirrors the mercy of ending a failing relationship, similar to a 'psychopomp' - a deliverer of death. and we watch as hozier turns from 'icarian' to 'psychopomp' when he realises that prolonging suffering is crueler than just letting love die. i'm both in awe and crying on my bedroom floor.

and the way a carrion crow is also a symbol of death ?? and how 'carrion' sounds like 'carry on' the way icarus kept going ?? and how he sounds envious of his lover's courage in "abstract" ?? how when the sun is gone - "streetlights in the dark blue" - he can no longer blind himself and is forced to look at the corpse of his relationship ?? how to love is to let go ?? how can he keep getting away with this i'm sobbing ??

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Vampiric.

Pairing: Yandere!Miguel O'hara x Reader (Spiderverse).

Word Count: 1.4k.

TW: Vampire AU, Blood and Violence, Unbalanced Power Dynamic, Predator/Prey Dynamics, Implied Past/Future N0n///C0n, and Obsessive Behavior.

He came to you in the midnight hours.

You’d learned, by now, to wait for his nightly visits in privacy, to sit on the corner of your bed farthest from your window and listen for the distant sound of claws digging into wood, of a body dragging against stone, of nails scraping against glass as he beckoned you to let him in willingly. Of course, you didn’t, and of course, he didn’t need you to – your bedroom window crashing only a moment after you would’ve reached it, a pair of talon-doting hands wrapping around your windowsill before Miguel hauled himself inside, scarlet blood already dotting the collar of his white undershirt. Clearly, he’d already fed, tonight. His appetite had already been sated, which meant he’d only come to you to wash the taste out of his mouth.

The alternative would’ve been kinder. When he came to you half-starved, you could blame his violence on his hunger, his cruelness on his desperation. Whatever he did tonight would only serve his own twisted sense of entertainment.

He was grinning, too; crimson painted over his lips and dripping from his chin, coating his pointed fangs and spilling onto the fine silk of his tunic. With your back to him, your shoulder pressed into the plain wood of your headboard, you watched from your peripheral as he stepped into your bedroom, letting out a bark of a laugh and arching his back before stiffening, his smile falling in an instant with a sharp, venomous hiss. He didn’t flee or melt into a pile of ash and bone as you’d hoped, but only turned back to your window, catching the wreath of purple and white flowers posted above it on his claws. “Garlic blooms,” he muttered, crushing your wreath in his fist. The ruined flowers were allowed to drift pathetically to the floor, but you forced yourself to look away before they landed. “Trying your hand at botany?”

“Someone told me that garlic was good for keeping away for keeping away unwanted pests, but they must’ve been mistaken.” You didn’t move, didn’t turn, keeping your back straight and your hands wrung together in your lap. It was all you could do to keep your voice steady, to hide how much you wanted to buckle into yourself and beg him to leave. That’d come soon enough, when you were drained of all things good and vital and had only the strength it took to hold yourself. For now, you could play confident. “Tell me, would it be worth the time it’d take to hang a crucifix?”

You felt his weight on the plush of your mattress, your stomach turning as he grew ever-nearer. “I wouldn’t think so. You know how fond I am of holy ground.”

It was true, you did. You’d never be able to forget the night he first cornered you, the hours you spent pinned against the alter of an empty chapel as a beast you’d mistaken for a man buried his teeth in your neck and he forced his body into yours. For as long as he’d tormented you, you’d thought that night would be your final one, that he’d split you open and eat you alive before the sun ever rose, but here you sat, alive and breathing and still completely in the dark as to why he hadn’t devoured you, why he hadn’t left you in the same decrepit state as the rest of his mortal victims – a dried husk, barely a shell of a corpse left in a gutter or alleyway to be found by some poor soul the next morning. Your only guess was that he took more joy in being the ghost that haunted your every waking thought than the beast who would rip you to shreds the moment you stepped into the moonlight, and even then, it was hard to tell which fate was crueler. It was hard to tell if you were glad that he’d shown you mercy, or distraught that he'd chosen to keep you as a plaything, instead.

A bitter taste spread over your tongue. His cold breath fanned over your exposed back, and reflectively, motivated by the same instinct that propels the rabbit to writhe in the fox’s mouth, you tried to stand, to flee Miguel before he thought to bite down. You made it all of half a step before a strong arm caught you by the waist, dragging you back onto your bed and against Miguel’s broad chest. There was a throaty laugh, a flat tongue ran over the curve of your throat, and then, the fox put the rabbit out of its misery and Miguel sunk his fangs into your neck.

It hurt the same way it always hurt. The pain was sharp, hot – searing your veins as he bit into you, drawing a sharp cry from the base of your throat before you could hope to swallow it down. He held you like that for a moment, then another, your body pressed against his and his teeth burrowed in your flesh, before pulling back with a rolling growl, barely giving you time to draw in a ragged inhale before his lips latched onto his fresh puncture marks, his coarse tongue over the twin streams of blood. A thin trail of scarlet slipped past the corner of his mouth, only growing thicker as he nipped at half-healed ‘love bites’ and throbbing bruises too often abused to fade. His hand fell away from your wrist and rose to your collar, finding its way to the base of your throat and catching you in an inescapable grip, holding you steady as he drank from you. Sometimes, he let you fight it, took joy in pinning you down as you shoved and kicked and screamed, but he usually preferred a submissive meal. Tonight, he was clearly in the mood to pretend you were willing prey.

You expected him to leave after he’d drunk his fill, to pull away and slip back out of your bedroom window, but you were not that fortunate. Rather, he sunk lower, burying his teeth in the curve of your shoulder. The impact was dull, just forceful enough to bruise – meant more to mark than to maim. A love bite, in the place of a puncture wound – the former just as painful as the latter. “It’s like wine,” he muttered, the words nearly lost against your skin. You felt his hand on the collar of your nightdress, starting to drag the delicate fabric downward before he lost what little patience he still had. Before you could brace yourself, before you could think to bed him not to, your body was slammed against the wood of your headboard, his fist still wrapped around your neck, his claws still tearing at your clothes. “If I had less control, I would’ve drained you weeks ago.”  His voice in your ear, his hands on your skin. He dropped lower, to your chest, and yet, you never seemed to rid yourself of the awful feeling that he was looming over you, consuming you. “You’re lucky that your blood’s not the only part of you that tastes so—”

“Please.” It was barely a whisper. Without his uncannily keen senses, it could’ve easily been lost underneath the sounds of his lips against your skin, underneath his throaty growls and stifled moans. Still, he raised his head, his scarlet eyes flickering up to meet yours as you went on. “Please, Miguel, not tonight.”

For a moment, he did not move, did not speak. You pictured, in a part of your mind you’d lost control of the day you met him, Miguel burying his talons in your chest, carving out your beating heart and making it so you’d never be able to deny him again, but the blow never came.

A small, teasing smile spread across his crimson-stained lips as he raised his head. He kissed you, the gesture gentle and lingering, before straightening his back and releasing your throat. “Not tonight,” he said, watching as you sunk into yourself. “But soon. I can’t let my amor spend their nights alone for much longer.”

You opened your mouth, but he was already gone – vanishing into the moonlight and leaving you covered in your own blood, shaking in the tatters of your nightdress, and already dreading his next visit.

[10thmusemoon]

For the title ask game, "laurels"!

This would be a PIDW Ning Yingying fic on the burden of being Luo Bingge's first love and first wife.

Starting scenes would be the blossoming romance on QJP as disciples interspersed with her realizing the horrifying extent of the SJ's abuse. Followed by her grief during the years in the abyss and the moment she decides to betray her sect.

When NYY enters LBH's house, though she has the title of first wife, there are of course other women already there. Her place at Bingge's side, managing the underground palace and estate, is unquestionable, but that doesn't keep her from being at the mercy of cruel harem politics.

NYY goes through her own blackening phase, the naivety that kept her as the favored shimei on qjp being burned away each day. By the time LMY officially joins the harem, it's like meeting a stranger. They find comfort in each other, among all the wives they get along best, but there is that one thing that they Do Not Talk About.

The man in the Water Prison.

I think hearing LMY, NYY would have a lot Contemplating to do. What made her so different from YQY if she was never able to curb SQQ either? And later, after realizing she's adopting some of his crueler habits or turns of phrases to deal with the little palace mistress, she's struck with the realization that maybe they do take after SQQ. LBH and NYY both.

This whole fic would be an introspective look at NYY's journey from favored disciple, to favored wife and realizing that the laurels upon her head are actually filled with thorns. Sprinkle in some comphet to butt up against too!

SQQ's favoritism caused her to stagnate not only in cultivation but in maturity, leaving her unprepared for life after leaving the sect. LBH, during his time in the abyss, created of image in his head immortalizing his kind shijie, and NYY often feels the pressure to fall into the whiny and willful person LBH (and airplane) imagines her as.

I think the last scene in this fic would be her finally going down to confront SJ, and even though he is the one hanging from the ceiling, a mess of scar tissue and dried blood.

He looks down at her with pity.

Kindness, cruelty, in the end, what difference did it make?

They are two trapped things in Lord Luo's house.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Wishing u much good food and killing michael buble with ur teeth 🫡

May I request arranged marriage for the ask game 👀👀

hello lee :3 i shall provide. this is, quite unashamedly, inspired by your thoughts on king!lucifer (with some of my own spin on things, lol) I really hope you like it.

Sam isn’t given the dignity of a proper marriage. The agreement is in writing before he’s ever even seen his new husband’s face, and after that, he’s carted up north like a prize of war. His retinue of king’s men from the south dwindles the more miles they travel. He’s sure some of that is planned, a man or two to travel so far and then hand him off to northern soldiers, a few more who agreed to go further and turn back, but more than a few times, Sam is sure they’re just deserters, terrified of what will happen to them outside the safety of the south. The wind blows frigid over the growing hills, and the north speaks a different, hostile tongue. Sam hates every single one of the soldiers who leaves, not for abandoning him, because they were never here for his protection, but for escaping when he can’t.

It’s easy to tell the difference simply by how they’re dressed, and by the time Sam is left with only northern soldiers, he sticks out like a flower in the snow on one of these barren fields. The men around him dress in thick furs, garb so heavy that it obscures their entire figure and the weapons beneath their cloaks but never slows them down. Sam is left with his thinner summer wardrobe and the absent gift of a blanket at night to keep him from freezing to death.

The king of Hel will be crueler, Sam tells himself, and he will have to survive that. He wishes he spoke their language. The one benefit of being a hostage in the south was that he understood how he was being humiliated. Though, as he shivers in the carriage he’s locked up in, his muscles aching from the cramped space, he probably wouldn’t need that many tries to guess.

They’re only stopped once. A very bold messenger catches up to them on horseback and demands Sam’s hasty return. Not out of mercy, Sam learns as he keeps close to the door of the carriage and eavesdrops, but necessity. Sam exhales in relief as the messenger grits out that Dean Winchester, the first son of their late father, has gone missing before he could marry the True King.

Sam huffs a laugh at how little weight that title carries now that they’re within Hel’s lands. The messenger must feel it, too.

The soldiers tell him, in no uncertain turns, to turn around and go back to his king empty-handed, or else go back with no hands at all. The deal, they say, was done, and the king of Hel does not renege on deals.

Sam is taken further north with only the hope that his brother is alive and safe and free to keep him warm.

The king doesn’t meet Sam at the gates or in the hall or even in his own bedroom, after Sam is ungracefully herded in there. Not by the soldiers who brought him. Very few of them even entered the walls of the castle and even fewer accompanied him into the keep. No, Sam’s guard from then on was minuscule, only a pair of women. He might have taken them for maids if not for the flashes of steel he caught as they walked beside him and the dangerous looks in their eyes. (Neither of them feel safe, but he keeps his eyes on the red-haired one more than the dark-haired one. When she smiles, Sam keeps expecting to see a wolf’s fangs beneath her lips.)

It’s the dark-haired one who tells him what to do. She isn’t very subtle. “Wait on your back for the king to come fuck you. When he’s not busy with anything more important.” The red-haired one laughs, bright and cruel like fire, and she shuts the door behind Sam once he’s inside. He waits, holding his breath, to hear their footsteps. They shuffle briefly, but they don’t move away from the door.

Sam does not wait for him on the bed. Surely a king has to keep some kind of weapon in his own chambers. Sam searches every nook and cranny, lowering his standards from a real weapon to anything remotely sharp enough to do damage. If Dean escaped, then Sam at least has to try.

The solid stone walls don’t do as much to keep the cold out as he would like. Sam’s fingers are tingling with numbness when he finally closes them around the only appropriate thing he can find: a letter-opener, sharpened crisply. It isn’t as fancy as he’s expecting. It seems more fitted for use than for decoration, no encrusted jewels or intricate flourishes on the blade. Nothing but a snake engraved into the handle. Sam keeps it tucked close.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The sun is below the horizon by the time he hears a new pair of footsteps outside. A new voice, speaking too soft for Sam to understand, even if he knew his language. The door drags open.

Sam lays his eyes on his husband for the first time.

For a few seconds, in a delusion born from how freezing cold Sam is and how scared he feels, he thinks the king might be some sort of monster. The face of a bear stares him down. Sam’s frozen under its dead glare until he realizes its only another layer of clothing. Sam looks down as the king divests himself of his bear’s hood. He rubs his jaw, a few days of stubble to match the dark circles under his eyes.

Sam tightens his grip on his letter-opener, feeling naked in comparison to the king.

The first thing the man says is, “Why aren’t you asleep?” The woman who spoke to Sam earlier had a thicker accent than him, as did the soldiers. Sam can still hear it clearly, but his pronunciation is much clearer than theirs. Sam doesn’t answer, and the king’s eyes drift up and down his body. Even more confused, he asks, “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I am,” Sam says, though he doesn’t feel it. “Your highness,” he forces himself to add. The king takes a single step towards him before stopping, eyeing Sam as he tenses up. The king says something in his own language, but Sam can recognize the sound of a curse in any. Sam watches the king remove his cloak. The king of Hel is broad-shouldered, thick-bellied, and without his cloak, he doesn’t look any smaller.

“How about a trade?” he says. “Wear this. It’s as warm as it looks”—Sam shivers.—“and in return, you hand over that blade you’re hiding.”

Sam feels his heart stop. His breath catches. The king tilts his head, but there’s no anger in his eyes. There’s… He looks sad, as though he understands why Sam needs the letter-opener to feel safe.

“Please, Sam,” he says, and Sam can’t be comfortable with how easily the king says Sam’s name when Sam doesn’t even know his. He offers the cloak, and he waits.

Sam shivers again, worse than before. It’s been a fight to not crawl under the blankets in that comfortable looking bed, but the cloak is an impossible temptation to resist. He can’t be thinking straight with how cold he is. He reaches for it. It’s heavier than he’s expecting. The king sees him struggling to take it with one hand and moves, bringing the cloak around Sam’s shoulders. There’s body heat cradled beneath the pelt, and it sinks into Sam’s skin.

The king is standing there, without armor, within reach of Sam’s small blade. He adjusts the cloak silently around Sam’s shoulders.

Sam doesn’t strike.

The king touches Sam’s wrist. He gently takes the letter-opener out of Sam’s hand. The way his palms, more callused than most lords Sam’s ever known, cradle his hand lingers in Sam’s mind long after the king has finally let go. The king turns the letter-opener over, running his thumb along the snake like he’s reminiscing about something. He shuts his eyes, grimaces, and lays the letter-opener back on the small table Sam had found it. There’s nothing stopping Sam from snatching it up again when the king turns his back.

He eyes it, but his gaze soon goes back to the king as he kneels beside the dark fireplace. He sweeps the ashes aside, getting his clothes dirty. He hauls another log into the hearth. He starts the fire himself, holding his hand above the flames as they grow and threaten to lick his skin before he stands. The room seems less like a jail cell when it’s more lit up.

The king gestures at the fire and tells Sam, “Wait here,” as if Sam could leave if he wanted to. He leaves Sam wrapped in his cloak and warming his extremities by the fire, arguing back and forth with himself about picking the letter-opener back up.

When the king returns, he brings food with him, steaming fresh. He hands a bowl of stew to Sam. Sam’s mouth immediately starts watering. He hasn’t had anything close to a good meal in nearly a month, granted only the same rations as the soldiers who were leading him here. There’s fresh meat in the broth before him bobbing between vegetables. Sam spears a chopped potato on the end of a fork and hurries to swallow it.

“I’m not going to take it away from you,” the king says, as though he can read Sam’s thoughts.

“Why are you feeding me?” Sam asks between spoonfuls, not completely trusting that this food isn’t a luxury he’ll lose if he says the wrong thing. The king joins him by the fire. Sam noticed the way he kneeled earlier, stiffly, and he wonders if that’s exhaustion alone making him move slower or the twinges of an old injury. He sits and relaxes.

“You’re hungry,” he answers, “you’re cold,”—He glances down at Sam’s stomach.—“and you’re skinny. I’m killing three birds with a single stone.”

“Skinny?” Sam scoffs. It’s not how he’d describe himself.

“You have muscle,” the king says, an amused tone entering his voice. “Muscle’s good, makes you warm, but fat will keep you that way.”

“And I thought you were a man, not a bear,” Sam says. It’s… strange to hear the king chuckle, to know that he’s the reason why. Sam puts another spoonful in his mouth and chews some tender meat. It’s delicious. He’d thought food up here would be tough and flavorless, but it’s rich and savory instead.

“I learn from what I hunt,” the king says. “Sam-“ He pauses. Sam is busy drinking the broth, and he’s caught off-guard when the king says, “You don’t know my name.” It’s like some sort of revelation to him, and Sam just frowns. He wasn’t special. No one knew the name of the king of Hel. “You’ll have to forgive me, Sam. I made certain… choices during the beginning of my reign. I created an image I still have to uphold, even though it has long outlived its usefulness.” The king sighs. “My name is Lucifer.”

He says it like it’s supposed to mean anything to Sam. It doesn’t. He watches Sam’s expression, and his brow furrows.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

“It was Michael’s seal on our marriage, and if he’s still alive, I thought-” Whatever it is troubles him so badly that he falls silent, leaving Sam to have to fill in the gaps himself.

“You know him?” For Sam knows him well. He’s not half as kind (if Lucifer is kind, if this is not all an act) as the king of Hel.

“As children,” Lucifer says, his voice soft, “but I doubt he’d know me now.”

“You were born in the south,” Sam deduces, and Lucifer nods.

“That letter-opener has already tasted blood, Sam,” he says. He doesn’t carry a hint of Sam’s home in him anymore, if he had once. He looks exactly like what a king of the frozen fields should.

“Do I have to use it?” Sam grips the spoon hard between his fingers. His voice goes flat. “Are you going to force me-”

“No,” Lucifer cuts through his words with sharp finality. “No.”

“If you don’t consummate-” Lucifer leans back on one hand, exhaling in frustration.

“And what will they look for? You can sleep in tomorrow to pretend you’re recovering, no one is outside the door listening for your screams, and if they want blood-” Lucifer stands. Sam watches him take up the letter-opener himself and spread flat one of the furs on top of the others on the bed. He cuts his own hand and smears it down the fur. He removes it from the bed afterwards, laying it across the windowsill where Sam can see Lucifer’s blood drying on it. “There. It’s done. You are mine.” He turns to look at Sam, and his voice softens out of the frustration he’d been holding onto. “And I am yours.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say. Lucifer’s shoulders sag as he yawns.

“I’m going to bed,” he tells Sam, “and you’re safe to join me whenever you want. The bed is large, and I won’t touch you.”

More than anything, Sam wants to ask why Lucifer agreed to this at all if he doesn’t even want Sam. It’s not as though Sam can give him heirs, or, it seems, like Lucifer even wants to make them.

He averts his gaze as Lucifer undresses further. (Or tries to. His eyes keep flicking back to catch Lucifer rolling his shoulders beneath his thick white underclothes or pushing his shirt up to scratch his nails through the thick trail of hair beneath his belly button.) He focuses on finishing his meal, and when he’s done, his stomach is filled with hot stew and the rest of his body, still draped in Lucifer’s cloak, hasn’t felt cold at all since Lucifer started the fire.

One last time as Sam passes it, he looks at the letter-opener, now covered with Lucifer’s blood.

He leaves it. Lucifer is snoring steadily from his side of the bed, the covers rising and falling with his breath. Sam removes his cloak carefully, and unsure of where to put it, folds it and lays it across a chair. The bear’s head doesn’t seem to be growling at him anymore.

Sam slides under the bedcovers. He sucks in a breath. He’s never been more comfortable in his life. The weight of the furs presses him down into the mattress, but they’re all soft to the touch. He stretches his body down the bed, covered chest to toes. The pillow beneath his head is firm but pliable, giving way to a comfortable shape. He turns to look at Lucifer.

Lucifer frowns in his sleep. His cheek is wet, and Sam feels the urge to reach out and wipe it dry. It rises, he resists, and it fades again. Sam turns over. He shuts his eyes and sleeps better than he has in years.

[ncxaeterna]

matthew mcnulty . cis man . he / him .  *:･ﾟ✧ is that that mikhail volkov , who is originally from valachia , and living in valachia ? it’s nice to see the master assassin of transvania out and about on such a fine day as this. i’ve heard from the court spies that they notoriously cynical , whilst also managing to be quite adaptable . the thirty-nine year old was born human , and hails from the kingdom of transvania . 

Basic Information

Full Name: Mikhail Constantine Volkov Nicknames: Mik (by a select few) Title: N/A Species: Human Age: Thirty-nine Kingdom: Transvania Current Residence: Valachia Gender: Cis man Pronouns: He/him Orientation: Demiromantic bisexual

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Matthew McNulty Hair Color: Dark brown Eye Color: Light brown Height: 5'11" Piercings: N/A Scars: A scar above and below his left eye, a diagonal scar across his back, a large scar across his right bicep, assorted small scars

Relationships

Father: Leo Volkov (father-deceased) Mother: Rebekah Volkov (mother-deceased) Siblings: N/A Significant Other: Marina Florian (lover-deceased) , N/A 

Extra

MBTI: ISTJ Temperament: Choleric Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil Primary Vice: Wrath Primary Virtue: Temperance Element: Fire

BIO- ( TW: IMPLIED CHILD ABUSE AND MENTIONS OF DEATH AND MURDER )

death was a part of mikhail’s life from a young age, he never knew his mother, but his father was the leader of a group of assassins. and when he looked at his son, he saw only opportunity.

leo volkov viewed his only child as a weapon, training him from a young age to be a skilled killer. failure was met with cruel punishment and from a young age, mikhail became very familiar with the concept of pain.

as the child grew into a young man, his skill grew. as did his own hatred towards his father for what he was turning him into. but then, something changed. there was a kindness from his father that wasn’t there before, and for a time, mikhail thought that perhaps there was a chance for a new start.

introducing his son to a young woman named marina, mikhail found himself falling head over heels for her. they spent a lot of time together, and after a couple of years, mikhail even planned to propose. but he had no idea that this was all part of his father’s cruelest plan.

marina was a mark–set to die at the hands of one of the group’s assassins, and leo knew this would be the perfect opportunity to test his son’s resolve. so, he gave mikhail an ultimatum. carry out the contract, or the assassins would kill them both. the kindest mercy that mikahil was able to give marina was a quick death.

he did not offer the same mercy to his father.

with leo out of the picture, mikhail took his father’s place in the group. while there are rumors that mikhail might have been responsible for leo’s death, there’s no proof. 

something about marina’s death broke something in him, the world a crueler place after what he had done. any remorse he previously found in killing was absent.

several years ago, a contract crossed his desk that caught the attention of every assassin in his group-someone wanted king lucien dead. and who better to send than their leader?

but not every job goes off smoothly. and luck finally caught up with mikhail when his attempt on the king's life failed. while he was not caught-he knew one undeniable truth-even as their leader, he could not go back to his group having failed.

so instead, mikhail sought employment with his mark-proving his worth and becoming the master assassin of transvania. it paid better, but the more useful perk was that he was untouchable to those he had led previously.

while he harbors no ill-will towards the king-after all, that job was just business-he is not the greatest fan of the man. but as long as gold ends up in his pockets? mikhail remains loyal.

[ruleofvee]

Title: Dei Gratia

Part: 1/6

Fandom: Minecraft/SBI

Rating: T

Overall Fic Warnings: character death (it is not any of the sbi), canon-typical violence

Summary:

(noun) Bestowal /bɪˈstəʊəl/ The culmination of a series of magic rituals that served to induce a god to bestow their divine favor upon a mortal. In ancient times, this magic was reserved for kings and members of the ruling class. Over the centuries, this practice has died out, and the art has since been lost. ~=~ (Or: Phil is Bestowed with Death's favor. This makes him a target. When the Royal Family of the Kingdom of Craft is kidnapped, leaving only Technoblade behind, he must decide between his freedom and their lives if he wants to bring them back home. If only the Blood God could be somewhat less annoying, that would be appreciated)

[Also on AO3]

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(adverb) Dei gratia

/deɪiː ˈɡrɑːtɪə/

Literal translation: “by (the) god’s grace”

Nota bene: Latin. Historically attached to the titles of certain reigning monarchs. Used to signify or encapsulate the concept of the divine right of kings. 

~=~

(expression) Divine right of kings

/dɪˈvaɪn raɪt ɒv kɪŋz/

The concept that only the ruler of a kingdom could be allowed access to the ancient magic that would permit a Bestowal. The divine right in question refers to the ‘right’ to the ear of a god, and this ‘right’ is what grants the ruler their power, both political and divine.

~=~

(noun) Bestowal

/bɪˈstəʊəl/

The culmination of a series of magic rituals that served to induce a god to bestow their divine favor upon a mortal. In ancient times, this magic was reserved for kings and members of the ruling class. Over the centuries, this practice has died out, and the art has since been lost.

~=~

…

….

…

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Historically, there have been two kinds of monarchs that could benefit from a Bestowal - the wise and principled, and the cunning and ruthless. Those capable of inordinate levels of self-restraint, or those with the skill to control that level of power and wield it to their own ends.

The ones without those qualities almost invariably fall to ruin. A Bestowal is a high honor that can end in your ruin more easily than in your glory.

The gods are capricious. Fickle. They focus their attention upon you, turning you into an instrument for their affections - yet their affections are shallow indeed. Like children playing with toys, they hold varying levels of care towards their beneficiaries, sometimes breaking their playthings, other times fairly doting on them. Yet what remains eternal is the imbalance, the sense that you are at their mercy. That the potential for power, for riches, for glory, comes at the cost of your own individual freedom.

There is a phenomenon commonly known as Weight. It’s a heaviness in your bones and a furrow in your brow, it’s a weight in your heart that never eases once you have been Bestowed with a god’s favor. 

It’s the knowledge that you will never be yourself again.

~=~

King Philza, of the Kingdom of Craft, is all too familiar with Weight.

Of all the gods to be beholden to, there are crueler gods than Death herself. Lady Kristin has always done her best to be fair by him, to preserve as much of his freedom as she could, to be a gift instead of a curse. When pressed, she would say that she was ‘persuaded by his charm’. It is not a heavy Weight to bear.

Yet the years have not been kind to Phil. There’s a furrow in his brow that seems permanent, a ruffled, frazzled look to his hair that makes it hard to tell whether there is gray mixed in with the blond. A look of worry hidden deep in his eyes.

He says, often, that his children are the light of his life. Wilbur, the Crown Prince, and Techno and Tommy, Wilbur’s younger brothers. They have yet to ever feel Weight. One day, Wilbur will have to be Bestowed as the next king, but that day is hopefully far from now, and Phil will live for as long as possible to delay it. As for Techno and Tommy, they will hopefully be spared from that fate entirely, not being in line for the throne.

If he could, he would spare Wilbur forever. But when your neighbors have gods on their side, it’s foolish to deny yourself that power, too. An extra weapon in your arsenal that could spell the difference between life and death.

Phil is a father, but he is a king, too. He has a nation of people to protect to the best of his ability. And that is why one day, when the throne is his, Wilbur will have to feel Weight, too.

(It is a tragedy, but it is unavoidable. All Phil can do is delay, delay, delay)

~=~

It is customary for the heir of a Craftian monarch to perform the Bestowal ceremony in their eighteenth year. Sooner if the king is ill. In case of any unexpected death, the heir should be ready to take the throne - and the time needed to adjust to a new Bestowal Bond is long and unstable and a period of weakness for the heir.

(It is a steep learning curve, and neither the gods nor the people are known for their patience)

Better to learn under the watchful eye of a parent, than to be alone and grieving and subject to the whims of others. Monarchs with support and guidance tend to live and rule far longer than those without. It's sensible. If Phil cared only about the length of Wilbur's life instead of his happiness, he would have him undergo a Bestowal on the dawn of his eighteenth birthday. 

Wilbur's birthday comes and goes, and Phil speaks not one word of Bestowals.

He knows his son. He knows Wilbur will take it as an insult, as Phil questioning his ability to rule. He is naive, and he sees a Bestowal as an honor. An honor Phil is denying him. 

Phil's words of Weight and decay fall on deaf ears. Internally, he despairs. 

They argue only once, Wilbur demanding what is rightfully his. Phil rebuffs him again and again and again, until Wilbur finally loses patience. 

"Fine," Wilbur says at last, fire in his voice and wild darkness in his eyes, "Then I'll do it myself -" 

" No!" 

Phil hardly ever shouts. His voice rings in the sudden silence, echoing off the marble walls. It startles Wilbur into silence. It's the first time Phil has ever truly yelled at one of his children. 

He breathes, in, out, trying to regain his composure. "Promise me," he rasps, "that you will never try to bring about a Bestowal on your own. It's too dangerous. I need to be there."

Wilbur hesitates, worried. "Dad -" 

" Promise me."

A pause, heavy. "I promise," Wilbur says at last. 

The tension immediately leaves Phil's shoulders. He tries to smile, the expression twisted by Weight. His wrist glints gold. "Sorry, Wil," he says. "Let's - let's revisit this later, yeah?" 

"... Alright, dad."

It's not alright, but now is not the time, and even in his indignation, Wilbur can recognize that. 

(Around the corner, Techno listens from his hiding place behind the tapestry. Underhanded tactics, to be sure, and yet he refuses to be kept out of the loop on something so important) 

~=~

"Techno?" 

Techno internally sighs, puts down his book - Key Strategies for the Advanced Potato Farmer, Volume Seven - and prepares for the onslaught. When Tommy has that tone, it invariably means he wants your attention, and won't let go until he has it. Like a pit bull. 

"Yes?" 

Tommy's eleven-year old gaze is so very earnest. "Techno, what's a be…bes…"

Techno's heart sinks. "Bestowal?"

Tommy nods. "Wilbur talks about it a lot. He said it's for big men, but he wouldn't tell me what it is. I want to be a big man, Techno. You think I'll ever get one?" 

Something about the naive, enthusiastic nature of his question makes Techno's heart hurt. He softens his tone as much as he can - from his normal level of monotone to a slightly lower monotone. 

"It's for kings," he says at last. "Wilbur's gonna have one when he gets to be king. That's why he talks about it so much. It's nothing we have to worry about."

"But do you know what it is?" Because Tommy can't let go of a topic if his life depended on it. 

And Techno…

Techno lies. 

"Can't say I know too much, no. They save that stuff for the heir. Not for the likes of me."

(The truth is, Techno knows about Bestowals. He knows enough to hope he never has to have one) 

~=~

There is a kingdom to the north of Craft. 

It was a small kingdom. Was. The kingdom of Essemp used to be miniscule, even, half the size of Craft. 

Now, it is four times as large as Craft, and poised to swallow it whole.

Essemp's current ruler, a man by the name of Dream, would smile with sharp teeth and call it a case of pure luck, before laughing at some unspoken joke. His wrist would glint with the gold shimmer of his Bestowal Bond, new - he's barely been king for more than two years. He's lucky, inordinately lucky. More importantly, his soldiers are, too. 

Dream's patron god is Tyche, the goddess of chance, and she has a liking for him that extends to doting affection. Like an emotionally distant mother that compensates by buying everything her child wants, she enables him to send his armies out further, expand his lands, swallow up surrounding kingdoms like some enormous amoeba. 

Lately, Dream has set his sights on Craft. And, as usual, luck is on his side. 

~=~

Techno wakes one morning to an unusual silence and a nervous servant at his bedside. Within an instant, he's wide awake. "What's wrong?" 

They shake and shiver like a leaf. "Your Highness… It's the king and princes. They're gone."

Gone. Techno's brain stutters on the word. Gone. Gone. 

"What?" 

They shake more. There's a piece of parchment clutched in their hands. "I - I went to do the beds, and, and, no one was there, and there was this letter left on the bed, Your Highness…" 

He reaches for it, numb. Smoothes out the rumpled parchment, and reads. 

Hello, Prince Technoblade.  We've never met, yet I find I have a favor to ask of you. As of now, your father and brothers have been stolen away to Essemp, where they are harbored in my castle. I would have taken you, too, (don't think I wanted to exclude you!) except someone had to stay behind to pay the ransom. Someone without a Bestowal.  Yes, Technoblade. This is a ransom note. I'll cut to the chase, because I've heard you are a man who appreciates brevity: The Kingdom of Craft, or their lives. Either you turn over the crown to me, and allow yourselves to become part of the glorious empire of Essemp, or they die.  Choose wisely. Remember, I have all the luck on my side.  You have three days.  Yours,  King Dream of Essemp

He reads it again, and again, and again, burning the words in his memory. Then, he crumples the parchment, violent, harsh. The servant flinches. He doesn't much care, not when anger seethes under his skin. 

Logically, he doesn't stand a chance. As Dream chose to remind him, he has a Bestowal. Technoblade does not. 

But, Technoblade has often valued stubbornness over common sense. And right now, every part of him is screaming: no. No, he refuses to bow. No, he refuses to allow his family to die. 

They are coming back home. They are coming back home, or Technoblade will die trying.

[musicallisto]

⚔ — 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥; (tyrion lannister x f!reader)

@multifandomfix​​ requested: Hey, for your start of the year event, could I get #44 with Tyrion Lannister, please? Thanks in advance if you end up choosing it. I hope 2021 will be a great year for you. 😊

song: bazzi - beautiful | 𝄞

summary: How could he tell you it was all his fault - that he had loved you to pieces since the stars had taken their first breath, and that Tywin’s revenge on him was to make you suffer while he was powerless?

author notes: I ain’t never seen a fluffy one-shot written by me, always half of it gotta be depressing

word count: 2.7k (what the HELL)

warnings: language + the typical stuff that’s commonplace in GoT

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 younger, young enough to hear her speak freely around you, you’d often heard the illustrious Cersei Lannister, blessed may her reign be, mutter her implacable adage through slit eyes and arrogant teeth; in Westeros, when one played the game of thrones, they were either crowned or buried. Some win and some die, she’d state with a smug grin, ignoring Jaime rolling his eyes right by her. You would always nod in silence; partly because you, lesser Lady of King’s Landing, certainly did not dare to contradict your most redoubtable playmate; but also because, deep down, you believed in her truths. You’d seen it when your father came back from his battles, commanding the Crown’s armies across the Southern seas, or when you heard the whispers at Court of yet another fallen Lord who believed he could play with fire like the Targaryens; there was little more than victors and vanquished, and you, as a lady-in-waiting to the future Queen, could sleep easy at night knowing you were on the right side of the world.

Yet when the rebellion led by your father’s army of mutineers was crushed by the King’s forces, when your brothers all fled into exile across the continent; when your title, name, and lands became those of a traitor to the Crown; you understood that in the game of thrones, death was the only blessing the powerful bestowed when they were clement; for there was far crueler and harrowing a punishment than torture: humiliation and servitude.

King Robert Baratheon, his mercy guided by Tywin Lannister’s murmurs, decided against sending you to death as he would have any of your brothers, despite the abject crimes your name now carried. In all his bonhomie, he had made you a servant of his wife instead, perpetually condemned to following the Lannisters around and never quite catching up to them.

“Why did the King spare my life?” you had asked Jaime one time, in hushed tones, aware that a servant caught talking to the Kingslayer with such familiarity would cause quite the scandal.

“Probably because he knows you were always a dear friend to Cersei and me.”

That was Jaime, as always; believing what he wanted to believe, and damned would be the one who’d change his mind. And to think he still thought, with a disconcerting assurance, that Cersei and you were still dear friends...

You hadn’t asked her why you were still alive. You knew she’d eye you for a moment, then order you to fetch her some water. She savored the sight of you in rugged clothes and immensely exhausted.

The only one who knew was Tyrion.

He always knew everything.

Even more so when it was about you.

“Why did the King spare my life?” you had asked him one evening, in the quiet banquet hall, only illuminated by flickering candles. He had looked up from his chalice of wine and at you, clearing the last dishes from the grand supper, and he swore his heart ruptured. He loved nothing more than staying absurdly late after dinner so he could catch you alone, but when your misty eyes, still too pure and bright for a world so cold, asked such unfathomable questions...

“I don’t know,” he had muttered casually.

Neither of you believed it. There was nothing Tyrion didn’t know.

But how could he tell you it was Tywin’s sick little pleasure, to keep you in chains at an arm’s length from him, from his embarrassment of a son? How could he tell you it was all his fault - that he had loved you to pieces since the stars had taken their first breath, and that Tywin’s revenge on him was to make you suffer while he was powerless?

“Sometimes I wish he had not,” you had confessed with this outrageous beauty of yours, chin up and prosody of a dame despite the greasy plates in your elegant hands.

Tyrion had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood. You were not the King’s prisoner, nor the castle’s, nor your family name’s; you were his, and he loved you so ardently, beyond all the words he knew, that he was utterly paralyzed.

The wine and hall were long cold by the time he went to sleep that night.

The following days, inexplicably, Tyrion was the first of the family to retire to his quarters after dinner. A pang of sullenness stung your throat when you brought the usual wine cup to an empty chair. Never before had he gone to bed without wishing you goodnight. Not since the night, so many years before, when you had run out on Cersei and Jaime to stay with their boring and lame little brother and talk the night away with his electric soul...

“Why didn’t Tyrion wait for you?” Jaime had whispered into your ear as you leaned over to pour him more wine.

You froze, almost long enough for Cersei to flair your discomfort. That was Jaime, as always; surprisingly perceptive when he allowed himself to be...

“I don’t know.”

You and Tyrion were so alike. You had the same inflection in the voice when you admitted to not knowing something... frustration and defeat.

“Maybe he’s not feeling well. You should check on him.”

“I’m certain he is f—”

“Y/N, go tend to my brother, please,” he cut, his voice a little louder.

You stopped, looking at Jaime, strong and tall and almost imperturbable. You were a servant of the Lannisters, but Jaime rarely bossed you around. You looked deep into his eyes, looking for a hint, a glimpse... and found it; a remnant of the boy you once knew, the childhood friend you sparred with wooden swords with. The boy with mischief and connivance.

“Yes, of course, my Lord.”

Your footsteps already echoed in the somber halls when you remembered you hadn’t even brought the wine pitcher back to the kitchens.

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of Tyrion’s closed door. Years before, you had run up and down all the castle halls in search of passageways and hiding spots with a giggling Cersei on tow; yet you had never felt as lost and out of place as you did then, knuckles hovering over the wooden panel.

“Lord Tyrion, your brother asks to see you,” you called in one breath after knocking sharply. Calling the twins by their titles was disturbing enough to you; but Tyrion, brilliant and dedicated Tyrion, Tyrion you'd find reading hidden in the library and who'd blush when you asked him what his book was about—Tyrion, a Lord of Casterly Rock?

“No, he does not.”

There was nothing he didn't know. Especially when it came to his brother... and you.

“I...,” you sighed, at a loss for words. So many untold truths jostled in your throat, none eloquent enough for his bright soul. “He insisted I check up on you, sir.”

“Well I'm fine, am I not? You can go now.”

His words echoed in your skull with the strength of a thousand storms. Taking a shaky breath, you prepared to turn around and leave him... but a sudden force rumbled deep in you like a menacing earthquake. You might have been stripped of your lands and rights, you might bear the name of a traitor and a criminal, but he had been a general before he was a corpse and you had been an eldest daughter before you were a plaything. Your foot grazed the door, almost with too much violence, when you turned to face it.

“Truth be told, I wanted to check up on you as well, and to tell you that I’m bewildered at your recent behavior towards me, and that I don’t think I have done anything to deserve this shift in your attitude, and that I esteem you dearly and dared to hope that it was the same for you, and that I am frankly hurt by your sudden coldness, and that if you will not deign to tell me whatever is happening, then I will merely wish you a pleasant night and disturb you no further. Sir.”

Catching your breath, you turned on your heels before you could regret any of the words you’d just said. It would be a miracle if Tyrion managed to catch any of them clearly with how fast you had hammered them; let alone answer to them... yet as you were about to leave, the door was unbolted, and there stood a seemingly somber and preoccupied Tyrion.

“Come on in. And please, we’re alone. Don’t give me any of that “sir” crap, I know you hate it.”

And like so many times, so many years before, you stepped into Tyrion’s quarters like inside a forbidden dungeon, but it all seemed twice as small and dark as it did when you were reckless children.

The both of you remained silent for long moments, even after he had motioned for you to take a seat on the ottoman at the foot of his bed; the shadows from the fireplace projected onto his face made Tyrion’s unmoving silhouette all the more unreadable.

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“Do you wish to know why the King didn’t have your head when your father rebelled? Well — why my father didn’t?”

Your eyes widened for a split second, but your irritation barely subsided. For some reason, despite your never-ending quest for answers, the subject of your family’s treason and fate always prompted you to defensiveness when it was mentioned by others... especially by your best friend. The one who knew too much.

“What does this have to do with anything, Tyrion?”

“Everything, Y/N. It has to do with everything.”

“Enlighten me, then. You always know better than everyone else.”

Tyrion took a deep, interminable breath before continuing. It was only then that you noticed how shaky his hands were; for the first time, you read a disconcerting uncertainty on his face.

“My father knows humiliation is far worse than death, especially among Lords... and he knows how to take the most pleasant acts of revenge on his enemies. Your last name... and myself.”

You kept quiet. The puzzle was starting to piece itself together, spurred by Tyrion’s voice, low and even, albeit a little unsteady — as though the charred logs and crackling fire were confiding in you themselves...

“He’s known you since you were an infant. You were always proud and righteous, a proper Lady and a treasure to your name, but still pure and kind... all the traits I adored in you when I first met you. He knew nothing would hurt you more than stripping you of everything you had - status, respect, poise, and dignity... and your friends. He’s burying your family’s legacy under grime and filth and savoring every second of it...”

His words became progressively spaced, as though he was choosing them carefully. You hadn’t yet noticed your own hands were shaking now, too.

“And he can screw me over as well. Any chance he gets, he takes.”

His shoulders were solid and unmoving, but his words came in ragged breaths and laborious swallowing. He took a step forward, finally breaking free from the backlighting of the fireplace; his eyes were fixated on you, resolute and, despite the nervousness, more tender than ever. You remembered the expression all too well; it was the one he had worn all through the night you had talked until daylight about anything and everything... and seeing the enamored child in the man before you, you started to understand it all.

“He’s always known how much I care about you. How your presence never fails to lighten my mood and ease my worries, or how I’ve always looked for excuses to talk to you alone and catch your eye at supper. Most of all, how you’ve always given me exactly what I wanted... a chance. And he always thought it was the ultimate example of my weakness. To kick you around like an animal when I can’t do anything about it and know it’s all partly because of me is his favorite game...”

You clasped your hands together on your lap to curb your agitation. He had taken another step towards you, and you couldn’t break away from his gaze. Each of his features held more love than you’d ever known; more than when your father would ruffle your hair, or when you’d share your family tart with your brothers and smeared all the jam on their cheeks; and you couldn’t fathom how long it had taken you to discover this warm and fuzzy feeling you got whenever Tyrion was around had a simple name: home.

“Tyrion,” you spoke before the tears invaded your eyes. “Are you saying you fancy me?”

“Ah, to hell with it.”

Eyes entirely bathed in light now, he responded almost immediately and clearer than before.

“I’m saying I love you, Y/N, and that I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I first thought that I only liked your company, and admired your grace — that you were just the sister I wish I’d had, but I’ve had to face the fact that your face and voice set me afire in a way that nothing else can. I’m light and naive when you’re around... and you make me believe I have the strength they all won’t stop blabbering about. But I thought that if I could convince my father I saw nothing more in you than a whore like all the others, he would maybe let you go... maybe set you free.”

And the last confession seemed to hurt him more than everything else he had admitted that night, because it cut him right in his pride.

“I was wrong.”

An impossible soreness had taken over your throat during Tyrion's tirade, leaving you struck and mute. For a few seconds, all you could hear was the gentle hooting of the wind outside and the rapid and disjointed thumping of your heart... when you spoke eventually, it was but a hoarse whisper.

“All these years...”

“Yes.”

“And all those girls I had to see you with...”

“None of them mattered. None of them were you.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Tyrion?”

“Why would I?” he puffed with an acerbic laugh, gesturing at his frame, his scars, his cynicism and selfishness, and his wit and brilliant mind and feverish eloquence and golden eyes...

And suddenly your father's voice echoed in your head, unmistakable yet so distant, as he had spoken to you one day when you were little; he had said that angels existed in this world, closer than one might expect, and more often than not they took on unexpected forms, but once could always recognize them as they were the shiniest forces in the world around when everything was grim and black.

Maybe it was the dim lighting of the fire and moonlight that cast abstract shadows on the walls, or maybe your eyes and heart playing tricks on you, but you swore Tyrion was veiled by a pulsating halo, gold and black, that got even more radiant as he half-smiled.

When you leaned over and kissed him, you did not doubt that he truly was the angel your family tales had told you about, and maybe the only remaining angel in Westeros — because kissing him was like every star in the sky falling into place and forming new constellations, and when he grabbed your face to deepen the kiss, you were certain you felt his wings rustle.

“You have the most beautiful soul in this damn city, Tyrion,” you breathed when you finally pulled back.

Had he always looked at you with this unshakeable air of triumph and delight, or was it another trick of the light?

“If you knew how long I've waited to tell you how beautiful you are...”

“Tell me. Over and over.”

There was a smile on his face, the first genuine and devilishly charming one you'd seen in weeks when he stepped back and closed the velvet curtains.

He told you all night.

tagging; @fives-cup-of-coffee ​ @softeninglooks ​(all my writing)

[artofflorescence]

working title: don’t break me when you fall

bnha drabble-one shot-thing

tw: HEAVY ANGST, IMPLIED MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, GRIEF, REFERENCED SUICIDAL THOUGHTS

LISTEN, IT’S COMPLICATED. I haven’t decided if I’m putting this on ao3 yet because it was honestly meant to be a drabble and it got wildly out of hand…but who knows! (~1.4k words right now)

concept: (in a harsher, crueler world) older Izuku time travels back to younger Izuku to offer him mercy…but his version of mercy is nothing at all. (the future is awfully bleak). izuku-centric!

“I’m so, so sorry, Izuku.”

“What? Who are you?” Even as Izuku asks, the answer echoes in his head. The green hair and freckles are familiar, mirrored onto another older, more tired face.

The man reaches a hand forward, tugging him into a hug that is desperate and fragile. “I’m you. I’m you, and I’m so sorry that I am who you will become.”

Izuku’s eyes fall shut as he tries to curl into the hug and tune out the words, gently delivered but so cruel. So biting, bone deep and aching. “It doesn’t get better, does it?” he chokes out, knowing the answer but still praying, praying he’s wrong.

The older man pulls away to look into his eyes, setting a hand onto his cheek like Izuku might fracture into pieces, right there into his palm. “Oh, kid.” The words sound like they are ripped from the chest of his older self.

“Answer me,” he demands, already knowing that his heart is in pieces. Grief is laced in his voice, anguish threatening to cave in his own ribcage. “Answer me,” he sobs out, desperate, quieter, exhausted.

“My name is still Deku,” his older self admits, “It’s been…13 years since I’ve stood in your place, and my name is still…” His eyes are desolate, nothing but desert, dry and cracking. A sandstorm threatening to swallow him whole.

Izuku almost vomits, “You’re 26. You’re 26, and it doesn’t get better?” He stumbles before collapsing forward, and his older self lunges to catch him. He’s pulled into another hug, this time strong and tight, tight like he might disappear, might fade if his older self lets him go.

The smile he gets in response speaks volumes, it’s bright and lovely and so, so empty like his future self has scraped himself so hollow that there isn’t anymore left there to hurt. It’s like he’s gotten so used to the hurt, that’s all there seems to be anymore. “Well…we got to be a hero. It just wasn’t worth it…it wasn’t worth it.” A tear slips down the face of his future self. Izuku puts it together quick. Somehow, his hero name ended up being Deku. Somehow, being a hero has ripped something important, something soul-deep from them, that it’s turned being a hero into a regret. That feels unfathomable when on so many days, that dream is the only thing he’s holding onto. It feels apocalyptic, like ash is slipping into his lungs and clouding his head, because this is so wrong. Being a hero has always been intrinsic to him, so what happened? How did it become the other way around?

His future self should be a goal, not a nightmare to run from. The older man cards through his hair, shushing him. “I know, I know, kid. I know it hurts so bad. It’s okay, let it out.” They rock back and forth, the same person, trying to soothe each other. Looking for peace when they don’t even know what it feels like.

Izuku looks up, eyes wide and bottomless, an abyss that is just void, abandoned and lostlostlost, asks, “If not a hero…then what is there? What’s left?”

The tears fall faster out of his older self’s eyes, “I wish I could tell you. I wish I could give you the world. I wish I could be the person I know you, we, had needed.”

Mirror images of each other, Izuku begins to cry as well, “There isn’t anything is there? There isn’t.” Because Izuku isn’t a quitter, never seems to take the easy way out and give up. So that means if he’s here…this is the last resort. This is what’s left. A younger self for the future to save. Or…preserve what’s left.

Izuku begins to wail, “It’s not fair! It’s not. We didn’t deserve this. We haven’t done anything wrong. We just wanted to help people. Is that so bad? Is that so wrong? Why? Why us?” He ends on a keening whine, high-pitched and distressed.

His older self cries harder, “No, Izuku it’s not! Wanting to help…that’s a beautiful thing. You’re a good kid,” he buries his face into Izuku’s hair, “You’re a good kid. Impossible, impossible, wonderful child.” (All the things he wishes someone had told him when he was the same age. Oh, how it aches, pulling at old scars and scabs.)

“How can it be? How can it be good when it’s done this to us? Look at what it’s done to us,” Izuku exhales wetly, anguish pooling in his eyes. His simple need to help has ripped them apart, has torn them asunder. Devastated them in ways that hurricanes do, all flooding and empty, empty, empty.

His future self holds Izuku’s face in two hands, heartbreakingly tender as he tells him, “Listen to me, Izuku. You’re a good kid, okay? You’re a wonderful kid and you deserve everything. And I’m sorry I couldn’t give that to you. I’m so, so sorry. I know you’re tired. I know. That’s okay. It’s not selfish. You’re not bad. You’re a good kid, who did the right thing, who deserves happiness.” His voice is gentle, sweet and lulling.

Izuku’s voice is a thin whisper, teetering on the edge of breaking, “Where…where is it then? Where’s my happiness?” More tears slip down his face, knowing that 13 years from now, he will still not have found it.

His older self takes a fortifying breath, hands oh so gentle, cupping his head. “I can make it okay again, darling child.” He bumps his forehead with Izuku’s, letting a soft, fading smile drift in. It looks like the last rays of light as the sun sets, disappearing but true. Honest.

Izuku looks at him, knowing, and believes. “Are you sure? What about you?”

He laughs softly, “Always caring for others. If you go, I will too,” he sighs in relief, still holding Izuku tight.

Izuku knows exactly what he means, and knows just as well that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d consider it. The slime villain incident had caused the thoughts to flicker back full force, especially with All Might’s parting words. Even with what had happened after…it just didn’t feel the same anymore. Nothing felt the same anymore. He stares into hopelessness, and finds himself letting go of the fight. Turning away instead of struggling to escape or giving up. He smiles sweetly back up at his future self, tilting forward to bump foreheads on his own this time, “I’m proud of you,” he says, “You did a good job. Thank you for coming back for me.”

His older self chokes, unprepared for the statement, eyes wide. “…You miraculous, impossible, wonderful, wonderful child. I love you. I love you.” An older version of Izuku, stripped down and raw, tells his younger self that he does deserve love, that he is loved, even if only by his older self.

Izuku hums, accepting and thoughts quiet, quiet, quiet, asks, “Are you going to make it…soft again? Make it easier to just be us?”

“Yeah, I’ll take us away. It’ll be real easy. You just breathe and tell me when you’re ready, okay? You’re such a good, good kid.” He breathes out, leaning Izuku into his chest, shielding his sight and providing warmth. Reassurance that they will always, always be together, even if just in spirit.

His future self hesitates, “You don’t have to choose right away, we can wait a little, so you can be sure about your decision. I’m not going anywhere.”

Izuku shakes his head, brain already beginning to feel lethargic. The words feel sluggish as he mutters out, “No. Don’ wan’ to wait.”

His older self notices how scatterbrained he’s quickly becoming and inhales heavily, “Okay. That’s…okay. You’re doing so good. You’re so strong. I love you, kid. You know that? I love you.” He let’s Izuku float off to safer places in his mind, tucked away and distant as he prepares for what he’s going to do.

Izuku smiles and nods, mind already drifting softly. Humming again, his eyes fall shut and he nudges against his future self. “‘M tired. Ready to sleep now.” Unsaid is that sentiment of ready to go where I can be happy. Where I can have hope again. Where there’s something more than this emptiness. Where it’s safe and I can rest.

“Let’s get you home then,” his older self whispers. The where you belong is unsaid but heard all the same.

Izuku feels a last unbearably fond, affectionate brush through his hair before he knows no more, slipping away like grains of sand falling through an hourglass.

[essayofthoughts]

You’ve opened the floodgates. In evilest au I’d assume the meeting on the pinned post is the one right before the VM meet him? And, judging by the snippet and title Percy is probably crueler? I am,,,, so into no mercy Percy and that’s what this fox sounds like

Yes and yes, on both counts. Percy's pretty fucked up in canon; I am very mean and had a thought to make a few things worse.

[bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture]

And the last chapter of the first volume! Though technically there’s after-chapter content that will be in a separate post from this, but for now, what matters is finishing up the quirk assessment and getting into the battle trial!

Honestly, it’s a good thing that I just shoved all the opening arcs from before the USJ together into one tag, because this chapter literally goes from the quirk assessment into the beginning of the battle trial stuff, and trying to separate them out would have been a mess and a half. Better to just have it all in the ‘opening arcs’ tag.

...weird title for something that only comes at the end of the chapter, but whatever, it’s not like we don’t see that happen later on in the series as well.

[No. 7 - Costume Change?]

And we immediately come back to where we left off, with All Might realizing what just happened and what Izuku did and even why! One of those little peeks that remind us that All Might is very smart! Also god, him with a small fanboy moment over how proud he is of his kid and how cool that workaround was, mmm this is the Dad Might content I signed up for. 

Izuku is still standing firm, even with his finger swollen and damaged, biting back the pain. Ochako is cheering about that record, Tenya notices Izuku’s finger is damaged and thinks back to the entrance exam, calling it a ‘strange quirk’, Aoyama says it’s stylishly done, and Katsuki is brain broke.

I’m sorry that’s just so fucking funny. He is such a goddamn gremlin, but he’s also completely shook. He thinks about how quirks never manifest past age four, but somehow Izuku has a quirk. 

He then recalls Izuku saying ‘he earned this’ and gets pissed, blasting forward to demand an explanation while Izuku freaks out-

Only for Katsuki to have his quirk cancelled by Aizawa and also get caught up in the capture scarf. 

Beauty. Grace. He’ll bite off your face. 

Katsuki notes the cloth is stiff, while Aizawa tells him that it’s a capture weapon made of carbon fibers and a special alloy wire, then tells Katsuki to stop using his quirk already. Which is interesting; can Aizawa sense when people are trying to use their quirks while under the effects of his? If so, is he sensing the aborted movement of whatever quirk factors exist, or ??? 

(All I’m saying is that that is some possible fuel for a Dad For One connection but for Aizawa instead of Izuku… you know, just in case.)

As we sort of saw from the last chapter, Aizawa’s quirk has the side effect of giving him dry eyes (he was putting eyedrops in his eyes after using his quirk on Izuku). Izuku thinks that sucks since his quirk is so awesome. Aizawa lets his quirk and scarf drop, telling the class to prepare for the next event.

Katsuki is standing where he was stopped, glaring at Izuku who is holding his hand while Ochako worries over him and his finger. He’s caught up in a flashback (which again, reminder that this is chapter 7 and we already have flashbacks), thinking about how up to then, Izuku was just another pebble in his path. We get a brief cut to a memory flashback (not a chapter flashback) to when Izuku and Katsuki were still friends, and Izuku was waiting for his quirk to come in still, and then repeats that Izuku was only supposed to be a pebble. Single track mind, much?

Discord:

Ah, that good Bakugou discourse. This is why you do this stuff in a server with friends.

Izuku narrates a short passage of time - over the rest of the events - while handling the pain of his injured finger. Aizawa tells them it’s time for the results, with Izuku thinking about how he’s going to get expelled because the only record worth mentioning was the throw, and how the endurance running failed hard because of the pain. Aizawa says he won’t explain the process behind the scoring process, just that they reflect performance.

And then he reveals he was lying about expelling someone. 

The trio’s faces. Aizawa’s manic smile. The trio’s faces. And Momo there like ‘what did you expect?’ God, I can’t help but giggle.

Izuku just fucking ascending to a new plane of existance here.

Aizawa turns to leave, saying they’re done there and that the documents about the curriculum and whatnot are back in the classroom. He then calls out Izuku, who is shaking in panic (probably about Aizawa changing his mind again - I wonder if teachers before UA pulled that sort of ‘syke’ on Izuku… yikes.)

Instead, he just gets handed a pass to the nurse’s office (not even filled out fully, incredible) and then turns and walks off.

The class is left to stare after Aizawa in bafflement, with Izuku’s narration noting that he’s safe for the moment, but still has too much he can’t do, and that he’s literally starting from the bottom - but here’s there to learn so he can get closer to his dream!

Class rankings:

And- ah, he walked past All Might, who calls him out as a liar. Aizawa either didn’t notice him watching or didn’t know it was All Might specifically who was watching, but either way calls it ‘wasting time’ - which makes sense when all the teachers know about his time limit that he’s spending there watching Izuku the kids do their trials.

All Might notes that April Fool’s was over a week ago, and that the ‘rational deception’ thing falls flat when he expelled an entire class of first years the previous year. Aizawa discards those with zero potential, but he went back on his word here, and then asks if he sensed Midoriya’s potential as well. While giving Aizawa finger guns. Have I mentioned this man is a complete dork yet?

Aizawa catches onto the ‘as well’ bit, and determines that All Might’s supporting the kid - which isn’t his usual style. He then starts walking off again, saying Midoriya doesn’t have no chance, but that’s all he’ll say on the matter. He then says that if the kid had no prospects, he’d cut him loose, since it’s crueler to let someone chase half-baked dreams. 

All Might determines quietly that it’s Aizawa’s way of being kind, but out loud states that they can agree to disagree. Meanwhile, in the background, Sero and Sato notice All Might, which probably leads to class 1a going after him and him fleeing for safety. 

We transition to when Izuku is heading home, with him exhausted because of his trip to Recovery Girl. Tenya checks in on him, and Izuku says he’s fine, with us seeing a temporary flashback to the nurse’s office. Izuku notes his finger’s better, but he’s exhausted all of a sudden (he doesn’t remember last time since he was unconscious). 

A couple of things:

Kamui Woods pez dispenser 

Oh, so if he doesn’t have stamina he’ll die! Good to know! :)

Anyways, Izuku thinks about how he can’t keep going on like this and has to figure out how to regulate his power fast. Tenya goes on to talk about how Aizawa had fooled them, making them think that was how it was, only for it to be a deception. (The irony that the mercy was actually unplanned all along gets to me.) Izuku is more relaxed around him now that he realizes Tenya isn’t scary, just super serious.

Ochako rushes over to catch up, asking if they’re heading for the station. Tenya calls her ‘Infinity Girl’ and Izuku repeats it mentally in surprise. Ochako introduces herself, and then brings up their names - though she mistakes Izuku’s name for ‘Deku’, because of what Katsuki said during the test. Izuku corrects her with awkward hand gestures, saying his real name and that the ‘Deku’ is just Katsuki being a bully. 

Tenya and Ochako both acknowledge this, with Ochako apologizing, and then mentioning how ‘Deku’ sounds like ‘do your best’, and that she likes it. Izuku goes beet fucking red and immediately replies that Deku is fine, with Tenya chastising him for not showing backbone while Izuku calls it like the Copernican Revolution and Ochako questions who Copernicus is. 

The narration takes over, noting that even if there’s a lot he can’t do, he’ll do his best, but having All Might and even some friends behind him… it’s more than he could have asked for. 

Good children. Best friends. God, these were the good days… more OG Dekucrew content please and thanks.

We get one panel of Toshinori that Izuku’s got no time to rest, and that tomorrow the real test begins. Then we’re onto the next day, aka the first day of actual classes - and oh, right, UA has clubs, that’s something that’s easy to forget when we never see it with the hero classes. I mean, considering that the actual hero training classes probably overlap the usual club hours, not surprising, but still.

Present Mic is shown to be the English teacher, trying to get the kids in the spirit of class, but pretty much everyone is finding it boring - asides from Izuku, who is actually trying to answer the question mentally, even if not out loud. The narration notes that the mornings are for normal classes, and that lunch is top-notch food for dirt cheap in the cafeteria (as cooked by Lunch Rush), and then hero training is in the afternoon… possibly after lunch? Which isn’t great when people could end up throwing up. Ah well.

These fucking dorks. Two peas in a quirkless-to-superpowered pea pod.

And of course, more meta from the class on how All Might’s drawn differently.

Anyways, All Might gets into Hero Basic Training, how it’ll mold them into heroes, and that there’s no time to waste as he shows off a card reading ‘battle’ before stating that they have battle training. 

Have I mentioned he’s a dork? There’s more ham here than in Shatner’s performances in the original Star Trek series!

Katsuki is thrilled with battle training, of course. All Might notes that for battle training, the class will need - as the wall clicks and opens several drawers with numbered cases, each with contents in accordance with the quirk registry and the special request forms fill out before admission - costumes! Which the class is super hyped about. Izuku is holding his backpack in excitement, and All Might orders the students to come out to Ground Beta in ranking order once they’re changed, to which the class agrees. 

As he takes his leave, he notes that looking good is important, and to look alive, because from today on, they’re all heroes! We also get some nice transition moments showing pieces of people’s costumes, with Izuku being the last one out as the rest show theirs off.

So cool! And what a way to end a chapter and a book! And a nice nod to the prototype costume for Izuku. Time to say goodbye to it before the end of this arc. 

Next time, I’ll try to get through all the bonus stuff for the end of the volume, and then we can get into the battle trial proper! Looking forward to that.

[godsmercie]

📖+ childhood friends with imperial royals au (self-indulgent but Baron Bartels -was- power hungry so :eyes:)

The Baron lived in Enbarr, and after the eldest Imperial princess declared she was a princess rather than a prince, he sent Mercedes to make bonds with the princes and princesses, and Emile followed, as always. He assumed he could use their inevitable bonds to leverage his way up in society.

The issue with that plan was that the Insurrection of the Seven happened 5 years later, before any “boosting” of personal status could happen. It certainly didn’t help that The baron was stripped of his titles within two years of letting his crested children interact with the children of a man who had immense power and a hatred for those who were cruel to children.

But, the Imperial royals were all like siblings to Mercedes and Emile, even before they were honorarily added to the family, but Mercedes was always drawn to Edelgard- she was smart and she had the prettiest hair that was the nicest to braid, and she was the most fun to play pretend with!

“El!” she cried, picking up the girl with a joyous laugh and spinning her around. “Happy birthday! Today, you’re my favorite little sister!”

“Mercie! Put me down! I’m a big girl now that I’m 8, don’t make a fuss!” she pouted, and Mercedes laughed, setting the girl down.

“Fine, fine, but I’m 13, so I’m a bigger girl than you! It means I’m allowed to do that sometimes!” Edelgard sighed at that, and Mercedes just giggled.

“So, I heard from Theo and Ceci that you made really tasty cakes for their birthday,” the girl started, sounding a little smug. “Did I get the same gift?” Mercedes gasped before stomping her feet slightly.

“Drats! They were supposed to keep that a secret!” Edelgard giggled. “Yes, I made you a cake, but-” Mercedes grinned, “I also got you something else!”

“Mercie! Theo told you not to play favorites with me anymore! It makes Tristan and Irina jealous!” Mercedes just laughed at that.

“Oh, hush, they don’t have to get jealous until their birthdays!” Edelgard sighed, but she looked rather happy- that’s all that mattered to Mercedes. “Now come on, El- let’s go to your room and eat cake! Then you can see your other present too!”

                                       (Edelgard backstory spoilers below, i.e. angst)

A year and a half later, her Maman fled with her, Emile, Edelgard, Edelgard Maman, and Edelgard’s uncle to Faerghus when chaos sparked around them. Mercedes was 14 and a half, and she was terrified. She kept asking why the other 10 royals weren’t taken with them, but Lady Patricia said they didn’t have room, and that Mercedes’s little family was a last minute addition, since Edelgard wouldn’t leave with her, and she wouldn’t leave with Edelgard and Emile.

The 3 years in the Kingdom were strange. Something about her feelings towards Edelgard started shifting, but she couldn’t put a thumb on how they were changing. She started wanting to hold her for longer, wanting to play with her hair for no reason- silly things that made her stomach flip in her chest when she thought of them. The strange feelings only got worse when Edelgard got close to her new step-brother, Prince Dimitri. When she spoke to Lady Patricia about it, the woman just laughed and ruffled her hair, wishing her well and urging her to ask her Maman about it instead.

And then they went back to the Empire.

And then the experiments started.

The pain pain pain pain pull tear cut slice inject all hurt so much and she spent her days in agony- she felt things double, after all, taking in the same feelings from the royals around her, and from Emile, Goddess almighty, why did these people make them hurt so much-

And then it stopped.

Her blood ached in her veins, every joint felt overused and sore, but she was alive- her hair had gone stark white, but she was alive-

The same couldn’t be said for the other royals.

Emile was… Different. He was harsher, and someone else lived inside his head too, now. That other person, the Death Knight, was… Crueler. Someone to help keep Emile safe from harm, no matter what it cost him. His hair went white too, from the weight of the Crest of Blaiddyd on his blood, pulsing in tandem with Lamine’s. Her own was heavy with the added weight of Riegan.

But Edelgard was alive too. Her hair was the same shade of sickly white as hers and Emile’s, but she was alive. She clung to that, and stayed close to Edelgard and Emile at all costs after that. And when Edelgard started formulating a plan to keep this from happening to anyone else, Mercedes offered her help in a heartbeat.

Anything to keep others from suffering, from dying like the others had.

She became a sort of Shadow to Edelgard- different from Hubert, who handled the dirty work, laying forth a path a red as was needed to forge their way to a better world, Mercedes handled diplomatic concerns, and excuses for when the Flame Emperor needed her stage, and she created a buffer between the church and Edelgard with her ‘devotion’. Emile and the Death Knight handled the bloody portion of Hubert’s work when it needed to be less covert and more of a message, handled the creation of distractions and obfuscations of the truth.

Between the four of them, Mercedes was certain they’d use their blades to slice their own path successfully and find a better world on the other side of the film the church was trying to lay over Fódlan. They could do anything together.

[thescrybe]

Renekton, The Butcher of The Sands

Renekton is a terrifying, rage-fueled Ascended being from the scorched deserts of Shurima. Once, he was his empire’s most esteemed warrior, leading the armies of Shurima to countless victories. However, after the empire’s fall, Renekton was entombed beneath the sands, and slowly, as the world turned and changed, he succumbed to insanity. Now free once more, he is utterly consumed with finding and killing his brother, Nasus, who he blames, in his madness, for the centuries he spent in darkness.

Renekton was born to fight. From a young age he was constantly getting into vicious brawls. He had no fear, and was able to hold his own against much older children. It was often pride that led to these confrontations, as Renekton was unable to back down, or let any insult pass. Every evening, he came home with cuts and fresh bruises, and while his more scholarly older brother, Nasus, disapproved of his street-fighting, Renekton relished it.

Nasus soon moved away, having been chosen to join the elite Collegium of the Sun, and in the years he was absent, Renekton’s skirmishes became increasingly serious. On a rare visit home, Nasus was horrified to see his bloodied young brother return home from yet another street fight. Fearing Renekton’s violent nature would see him imprisoned or in an early grave, Nasus helped him enlist in the Shuriman army. Officially, Renekton was too young for this duty, but his older brother’s influence smoothed away this detail.

The discipline and regimentation of the army was a blessing for Renekton. Within a few years, he rose to become one of Shurima’s most feared and capable war-captains, and he fought on the front line in numerous wars of conquest to expand the empire. He garnered a reputation for ferocity and toughness, but also for honor and bravery. Nasus became a decorated general, and the two of them served in a number of campaigns together, remaining very close despite their inherent differences and frequent disagreements. Nasus’s skill lay in strategy, logistics and history; Renekton’s lay in battle. Nasus planned the wars, and Renekton won them.

Renekton earned the title Gatekeeper of Shurima after fighting a desperate battle in one of the mountain passes bordering Shurima. An invading force had landed on the south coast, striking toward the isolated city of Zuretta. If it was not halted, the city was certain to be razed, and its populace massacred. Outnumbered ten to one, Renekton and a small contingent faced these aggressors, determined to buy time for the city to be evacuated. It was a battle that none expected Renekton to survive, let alone win. He held the pass for a day and a night, long enough for a relief force led by Nasus to arrive. With barely a handful of warriors left standing, none uninjured, Renekton was hailed a hero.

Renekton served on the frontlines for decades, and never lost a battle. His presence was inspiring to those fighting alongside him, and terrifying to his enemies. Victory after victory were his, and such was his reputation that some wars were won without a sword even being lifted, enemy nations surrendering as soon as they heard Renekton was marching on them.

Renekton was of middling years, a grizzled and battle-scarred veteran, when word reached him that his brother was close to death. He raced back to the capital to find Nasus a pale shadow of his former self, having been struck down by a debilitating wasting malady. The sickness was incurable, similar to the rotting curse said to have cut down an entire noble line in antiquity.

Nevertheless, Nasus’s greatness was recognized by one and all. As well as being a highly decorated general, he curated the great library of Shurima, and penned many of the finest literary works in the empire. The priesthood proclaimed it to be the sun’s will that he undertake the Ascension ritual.

The whole city gathered to witness the holy rite, but the tragic illness had taken a terrible toll, and Nasus no longer had the strength to scale the stairs to the Ascension dais. In the ultimate act of self-sacrifice and love, Renekton lifted his brother in his arms, and climbed the final steps, fully expecting to be obliterated in the process by the holy energies of the sun disc. He deemed his sacrifice a small thing to ensure that his brother would live on. He was just a warrior, after all, albeit a talented one, while his brother was a peerless scholar, thinker and general. Renekton knew that Shurima would need Nasus in the years to come.

Renekton was not destroyed, however. Beneath the blinding radiance of the sun disc, both brothers were raised up and remade. When the light faded, two mighty Ascended beings stood before the onlookers, Nasus in his lean, jackal-headed body, and Renekton in his immense, crocodilian form. Their forms seemed apt; the jackal was often regarded as the most clever and cunning of beasts, and the fearless aggression of the crocodile fit Renekton perfectly. Shurima gave thanks to have these new demigods as guardians of the empire.

Renekton had been a mighty war hero before, but now he was an Ascended being, blessed with power beyond mortal understanding. He was stronger and faster than any regular man, and seemed virtually immune to pain. Though Ascended beings were not immortal, their lifespans were dramatically increased, so that they might serve the empire for hundreds of years.

With Renekton at the head of the Shuriman armies, the empire’s military was all but unstoppable. He had always been a ruthless commander and ferocious fighter, but his new form gave him power beyond belief. He led the soldiers of Shurima to many bloody victories, neither giving nor expecting mercy. His legend spread far beyond the borders of the empire, and it was his enemies that gave him the name Butcher of the Sands, a title he embraced.

There were those, Nasus among them, who came to believe that a portion of Renekton’s humanity had been lost in his transformation. As the years progressed, he seemed to become crueler, relishing the spilling of blood more than was natural, and whispers circulated of atrocities he committed in the name of war. Nevertheless, he was a staunch defender of Shurima, and he faithfully served a succession of emperors, ensuring the security and greatness of Shurima for hundreds of years.

During the reign of the Emperor Azir, word arrived that a magical being of fire had escaped the magical sarcophagus that bound it in its underground prison. It had laid waste to a Shuriman town, before fleeing across the desert to the east. Renekton and his brother Nasus set forth to recapture this legendary foe. While they were absent, the young emperor, guided by the manipulations of his magus, Xerath, attempted to join their ranks and become one of the Ascended. The results were catastrophic.

Renekton and Nasus were a day’s ride from the capital, but even so, they felt the shockwave as the Ascension ritual went awry. Knowing that something terrible had come to pass, they raced back to find the glorious city in ruins. Azir had been killed, along with most of the city’s populace, and the great sun disc was falling, drained of all its power.  At the epicenter of the ruin, they encountered Xerath, now a being of pure, malevolent power.

The brothers sought to bind Xerath in the magical sarcophagus that had held the ancient being of fire. For a day and a night they battled, but the magus was powerful, and would not be held. He shattered the sarcophagus, and assailed them with spells fueled by the power of sun disc, which crashed to the ground as they fought.

Knowing that they could not destroy Xerath, Renekton finally wrestled him into the depthless Tomb of the Emperors, and bade his brother seal them inside forever. Knowing there was no other way to stop Xerath, Nasus reluctantly did as his brother ordered. As Renekton and Xerath fell into darkness, Nasus sealed the tomb for all eternity.

In the darkness, Xerath and Renekton continued their battle. For uncounted years they fought, as the once-great civilization of Shurima collapsed to dust in the world above. Xerath whispered poison in Renekton’s ear, and gradually, as the centuries rolled on, his viperous words and the ever-present darkness took its toll. The magus implanted the notion in Renekton’s mind that Nasus had sealed him in on purpose, jealous of his success, and unwilling to share his Ascension.

Piece by piece, Renekton’s sanity cracked. Xerath drove a wedge into these cracks, corrupting his mind and twisting his perception of what was real and what was imagined.

Thousands of years later, the Tomb of the Emperors was opened by the mercenary Sivir, freeing Renekton and Xerath. Renekton roared his fury and thundered out into the Shuriman desert, sniffing the air for the scent of his brother.

Renekton now roams the deserts, seeking the death of Nasus, the traitor he believes left him to die. His grip on reality is tenuous at best, and while there are moments when he resembles the proud, honorable hero of the past, much of the time he is little more than a devolved hate-maddened beast, driven on by the thirst for blood and vengeance.

[rochellespen]

Watching Doctor Who Season 37 (Series 11), Episode Four

Ok, I’m going to have to say it: Doctor Who has a checkered past in regards to spiders.

I mean, I understand the temptation to go with arachnid-like monsters. Spiders often creep people out, so giant, mutant spiders should have an even greater horror vibe to them. Unfortunately, it seems arachnids of all sorts never fare well when appearing in Doctor Who. 

Thus we have comically stiff spiders with goofy voices in Planet of the Spiders. We have genuinely threatening, but also drama-queen diva spiders in the meh  The Runaway Bride. And then you have  what could have been truly creepy spider-like creatures in Kill the Moon which were wasted by being featured in a dire episode like Kill the Moon.

So when I saw the title of this one, I had to resist the temptation to roll my eyes. And not just because we got another music pun/reference in an episode title (first Bowie and now the Sex Pistols...). I figured we could be in for some very first class cheese with this one.

All that said, I decided to give Arachnids in the UK a go with as open of a mind as possible.

As usual, spoilers from here onward....

Episode Thoughts

This episode went back to the season opener’s structure of having things happen that appear unrelated at first, but quickly fit together into a main plotline well before the episode ends. It’s a smart technique as it can help to cover any thinness to the plot. 

We start with Robertson, a guy who is suspiciously similar to another hotel-owning, multi-millionaire businessman with a crass, harsh personality who decided to run for president. Seriously, not since The Happiness Patrol have we been given such a painfully obvious reference to a real-life political figure on Doctor Who.

 And wait, is that Chris Noth? Why yes, yes it is. That’s something I seriously did not expect and it’s fun to see him in this. XD

Anyway, Citizen Robertson here rants about a possible threat to his political future and fires a random employee for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. This actually turns out to be not so random later on....

(Side note: They do name drop Trump later in the episode with Robertson mentioning that he can’t stand the guy. I guess that’s one way to deflect the obvious....XD)

Meanwhile, the Doctor actually manages to get her companions back to their correct time and place and soon appears to regret her efficiency. Fortunately for her, Yasmin is up for inviting everyone to tea which everyone immediately accepts.

After wonderfully awkward moments with Yasmin’s family and some poignant moments alone with Graham, we finally get to the spiders. Well sort of. We just get one spider to start out with, but there was plenty of foreshadowing before that to let us know that it won’t just be one spider.

Soon, the plot ties together when we realize that it was Yasmin’s mother who got fired and a neighbor of Yasmin’s family has a friend/co-worker/? who is a specialist in regards to spiders and who is worried that she hasn’t shown up for a few days. This eventually leads to a showdown in the lavish, recently finished hotel between humans and arachnids. 

Some more quick side notes....

The hotel they chose for the principal location is a good one. It has the right Overlook Hotel vibe to it which is perfect to accentuate the horror in this episode.

Ok, having Yasmin’s mom be the one who got fired by Robertson is a solid way to tie the plot together. Having an arachnid expert be friends with someone who lived in the same building as Yasmin’s family and having her show up just as the Doctor starts to investigate teeters dangerously toward deus ex machina territory.

But on a much funnier note, did anyone else notice someone (Ryan, I think?) making shadow puppets in the background while the Doctor and McIntyre were talking about Serious Spider Stuff in McIntyre’s lab? That’s the sort of offhand detail that I just love...

Now, back to the rest of the episode...

As can be expected with someone like Robertson, all of his employees are taken out by the spiders leaving the Doctor, her companions, Yasmin’s mom, Naija, and our new friend, Dr. McIntyre to find out that there’s is both abandoned coal mines underneath the hotel (which is niffty for the spiders to get around) and a toxic landfill that was very poorly managed.

Ok, at this point I need to stop to consider something that’s bothering me about the plot. 

I think we can all agree that Robertson is a terrible person and was horribly negligent in allowing the landfill to combine stuff willy nilly. But if we’re going to assign blame for the mutant spiders, shouldn’t some of it be placed on McIntyre and her lab? These scientist are manipulating spider DNA and apparently not being careful enough in making sure the specimens are dead before disposal. Even if Robertson didn’t have an unusually toxic landfill mutating these spiders further, those half-dead “super spiders” could have wrecked havoc on local ecosystems. Thus, I hardly think McIntyre should be acting like she’s on some sort of moral high ground compared to Robertson.

In the end, it’s decided that it’s more humane(?) to suffocate/starve all the baby spiders in Robertson’s panic room and drive the huge mother spider out of the hotel...to where, I don’t know. However, Robertson clearly wanted a chance to kill something and thus, shoots the giant spider before it can asphyxiate. 

This leads to another little issue I have. The Doctor and McIntyre were just going to watch that giant spider slowly suffocate and die. Robertson shot it once and put it out of its misery quickly. I guess I’m at a loss as to how Robertson’s solution in and of itself is crueler than a slow death. 

And the thing is, I think the writers missed an opportunity here. Having Robertson clearly show no remorse for what he did was chilling enough. But I think we could have added an even more sinister edge to his character if it was made clear that his decision to shoot the spider would be considered merciful and correct by many and that it wasn’t a black and white decision. 

That way, the horrifying aspect of his character would not have been what he did but instead the mindset and motives of why he did it. Few things are more evil that someone who hides their malevolence under the guise of good intentions. 

After that painfully abrupt ending, the Doctor prepares to leave and discovers, much to her surprise and delight, that Graham, Ryan and Yasmin aren’t ready to say goodbye to her and traveling through time and space. 

So did Arachnids in the UK avoid the usual trap of tacky spider themed episodes? Well.....

The thing is, there are several things this episode did right. The number one was a wonderful mix of humor and lowkey scares. We get moments like Ryan and Graham’s two man comedy act leading up to a terribly creepy shot of several giant spiders skittering toward them. The atmosphere of the hotel and some well placed jump scares are balanced by the hilarious sight of mutant spiders gravitating a energetic grime tune (actually listened to it again while writing this, and it really set the mood). 

The problem for me has to be the easy out the plot took. I get wanting to keep this an Earth-bound problem (and making an eco-statement). But the separating of the so-called “good guys” and “bad guys” wasn’t neatly done and the ending felt far too much like the writers couldn’t think of a good solution in the time they had left. 

Thus, this episode works far better as a showcase for humor, atmosphere and characterization than it does as a carefully plotted story.

Character Thoughts

So how about that characterization then?

Two things were well defined in this episode. 

The Doctor is going to continue to be socially awkward, high-energy goofball.

This Doctor is not one who wants to brood by themselves somewhere even for a few moments. She clearly is one of those Doctor who vastly prefers to travel with companions.

Continuing in the tradition of each Doctor often being a “reaction” to the previous one, Thirteen is certainly far less prickly and much more openly social than Twelve. She seems to thrive on the “family” environment a crowded TARDIS creates. The only Doctor I can compare that to is probably Five who also seemed very invested in traveling with a group although there is far, far more harmony on Thirteen’s TARDIS than there ever was on Five’s. 

Myself, I’m enjoying a return to the idea of the Doctor being warmer and more familial as I never thought being difficult and prickly were necessary solely to create a sense of “otherness” about the Doctor. Whittaker still manages this with Thirteen’s scattershot, quirky approach to experiencing new places, people and events.

A lot of the humor in this episode was pulled off nicely by Whittaker whether it’s the cringing moments of awkward around Yasmin’s family or her sudden thought that The Spider Mother in the Ballroom could be “the best novel Edith Wharton never wrote.” 

Meanwhile, Ryan and Graham also have some wonderful bits together as they (very reluctantly) keep having to go out on spider-related missions in the hotel. The two of them continue to be a fun team who are slowly trying to figure out this family “thing” they have been thrust into.

Funnily enough, while on the surface this could look like an episode that would focus more on Yasmin since we are spending time with her family....it really doesn’t. The most we get is some insight as to why she wants to travel with the Doctor: because she loves her family, but clearly doesn’t always get along with them that great. I think this is another opportunity the writers missed as we could have gotten a bit more insight into how her family played a role in the person she became. Instead, their presence seems to mainly service the plot (Naija) or try to add to the humor (the rest of her family). 

The Last Word

I’m afraid Doctor Who may never have a completely solid episode featuring spiders....even with this effort. This is episode is a fun ride most of the time with some great moments of humor and characterization, so it manages to not be truly cringe-y. However, it would have been nice if the writers had put more thought into how to end the main plotline and found more interesting ways to develop Yasmin’s family and by extension Yasmin herself.

[haydeetebelins]

Anyway have a wall of text about Helpheus -- from first meetings up to the moment he figures out how he fucked up with her and tries to make it right. pre-romance, just laying the groundwork for now. it’ll all be enemies to friends to lovers by the end. and it will hurt.

there’s just shy of 2000 words under the cut why am i like this nobody cares but someone said it would be ‘tasty’ to talk about them at all. so i blame that person. and the fact it’s almost midnight.

Starting with first meetings, of course. 

Hel, a teenager, thrown out of her home by someone she thought loved her, isolated, lied to, gaslighted by Odin. Invited, as a queen, young though she might be, to some affair. Her family is not there -- but of course not. Odin has already told her that her father left with his new wife, and he would not want to see her, the daughter of a lost love. So Hel comes to Asgard tired, and she is angry, and she only wants to go to her chambers and sulk.

But wait! Someone is in her room! Someone is in this place, with its high windows, that was hers in another life. This tall, dark eyed Jotunn, with his black hair wild. And she demands to know what he is doing here. He is in the wrong place at the wrong time -- and she is shouting at the wrong man for it. 

Things are said. Lines in the sand are drawn. No less than Frigg herself intervenes, clasping her hand across Hel's mouth, offering the most fearful and profuse apologies for Hel's behavior. And Hel wants none of it, but she is dragged from the room, denied entry to the one place that was her comfort. 

Before she can say anything to defend herself, gentle, good Frigg is half to slapping her. Asks if she knows who that was. Asks if she knows what she has done. 

Frigg breaks the truth to her like fine china against the face. She's mouthed off to no less than the Third of the Seven. 

Hel's blood runs cold, thinking her days are numbered now, she knows Dream’s reputation and his love of cruelty. This is how she dies. Still, for the sake of politics, she bites her tongue, makes her apologies to Frigg. She swallows her own pride but its another blow to know that nothing in this place is hers anymore. 

 She spends the rest of the affair keeping her distance from Dream or studying him too intently. At one point asks her little kin Thrud if she sees the Jotunn at the front of Odin's table. What Giant, Thrud lisps, that's an Asa with Afi. and Hel knows she's fucked and that really is Dream.

She catches Dream at the end of the delegation, as he himself is leaving. Asks his forgiveness. Says she is sorry for incurring his wrath, and rattles on like a girl, not the queen and diplomat she will become. Dream would have let it slide, because Frigg had pleaded so skillfully and so kindly for the girl and her youth and her struggles. But Hel's apology also paints her afraid of a tyrant, and his pride won't have such disrespect.

So he mocks her again, asks why she thinks Queen Frigg's words were not enough, why her arrogance made her have to say anything at all. And Hel bites her tongue near to bleeding at the naked self-righteousness of his actions. But yes, little queen, he will forgive her, after tonight. She need never worry for his wrath again.

That night, in her own dark hall, she is reunited with her brothers. They are all free. They are back in the Ironwood, where once she was safe and happy. Her mother and father are there, too. She is happier than she has been in years. Everything is right, everything is just what she wants. There is no emptiness in her. 

And then she wakes up, alone in her bed, beneath Yggdrasil, knowing that it was a dream, and she weeps. In this, the Dream Lord has his petty revenge on a girl.

But he does not break his word. After her punishment, all is forgiven, if not wholly forgotten. She grows more solemn, and well-spoken, and she is polite with him, if reserved. He repays the sentiment in kind, in the times when they run into each other at various affairs. She comes to befriend his most beloved sister, and at times they hear of each other, and their affairs, from Death. Neither pays the other much mind.

And then he disappears after centuries of.. acquaintanceship. Things are certainly more chaotic without him, but Hel can hardly notice. She wonders to herself, over the decades, if he has died and if the 7 can ever be 6. He is the great mystery. The only missing persons case in all mythology.

But her returns, at the end of a decade. And it is strange, when she first hears his name in present tense. But his sister is happier for his return, and Hel does not question it. Perhaps sends her regards via messenger with all the others who remind the Dream Lord of their loyalties and alliances.

She owes him nothing and he has no power over her. It's little more than goodwill and acknowledgment of his station.

She has little and less to do with him for nigh a year. When he gains Hell. When he holds his court. It stings at first, knowing Odin so easily forgets her and her realm and its function, not realizing his true intentions with the Christian Hell. Worse still that her father is only freed like a dog upon a chain. 

What cuts her the deepest is the midnight specter, Loki given form before her. He must be a dream thing. Grimnr and Lord Shaper conspire to hurt her, and she knows not why, as if Odin ever needs reason for his cruelty, as if Dream ever, ever did. And she tries to tell him to stop, stop talking with her father's voice, and stop weeping with his eyes, to please get out of her hall and return to whatever master made him. This is a dream, and it settles leaden in the pit of her stomach. It is the crueler mate to Morpheus' prior 'gift' 

Loki pleads his case. and with one question, he proves himself. He is real, and he is not of dreams. Her father is free. She could weep for joy, but they have much to discuss, webs to untangle of Odin's making. She starts to realize the truth, and that Loki spent so long seeking her out, trying to find her brothers. That Odin lied all that time. Her father did so many things up to and including slaughtering Odin's own dearest son to try and send a message, or some regard, something to his only daughter. That he would have fought and died to find his way back to her, to free her and her brothers. That someone out there loved her and ruined himself to try and show it. 

They have all the time in the world for it, as he comes and goes. But that first night, he reveals his liberator.

The Dream Lord.

A creature she has known to be more monster than reason. Perhaps he is, as others say, changing. Perhaps, at the very least, he is not the monster she knew him to be for so long.

It scares her to death, approaching him in his own home, but she must. Debts must be repaid, or named. And half-trembling, she has her audience with him, and thanks him truly for his mercy with her father, and offers herself as ally and tool, if ever he has need of her.

He does. 

Even then, he sees her value as a potential pawn in his long game. At the very least having her loyalty might make Loki more malleable -- what father wouldn’t move the heavens to free his daughter? He accepts her as ally and, should the need arise, an agent of his interests. With that, half of Hel’s business outside of her own realm is concluded, leaving only Odin to be dealt with.

That is what leads her to Asgard in the aftermath. By her mirror, in the way that she swore never to do. She finds Odin's chambers, and she does not make a threat, she is a threat.

Hel coolly, with darkness surging around her because something dead and long atrophied in her still fights to be free, lets him know that she knows. She knows everything now. She knows Bestla's son a liar, a monster, the kind of man who hurts a little girl for no reason but his own need for control and to try and burn fate to the ground. And her eyes are so sickly green against the chiaroscuro of her form. She is jotunn, and that's a primal, brutal thing. 

How can she know? 

And that is when she drops the bombshell of her latest company. The Dream Lord. and Odin realizes an alliance might slip from his hands. And she says that, in Morpheus’ honor, she ought to show Odin how cruel she can be -- she wants his pulse against her palm as she tears his neck from his torso -- and she ought to pay him as he deserves -- long, lonely teeth tearing deep into him -- and so she will. So she will. She says this in parting. She will make the Allfather pray for Ragnarok.

Odin going to Dream for explanations, for why he’s allowed himself some affinity with Odin’s enemy. Dream calmly explaining that he did Hel a good turn after the affair with... Well, Hell, and she saw fit to owe him a boon in return. It will pass. He's sure she's too proud to keep the arrangement long. They discuss it and Dream just 'why do you care about the company she keeps, all these centuries you've told me she's nobody, just a...' 

And it slowly suddenly dawns on him. Oh, she's your prisoner. She's nobody to you. And I encouraged that once. 

So now, in fine Dream fashion, he’s facing the reality that he encouraged what was done to Hel and it's just a modified version of what he himself endured for 70+ years, that Hel was given titles and false power with her imprisonment but it's still that. Helheim is still her cage. 

Dream did nothing when it was first brought up as a possibility, and supported it over the centuries, by not speaking up, by encouraging Odin to keep it up, by never questioning what a child did to deserve being sealed way beneath Yggdrasil. He said that it was acceptable because she was a threat. Because of what she might do when grown, her fate was brutal. To him it was no different than destroying a dream vortex, because Odin did what he had to in order to protect his own. And now sitting on the other side of his imprisonment, Morpheus disgusted.

Dream trying to make up for it. Trying to give Hel some time, some boon, anything that might give her freedom, for however long it might agree with her. He knows her destiny, writ clear in his brother's book. He knows she must have the cage, and the war with Asgard, that he cannot stop this -- but Ragnarok is so far away.

He wants to badly to do whatever he can to keep her from what he encouraged be done to her. He can't apologize for it and she shouldn't accept it but he's not doing this for his ego or his newfound sense of conscience, he's doing it for her, because she never deserved any of it.

It is through this consideration of ways to pull Hel from her own prison that Dream gets the idea to send her on a sort of quest. There is, in fact, something she can do for him -- seek out knowledge of a particular rite from Svartalfheim, that has fallen out of practice. And in this, Hel begins her path towards Dream’s ends.

And if anyone actually gives a shit about any of this, next time I will write out the build up of their romance arc.

[the-frozen-pheonix]

Even though his jovial side had faltered, he hadn't grown cross, rather he had only grown more serious. As she reacted a plethora of different ways, he wasn't sure what to make of it, until she asked who he was. Really. Now his face grew grim, and though he did not speak, the look he gave her was something that could confirm he wasn't some ordinary adventurer seeking the great Dragonborn.

His face dropped, and it seemed the weight of all Tamriel rested on his features. The light blues that had been so filled with life, and joy moments ago now stared straight through the Dragonborn. Straight through the walls of warm Breezehome, past the cold mountains, far past the throat of the world. They didn't gaze at something unknown, rather they gazed at something specific. If Luana could read minds, she would know what was in his minds eye, and thus her question answered in full. With a soft inhale, then gentle exhale the Nords eyes shut and he grunted softly. "I'll be honest Luana, I think the time for a hot meal has passed." 'The Audacity of this woman' He thought

With popping of bones, tendons and other bits of his body, he stretched his fist, and arms. While doing so, he looked to Luana once more. Voice rough, crueler "If you're bored one day, go ask the Moth Priests and the scribes of the Imperial Tower to tell you the tale about the Imperial Pheonix, a Pyromantic General of the earlier empires. If you need the exercise, climb the mountain, ask Paarthurnax about one man who declined the 'honor' of being a Dragon Priest, and whom he shared duels of the voice with to pass the time on days they felt they each needed a refreshing conversation." He spit the last part out as his breathe wavered, and he inhaled once more, his face red and stressed. "If you're ever in the mood of mercy when slaying vampires, make a deal with the oldest one you can find. A quick death in exchange for the tale of a Vampire Lord who basked in the sunshine. Ask Deadra for a list of the reasons their action here is minimal. Ask the nine the same thing. You'll find many good reasons on both ends, but only one thing in their ramblings will match." Now he frowned actively, and glared at the woman with furrowed brows. "Ask any Jarl of Whiterun who his or her oldest Thane is. One who was a Thane when they gained the title, and one who was a Thane when they relinquished it. Ask the Jarl of Solitude the same, the Jarl of Windhelm too if you fancy a tour about our homeland, sister." He slammed one fist into the other on the word 'sister', and leaned forward to rest on his knees. With each word, he'd gotten more riled up, the original anger and aggravation he'd held in originally now bubbling to the surface as he tried to hold it down. Now with gritted teeth, "Don't ask me who I am, Dragonborn. I already told you. If you seek knowledge, seek those who have it, or seek the one who seeks it all. I'm no keeper of knowledge." he stated gruffly before he lightened up, and sat up. His tone was softer, and his eyes more Nord like-strong, kind and hardy-once more. "I'm a rich man who lives in Hammerfell, makes some damn good mead, and who cares a little too much about Skyrim. Skyrim's People don't sing tales of Orion, nor does it sing tales of Luana Rath. It does not sing nice things about Ulfric Stormcloak, and it does a piss-poor job of hailing the empire. The one thing every man, woman, and child in this cold, mountainous land can sing about, is the Dragonborn. The slayer of Alduin, savior of the world, master of the shout. slaughterer of bandits, skilled dragon-slayer, vampire exterminator, extraordinaire, I need not go on." Now he leaned back, and leaned his head on his fist, his fuse and temper successfully held, but with a short fuse left. 'She didn't know who she spoke with, and I didn't seek to enlighten her. A question like that, though angering, was not something to overreact to.' He thought to himself before continuing "Apologies for my outburst. I don't come asking why our home is overrun with shite, I come offering assistance to clean the shite, and to find the one person who the land depends on. I don't know what you get up to in your free time, but there is. no. other. hero. in. this. era. I wouldn't have come to find you otherwise, it's not one of my eras." He said, as if an old master telling a protege to complete a task. He was calmer, but still tense, and he was prepared for the Dragonborns own out lash. She let out a feeler asking her question, and he'd snapped, showed her there was indeed more than meets the eye, but reigned it in for his own reasons. Would she push for more information, try to see who was more powerful, or accept his apology, and accept the call to action.

More Trouble in the world.

(Closed RP with @luceirosdegolados)

KNOCK KNOCK... BANG-KNOCK...

The door on Breezehome hadn't felt the heavy knock of a stubborn nord in sometime, most likely.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...

"Come out here Dragonborn!" Erupted from the outside of the home. The knocking and summons from the stranger hadn't began rudely, though it had quickly turned rude.

"I shoulda just called this milk-drinker like the greybeards did when they found this Dragonborn." Orion murmured to himself as he huffed, and resigned himself to standing impatiently as he awaited an answer-or lack of-from the locked home.