#tyranny archon

[ulricacliffgate]

A family of three（Or lawful daddy and his two chaotic daughters）

(Yeah my Kyros was actually a young girl who is 19 or 20 when Tunon joins her conquest)

(Drawn by my another friend，love her. ID：论外)

[silverdrein2]

Young Fatebinder Isa loves Adjudicator so much. He is a Law, he is a Justice, he is an Order, and she likes all of it more than anything. She need it to feel herself good inside all of this conquest shit.

But… he's a bit suprised about it.

[havarija]

This one has been long in making but I have finally managed to complete it - ‘Bed of Nails' was a short story that has been stuck in my head since I first started working on 'SkyFall'. And was probably the reason why I started writing that monster of a story in the first place. This one happens after the events of the game, and therefore after the ending of Skyfall. A bit out of order and with spoilers galore, sure, but I wanted it done. And now it is. And words can't describe how happy I am :3 Who knows? Maybe I'll finally get motivated enough to continue writing the other one....

[lucyskywalker]

Raiden Ei stans on Genshin Impact are literally insufferable.

Taking the fetishist people on ZhongChi and Wriothesley x Neuvilette and another LGBTQ couples as well.

These famboys/girls of Ei are easily top 1 most insufferable people in the community.

[adozentothedawn]

I like both of those options, but I am tending more to Archmage, if only because the first guy seems to be the direct Aedyran faction option, and making a priest of Woedica and then not tying them into that would seem odd to me. But maybe like a Leaden Key offshoot or something similar? The aesthetic seems a bit Abydon to me but the general vibe is a bit ominous for that.

Avowed new trailer

[conlaluce]

thinking about diluc and kaeya each having their own complicated relationship with religion. crepus is a devout believer of the anemo archon, to me, so he definitely took his kids with him to mass at the cathedral, if not every sunday then at least once or twice a month.

diluc learned to pray from his father; learned to give thanks to the god who gave this city its freedom, the god who blesses them with gentle weather and bountiful lands and protects them from tyranny. he believes wholly and truly in the anemo archon's grace; his father does, after all, and everyone says barbatos is great and benevolent and kind and helped found the nation he loves so dearly.

kaeya doesn't like mass very much, but he never says so. it makes him uncomfortable, especially in the beginning, worshipping one of the gods that his homeland has reviled - but he wants to fit in, he doesn't want to lose his place here. and surely, surely, it would be a dead giveaway to his "true" allegiances if he refused to pray to mondstadt's god. so kaeya closes his eyes and pretends to pray, because better this than losing another home. (better this than failing his mission, than failing in his duty to khaenri'ah.)

and then, diluc's 18th birthday passes. ursa the drake attacks. crepus dies. diluc leaves mondstadt. kaeya is left, alone, the only ragnvindr left (except there aren't any, really, because he isn't a ragnvindr anymore, he isn't allowed to be.)

the first time diluc's vision starts to go out, the light flickering and fading and dying, kaeya prays. for the first time, he doesn't pretend, he doesn't close his eyes and clasp his hands together just for show - he prays.

please. please. let diluc live. please don't let him die. he can't die. i know you hate me, but you can't let him die, he's one of yours, isn't he? he's a child of mondstadt. he has to stay alive. save him, please, please-

(i can't lose him too)

diluc's vision never does go out all the way. it always retains its light, even if only slightly. maybe the anemo archon really did protect him. maybe barbatos answered kaeya's prayers.

sometimes, when diluc's vision is weak, kaeya prays. surely, barbatos will at least grant him this. surely, barbatos wouldn't be opposed to keeping a child of mondstadt safe.

when diluc finally comes back home, kaeya closes his eyes and whispers a quiet thanks to his god.

diluc, on the other hand, no longer prays. hasn't, since that day.

he doesn't think he deserves to.

kaeya said something, that night, about khaenri'ans being sinners. a people who have been condemned by the gods themselves for their sins. he said it so viciously, so bitterly, so sincerely. like he believed it, wholly and truly.

if you're a sinner, then what am i?

kinslayer. a failure of a knight. a man who could not save anyone when it mattered most, who raised a blade to his own family. killer of his own father, and nearly his brother, too. he has learned to kill without feeling the slightest hint of remorse, to steal and torture and deceive. he has committed so many atrocities he can no longer count them all. his sins are far worse than kaeya's have ever been, will ever be.

if you're a sinner, then so am i.

diluc doesn't pray anymore. he's a little scared to.

and besides, no gods would save him now, would they?

not with all the blood on his hands.

some time after his return to mondstadt, diluc starts attending mass again. every sunday, he enters the cathedral with the rest of the crowd, chooses a quiet spot in the back, and waits for the service to begin.

he doesn't pray.

when everyone else's heads are bowed together in prayer, diluc lowers his head to show respect, but his eyes are open. his hands lie still in his lap. he stares at the wood of the pews in front of him as the sister leading the service offers words of thanks to barbatos. he does not pray.

does he even deserve to ask anything of the gods now?

and then diluc finds out the annoying bard that frequents his tavern is actually a god. is actually barbatos. not just any god - his god.

his god trusts him to keep his human guise a secret. his god tolerates him enough to become a regular at his tavern and beg him for freebies.

okay. this is fine.

(vaguely, diluc wonders if it is heresy to say no when your god asks you for something. repeatedly. but their dynamic has been like this for months before venti's true identity was revealed, and the god has shown no indication of wanting to change that. so, for now, diluc will treat him the same as he always has.)

sometimes, he thinks about asking. asking venti - asking barbatos - if he would forgive diluc of his sins. if he deserves to be forgiven.

he never does ask.

[amarisrosalette]

Hey, don’t you think it’s a coincidence that this year’s Father’s Day is in correlation with Venti’s birthday? Look.

Let me rant.

The fact that it’s also Venti’s birthday is no coincidence to me, because Venti is technically a “father” in a sense.

I would like to add more photos where Venti was actively playing his role as an archon but the sources are a little difficult to find again because they’re mostly statements and quotes from the game.

Although not a “father” in a literal sense, we can safely say that he is a dedicated god to Mondstadt, and looks after them in a way a father would. He dotes on them regularly, as seen many times in various events and quests such as with the case of Klee or Sister Grace in Kaeya’s hangout event. He thinks of Mondstadt as his children and actively does what he can to help from the sidelines, and bring about little changes of hope.

He also values his children’s wishes and never tries to dilute or shame them for it, regardless of how “childish” it might look as seen in Klee’s case, showing that he viewed them as growing individuals, not people deserving to be punished. Speaking of such things, Venti was also betrayed several times by his children like the Lawrence clan straying from their oath to freedom and rise to tyranny, and from Signora despising him and outright disrespecting him while stealing his Gnosis. Yet, he had so much graciousness to still consider them children of Mondstadt, and that takes a lot of strength than people might think. His love is unconditional and flows in everything he does for his people.

There were so many times when Venti had treated Mondstadt and the Traveler with nothing but kindness, but gets repayed and portrayed by the fandom as nothing more than a lazy drunkard or a “useless” archon. Venti is such an underrated character but gets awfully mischaracterized by the fandom and his character is understood as nothing outside of his alcoholism.

People can come at me for this but I partially blame Paimon for misleading people with the drunken bard jokes, and for the rest of the fandom for having NO media literacy to even scour for the actual lore of his character. I swear some people can be so dense-minded when it comes to characterization.

Going back to my point, I’m saying that if we just remove the close-mindedness to his character and look deep enough, we’ll see that Venti truly is a wonderfully written character on the inside and deserves much more than the treatment he’s getting.

Venti’s done so much for his people, and for that he truly deserves to be recognized as a father in this special day. I’m waiting for people to recognize this and maybe write or draw more content of him being a father figure to his children in Mondstadt.

Venti deserves the title of a father because he loves his children like one.

People I wanna tag just because: @ventisslut @carmendeiact2whenplz @windcarvedlyre @lanternlightss (feel free to share your thoughts in the tags!)

[windcarvedlyre]

Thinking about Venti's role as an archon and how he might be doing his job- as Celestia intended- better than we think.

Archons, in Gnosticism, rule over the material realm and prevent souls from leaving it. Barbatos, in the Ars Goetia, "reconciles disputes between friends and those who hold power".

Everything we know about Venti implies that he hates Celestia and opposes all forms of tyranny, but if their goal is to keep humanity from advancing, realising the truth of the world and taking actions that could threaten the status quo...

...isn't the best way to prevent rebellions and slow progress to make the people you rule content with what they have?

Venti is all about making his people's lives leisurely and seemingly free (I'll get to that in a second). It's in his gemstone quote, the thing which summarises his approach as an archon:

"Still, the winds change direction. "Someday, they will blow towards a brighter future… "Take my blessings and live leisurely from this day onward."

We see this reflected in Mondstadt's culture and economy. There are still hardworking individuals in the Knights of Favonius, the Church of Favonius and the Adventurer's Guild, but this attitude isn't universal even within those organisations and the rest of Mondstadt's people generally have a slow, relaxed approach to life relative to other nations. They haven't produced any internationally notable industries outside of alcohol, and why would they? They have everything they need, graciously provided by the anemo archon himself*, so why strive for more?

This has already left them vulnerable to the whims of more powerful nations, incapable of meaningfully opposing the Fatui without inviting consequences they can't handle.

*Also see Jean's story quest for a scaled-down version of this. Mondstadt's general population relies on her hard work a bit too much and she enables them.

We also see Mondstadt have a softening effect on outsiders multiple times in-game. There are at least three cases of people questioning their life choices because its people and/or scenery are that nice. Two are branches of hangout events, one is a soon-to-be-ex treasure hoarder chilling on Cider Lake's coast. I've joked that Mond is a lotus eater hotel scaled up to a nation based on this, but what if that's somewhat intentional?

But why would he do this?

It could be an unintended side effect of efforts to improve people's quality of life. He was allegedly naive enough not to forsee the aristocracy situation, after all. But at the same time... he's a god of freedom and hope in a world where his people have no hope of freedom.

-Harmost's Notes (II), Remuria.

He knows what happens to human civilisations that advance too far and attempt to rebel against this world. He likely knows a god much like him, themed around music and desperate to free his people from fate, tried and failed horribly. He lives in the shadow of a celestial needle. The Cataclysm would only reinforce this perceived futility of resistance. He still hopes for a brighter future, but he may be pinning all of his hopes on a descender taking pity on Teyvat's people and choosing to help them. To quote the description of Mondstadt Statues of the Seven:

A monumental stone statue that watches over Mondstadt. Legends say that it was sculpted in the image of the Anemo Archon. "Seeds brought by the wind will grow over time." The statue silently anticipates the arrival of a noble soul to arrive, while thousand winds of time will soon unfold a new story...

Apart from that, what else can he do besides be passive and complacent? Besides make his people comfortable and hope they don't rock the boat too much before liberation is actually possible?

And the thing about resolving disputes with those in power worries me. It could just translate into his pacifism, but it could also mean he's less willing to act against Celestia than we'd hope. Why did the Tsaritsa, the only archon named after a saint and willing to take a stand against Celestia, fall out with him? He has reasons to be pissed at her methods but I suspect that won't be the only factor.

All we can do is wait and see.

[pizzafishandchips]

This is me trying to come up with in-universe reasons for my decisions LOLLLL

I'm playing a nerd so maybe she wants to figure out what the fuck Nerat's deal is. Maybe she wants to eat them to gain all the power too hmmmm. Mutual desire for spiritual cannibalism. They're just in a race to see who can absorb the other first

What if my Fatebinder and Voices of Nerat hatefucked

What if it was that kind of relationship

[definesanity]

Sagau arlecchino x male god reader

Ever since arlecchino became playable and was pulled by the creator and made into a vessel, it creeped EVERYONE out because now she could be doing work around the hearth or just being talking to someone and randomly smile and it scares them unknown to them she has her darlings voice in her head just droning on about his day while he controls her and the others, it doesn't help that when she does her idle and sits down she has a new voiceline

"Come, my dear, take a seat with me," as she pats her lap, which made the reader combust spontaneously

Hello there ^-^

Apologies if this isn't all that good, I er. Haven't wrote for SAGAU or Arle in a long while, sorry 🙏

Arlecchino is many things; some say ruthless, some say kind, some say cruel, and some say gentle.

Loving, in the other hand, is a curious question: She loves her 'children' of the Hearth, and they love her.

One would think it ironic, her to love the Creator, given how her loyalty is, at best, questionable to that of the Cryo Archon.

But love him, she does, a constant in her life of ups and downs, of being subjected under tyranny, to slaying her own 'Mother', and taking that role from her... and, after she 'came home' (a rather amusing play on words, in a fashion....), she decided to... how to say. Toy? Amuse? Converse? With her God.

They talked quite often while playing her, marvelling at how strong she was, even if her true power as the Fourth Harbinger cannot be revealed as a 'playable chatacter' (a pity; she wouldn't mind laying waste to the enemies).

Curiously, she noted that, like most, her dear God found her attractive; so, to test, she sat down her chair, and spoke those words; to take a seat on her lap.

Oh, to hear him squeak, and laugh, and then say how she is 'torturing' them with 'her nature as a Pyro character'...

It was all the more amusing... heh.

[dotomuses]

sagau p3: animosity, acceptance he/they for reader, but no anatomy or dni.

random bullshit go. previous parts here and here. just wanted to properly note the doubts and thoughts on the false god's doings.

"you can hardly hold this one accountable for your unfortunate... circumstances," xianyun noted, pushing her spectacles up with a clawed finger, "the adepti were not involved in your and the archon's business at all."

(name) smiled, bringing his cup up to his lips, gingerly taking a sip of the scalding tea. "indeed... your contribution to either side of the falsehood was scarcely significant." he responded, tone so dry and disdainful xianyun had to furrow a brow.

she cleared her throat, glancing sideways at a fuming moon carver. "you must pardon me for such a hasty invitation," she spoke, addressing all those at the table, "when one was alerted of the false- ahem, returned god i believed it best suitable we speak before word got by to the archons." (name) raised an eyebrow skeptically, to which xianyun hastily added "not that any of us would've spread it out, we were of course acquainted quite closely in the early days, were we not?"

(name) hummed, "indeed we were," he looked over at her from above the rim of the teacup, "but you must tell me why the invitation was required at all. i had assumed quite early on you wanted nothing to do with me?"

xianyun and mountain sharper looked ever so slightly uneasy, but moon carver crossed his arms and spoke solemnly. "indeed we did not. and while i cannot speak for the others," he said, looking over at cloud retainer and mountain sharper as though they had done him some great betrayal, "one still does not wish to."

"however, it must be said. as adepti, our first priority is the safety of liyue and her people." (name) smiled, knowing well what the other meant to intend, "you posses a blade against that safety. a wicked one."

how he wounds me, (name) thought lazily, but said nothing at all, letting moon carver speak on.

"we demand to know of your intentions, and why, how you broke the seal of exile. such power mustn't be tampered with, and even as the others only wish for peaceful dealings, one will not hesitate to defend liyue against your previous tyranny."

mountain sharper bristled, "peace, moon carver." he turned to (name) who seemed thoroughly impressed by moon carver's words, choosing to blank out at him for a moment, before their lip twitched upwards and they looked away. "you must realise we chose for such a calm gathering due to the fact you have not yet possessed a threat to tevyat at all."

(name) nodded, "yes, no threat at all. though i find it marvelous how little words seem to shatter this land's superiority... is it truly that dangerous?" his words had no bite behind them, fangs neatly covered by grinning lips, but the others still looked weary.

"good (name)," xianyun began, "we do wish to know, as your... companions," the entire table winced at once, and (name)'s smile faded ever so slightly. his eyes lidding, "my pardon. we wish to know, as liyue's protectors, what you intend to now that you roam tevyat free again."

moon carver frowned, "let us not forget the matter of why you are free to roam tevyat as well. it is the abyss which adopted you, is it not?"

(name)'s fingers interlocked, elbows on the table, as he rested his chin on his hands, eyes shut. "i had help, but i am afraid a dear contract, one much similar to yours allows me not to speak much more of it."

"and as for the matter of what i wish to do... hm, nothing alike what i did once, i assume..."

"i've grown weary at the though of travel, and speaking seems like a chore. i greatly doubt my ability to preach anymore as i once did, so you may rest your scowls and mistrust," he opened a single eye to look at moon carver, delighting in the way the other seemed to only frown further. "i now only wish to carry out a small favour for a friend, perhaps rekindle with old acquaintances along the way." avenge. was a thought unsaid.

xianyun looked weary, mountain sharper skeptical, and moon carver frustrated. another lie from the charlatan's mouth, they thought in unison, only for the man in question to raise a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"you great beings make it so easy to understand what you think, moreso than mortals do," he commented, unlacing his fingers to hold a tea leave between his fingers, picked from a tray. "but i must indulge in your mistrust, indeed there is not a word you should believe from me, not a single one."

"but," (name) continued, placing a sheet of paper on the table, "i presumed you would only be consoled by your own means of tethering beforehand, and have prepared so."

moon carver took the paper, looking over at the text. liyuen alphabet, but written by a foreign hand, judging by the artistic but uncommon curves. but moon carver was too acquainted by the habits of his scarce companions to know it was not written by (name) himself.

"a contract?" xianyun queried, peering over at the parchment. "indeed, a blank one as well." (name) responded, tapping at the sheet, "you, my dear friends, are free to choose the terms. i shall be bound by liyue's laws, and you shall rest peacefully."

mountain sharper took the paper into his own hands, as though to examine in for any fabrication, and upon finding none commented, "a truly unexpected show of genuineness from you, lord (name)."

(name) narrowed his eyes in offense, "...right. i shall give you time to decide the terms in solitude. when you are to sign it, the affects will bear themselves on me without question." he took the tea leaf to his mouth, resting it under his tongue. "and should you find any falsehood... i need not create your pre-existing judgements."

time passed awfully quick in tevyat, (name) thought, watching the adepti privately fuss over the sheet, trying to ensure no loopholes in their terms at all. minutes seemed to play the role of hours, and hours the role of months. in merely seconds the three were done with their terms, and (name) almost giggled at the absurdity of such a stern matter, him, being settled so soon.

"the terms are simple," cloud retainer stated, "a tongue-binder. you are forbidden from spreading falsehoods to any man, child, creature, being, belief, and depleted from writing them, inking them, putting them in song, poem, prose or sharing it in any way."

moon carver looked ever so slightly smug, uncharacteristic for his regular demeanor, "judging to how your injustices to tevyat's purity stem from your lies, you shall be unallowed to lie in any shape of form. this one term single handedly covers any issue you could pose to liyue, the adepti, the archons, and tevyat herself."

(name) looked bored, chewing on the tea leaf in his mouth idly, "very well. i assume you have signed it already, since i feel a sense of foreboding just looking at you."

mountain carver scowled, shoving the piece of paper onto the table. "do with it what you must, but surely you already know, that any defamation done to the contract will not undo it's contents, unless you are you die and miraculously be brought back to life." he meant it in contempt, but xianyun still muttered under her breath "this excludes if you are to become a jiāngshī of course, though i doubt any adepti would aid you in it..."

(name) tilted his head, looking solemnly at the three, and then at the contract. "quite innovative i must say" he drawled, not meaning it at all, but it must've been a truth, "if our business here is complete, i would greatly like to take my leave. even one as idle as myself has other things to do than sit out at tea parties, esteemed hosts."

moon carver and mountain sharper turned to eachother, but cloud retainer spoke first. "indeed. we would not wish for your presence to be found, especially not in the company of the adepti, lord (name). though one must ask for the knowledge of where you plan to keep your abode, and i am afraid it is a matter of curiosity over concern."

(name) sighed, eyes wandering over to take in chenyu vale's scenery, peering down at the far-away ground from their little meeting on the trunk of a large, curved tree. "i do not know, dearest cloud retainer," he mused, resting his head on his palm, "i assume i must wander as i once did. you need not worry so." he added, a little sarcastically, knowing well, they would not worry. not anymore.

mountain sharper bowed his head, "then we must all depart, i have my duties to tend to, and i believe this matter has been settled."

"you mustn't forget yourself, (name)," mountain carver growled, "you were a great hindrance to the land, and shall you return to your unsavoury habits, we shall not hesitate to strike you down, and repent for our past mistake of not involving ourselves."

(name) smiled, standing up from his chair, brushing his robes to straighten the folds. "your tea is despicably bitter," he commented, and xianyun glowered.

💌 very late update... school just started and i've been so burnt out. i miss the fatui, might try to shove them into the next update.

[silverdrein2]

Dancing in shadows.

[moonilit]

Watched the video and People reaction to these videos/discussions makes me feel like they don’t necessarily need a Xingling alternative, they want Xingling to DIE

I would literally use Klee as a pyro sup dps instead of Xingling I refuse, you hear me hoyo I REFUSE TO GO BACK

[havarija]

To walk through the Blade Grave is to walk through a blighted landscape of discarded armor and weapons, and high winds of rust and human dust...

[lovelytreehugger]

As a cleric, I fell in love with Eilistraee. She's so loving and cares a lot about the drow. So here is an Eilistraee appreciation post.

Eilistraee the Dark Maiden

Godess of beauty, dance, freedom, hunting, moonlight, song, and swordwork.

THE MESSAGE OF EILISTRAEE

"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."

DOMAINS

Light, Nature, Life

CHANNEL DIVINITY

Preserve life, Radiance of the dawn, Charm animals and plants

FAVORED ANIMALS

Silver moths & Silver-striped tabby cats

FAVORED MONSTERS

Aasimar, Light archons, Lythari, Pixies, and Silver dragons

FAVORED MINERALS

Mithral, Moonstone, and Silver

FAVORED COLORS

Silver

Eilistraee;

was the chaotic good drow goddess of beauty, song, dance, freedom, moonlight, swordwork, and hunting. She was the patroness and protector of the few dark elves who longed to return to the surface and live there, at peace with other races, and to abandon the endless conflicts and intrigues that dominated the lives of most drow. She was often referred to as the The Dark Maiden, the Lady of the Dance, or Lady Silverhair, and sometimes The Dark Dancer, among other titles. Briefly, she was known as The Masked Lady, when her faith subsumed that of the Masked Lord Vhaeraun, her divine brother, while the Seven Sisters nicknamed her Darkfire of Love.

She was the daughter of Araushnee (later Lolth) and Corellon Larethian, a free-spirited and kind-hearted goddess, with a fiery streak in her personality. When, during her youth, a host of evil deities assaulted Arvandor (her home), Araushnee's treachery almost made her slay her own father. Even though she was cleared from any guilt, Eilistraee chose to share her mother's exile because she knew that the drow would need her light in the times to come. After the descent of the drow, Eilistraee tried to be a mother goddess to her people and bring them the hope of a new life. She fought to lead them back to the lands of light, helping them to flourish and prosper in harmony with other races, free from Lolth's tyranny and the conflicts that dominated their lives.

Hers was an uphill battle, however, as her power was little, and she was opposed by all the gods of the Dark Seldarine. But, despite having to overcome many hardships and setbacks, Eilistraee never gave up fighting for her people. In the 1370s DR, her conflict with her mother over the souls of the drow race ultimately led to Eilistraee's defeat and disappearance. It lasted for about a century, until the Second Sundering (circa 1480s DR), when Eilistraee returned to life and to her followers.

As an avatar, Eilistraee appeared as a drow female of glowing beauty. She was tall (9 feet/2.7 meters in height) and lithe, with graceful, strong limbs and a glossy, obsidian-dark skin. She usually appeared unclad, cloaked only by her ankle-length hair that shone with a bright silvery hue, and by motes of moonlight that were ever-dancing about her body.

Her face bore a certain similarity to that of her mother, Lolth, as it possessed delicately sculpted features and shape, but her eyes were large, with irises that held the shifting hint of blue of a moonstone, and expressive of her mood or emotions.

When Eilistraee spoke, her voice always carried a soft musicality that made mortals instinctively drawn to it. Such attraction didn't cloud their minds, nor was of magical origin—it was as simple as the sound of a beautiful song.

Overall, the Dark Maiden's appearance inspired utter awe and astonishment, as well as emotions so deep to move mortals to tears. Those who contemplated and listened to her felt as if they had found the answer to all that their soul ever longed for. However, upon her leaving, they would experience a feeling of deep loss, or even desolation, though only for a brief time (as Sharlario Moonflower and his son, Cornaith, felt when the Dark Dancer manifested to them, warning them of the dangers of Ilythiir).

Personality

One moment she was a carefree child dancing like a moonbeam or running like a silver wolf through the forest; the next moment, she was either as seductive as a siren or as serious as a dwarven god.

~ ARAUSHNEE, ON EILISTRAEE.

As a young goddess, Eilistraee was a free spirit with an unpredictable temper. Even as she matured, these traits never really left her: she had a fiery streak and was prone to wild action, especially in protection of her faithful when they were harmed. The evil that was inflicted upon—and perpetuated by—most drow caused a burning anger within her, one that could cause her to lash out, but she was comforted that some worked their way free of the Spider Queen's web.

Due to a history of grief and losses and to the suffering of her people, melancholy and sadness were deeply rooted in Eilistraee's heart. It was a hard battle to endure, one that could weigh her down. However, it had also taught her to search for and nurture beauty everywhere, even in places like the Underdark, where it didn't seem to belong. Eilistraee fought her melancholy by striving to bring hope and joy where there was sorrow so that no moment was lost to gloom and to make life flourish wherever she went. She learned to find happiness in peace and arts, especially music and dance; in simple things like seeing artists composing and performing, craftsmen at their work, and people doing acts of kindness. She especially took delight in helping the needy in various practical ways, with a soft spot for outcasts, and in blessing artists with sudden bursts of creativity and inspiration. Eilistraee valued love in all its forms, be it passion and dedication towards something or someone (nor in elvish), the act of deep and unselfish love (alurlssrin in drowish), longing (ssinssrig in drowish), noble sacrifice (lurraggath in drowish), lovemaking (raggath in drowish; arkhlavae in elvish), and love and loyalty towards one's family and kin (immaea in elvish). She knew all the elven and drow words for all kinds of love, and seeing lovers during tender moments made her happy. Among the Seven Sisters, this earned her the nickname of Darkfire of Love.

The Dark Maiden was particularly close to her people

Aside from providing practical help in their everyday life, she was known to offer comfort and support in various ways, including listening to them as they let out or vented their personal emotions and experiences. When the right time came, she also personally accompanied her followers who died in battle to their afterlife in a moving celebration known as the Last Dance.

According to Rowaan Vrinn,

Eilistraee didn't test her followers, as the challenges of life were enough of a test themselves. She valued the intent behind their actions more than the actual success.

Moreover, Eilistraee refused to act as a commander: she saw herself fit to give advice and help in practical ways, to uplift and make people flufil their potential, never order.

"The Dark Lady smiles on those who see the deeper beauty within."

~ LORDS OF WATERDEEP

Though focused on the drow, Eilistraee accepted folk of all races who danced along her path, who delighted in life and in the free-form expression of it in all its forms. She fought so that all races could live peacefully together, helping and accepting each other despite their differences, and strongly believed in the possibility of redemption for those who had fallen to evil, especially the drow.

♧

[slowd1ving]

✦ II. COME HITHER, CURSE WHERE HE LIES

"This was the tale of the seventh prince; an elegy hidden from the footnotes of history. Within the game Lament of Ouroboros, his sorrows were summarised thusly: A strangely warm vein of ore.  Hero, come here when dusk kisses the edge of the Borderlands. As your palm brushes against the rock, you may be able to feel the pulse of a slumbering prince.  Three sentences were all that was afforded to the disgraced prince, forgotten to all but the Moirai." • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is), depictions of gore, turning into stone wc: 4.2k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

It took all of one year for the warning to become prophecy. One year, approximately four hundred and eight days—give or take—for the two Suns to align themselves in the exact arrangement they had on the Day of Silence. And in that single year, the schemes of Veritas Ratio would germinate, blossom, and finally wither away irrelevantly. 

He was born quietly, and thus his end would, too, be quiet. 

The month of Hekatombaion had the seventh prince leave his tower: like a bird set free from its gilded cage. Though he was never caged, per se, the youth knew it was safest to stay in its stone walls: away from the all-consuming, bloody struggle for the throne, away from the greedy claws of his siblings and their power-hungry gazes. Yes, it was far easier being a shunned seventh prince than getting swept up in the tides of fatal politics. 

Fatal, indeed—the internal strife had already claimed the lives of two of his siblings. He was the fifth prince, if one regarded the situation objectively—but it was better to lurk in the oblivion. Seven was a less significant number than five, after all. 

Hekatombaion was the month of venture. The Day of Silence had occurred in its beginning; the day to mark the new year, where the blank canvas of muteness would sluggishly accumulate the sins and sorrows of the populace in the coming days and weeks. Like honey trickling over sweet basyniai, the seventh prince would begin to spread his own influence to achieve his saccharine conclusion. 

So, the youth ventured forth—though not into the bloody palace, but the summer-worn streets and the agora. Past the stands selling their wares, and the philosophers sermonising on the achromatic cobblestones, were those conducting business and students of the various schools in Metis. The work and school day had shortly ended—the evening of debates and discourse had just begun. 

Without the gilt laurels which suggested his status as one of Elation’s blood, he was no more prince than he was peasant. The drape of his clothes and their exceptional craftsmanship did, however, mark him as a wealthy man—perfect for infiltrating the symposium of a guileless young master. 

Thus, the prince incognito began frequenting these conferences and gleaning precious information and gossip from the drunken fools who sought to boast of their knowledge and logos. Their fallacies were awful for entertainment, but Veritas was very grateful for how witless their lips were. All the news, rumours, and information passed around students and teachers alike were his for the taking: the rudimentary designs from which he would craft his weapon. From these anserine gatherings with peers a few years older than him he crafted a network of the politics of the kingdom: who sat behind and whispered to the magistrates; who supported the polemarch and just who was responsible for the military advancements of the archon in charge of armed forces; and finally, the influence of Aha and his siblings on the spread of the kingdom. 

These were the preliminary preparations for investigating the ruling class of Metis. 

Metageitnion was the month for thanksgiving. The seventh prince’s presence at the mess hall was nothing out of the ordinary, then, for the arid weather heralded festivities and games where his attendance was expected—if not mandated. As opportunistic as he was for information, he naturally assumed his place below his siblings: slightly sycophantic, yet assuredly not a threat. 

Dried figs melted on his tongue—a mellifluous snack he’d consumed plenty of in his tower, but tasted especially cloying as praises flowed from his mouth like honeyed wine. His siblings, vain as they were, dangerous as they were, liked observing how their shunned brother cowed neatly before them. Though, the watered-down liquor they ingested was nowhere near enough to loosen their lips on matters of heresy; another span of days passed without gaining information. In its stead, he established himself as a vapid fool with no interest in scrabbling for the throne: a slippery, cowardly bastard who simply wasn’t worth the effort to kill off. 

Had they paid attention to the glowing reports from his tutors, had they cared an iota for anyone but themselves, they might have noticed that his smarts didn’t just extend to backing off from the throne. Perhaps then, they would have surmised that the compliments and agreements uttered with his smiles were strategic more than anything. 

But his tower was isolated from the main palace, and he was no more a danger than a caged bird. 

A fool, just like the rest of them. Alas, his gormless act perhaps was a bit too convincing—the siblings in the know wouldn’t entrust state secrets to someone who appeared as imbecilic as he did. Nonetheless, they grew accustomed to seeing him, and his presence where they were no longer seemed unusual. 

This was how Veritas tactically placed himself onto the petteia board as a piece that could no longer be overlooked. 

Boedromion was a month of aid, so the prince decided to extend a hand to those seeking help in the assembly. From behind the scenes, he handpicked those he needed for his investigation: those who had the ear of the archon in charge of the military, those who worked in administrative wings of the palace, those who could be moulded into perfect aides for his siblings. He observed the strata unable to speak up, unable to assert themselves in the agora, unable to hold any sway of their own. 

It was no altruism when he pulled them aside. Into their minds he painted himself as the benevolent saviour; the silver tongue who gave them their voice in the assembly back. In return, they turned themselves to pieces on his game board. Hence, he gained valuable information and more reliable rumours to investigate about the imperial family. Who to talk to, who to bribe, who to follow when the twin suns dipped below the horizon and the moon embraced the sky once more. 

These were the new connections the seventh prince forged—a net far more sound than the ramshackle collection of drunken scholars and fools from the symposia. 

Pyanopsion was the month of harvest, so his Highness watched his efforts fruit into an audience with Aha. The drunkard was shrewd—far too clever for someone rumoured to be an imbecile—therefore the seventh prince bowed before the sovereign and spoke no honeyed platitudes to THEM. When the king asked for his thoughts on the assembly, he answered honestly—and THEY guffawed with THEIR chalice in hand. When the king asked for his opinion of the people, he answered fraudulently—and THEY ruffled his amaranth locks with a hand that felt far too distant for a father. 

What are people, if not tools for the Elation?

There is no greater joy for them than serving us on this grand stage. 

Do you not agree, your Majesty?

Lie after lie dripped from his composed mouth. Even as he thought of the bright children running through sun-dappled streets, even as he thought of the beaming pedlars and their wares, even as he thought of the joy in the ordinary, mundane families he came across in the synoikiai—all these mentations came to a halt behind his expression. In those three sentences, his heart had hardened against THEM: as THEY smiled, as THEY affectionately broke bread with him, as THEY gestured for sweet wine to be poured into his cup. 

The youngest prince was no longer a mere prince but Aha’s son; an acknowledgement that only served to disgust the youth further. 

How vile. 

And though his goal was reached, this was how the Elation successfully alienated itself to Veritas. 

Maimakterion was the month of cold, and so the prince retreated to the stone palace for the first time since childhood. Past nightfall, he breached the lax security of the grand library and accessed its restricted section. All his manoeuvring, all his alliances and mind-numbing conversations—it was worth it to finally enter this place once more. 

There, in a forgotten corner that seemed more sepulchral than even the mausoleum, the seventh prince found what he had searched for. Penned in faded ink that he could barely see even with the light enchantment, was proof of collusion between the imperial family and the so-called ‘heretics’.

This was the point in time where his Highness felt the most vindicated towards the venerable Sophos and THEIR mockery. 

This was also the point in time where his Highness could no longer step off the path he had chosen. 

“Do you think he can feel it?” The maiden idly twined threads past HER fingers, for it was far more entertaining to see a mortal walk towards his doom with a head held high. “Surely there must be some sense of ill portent.” 

“The men most arrogant are least prepared for their end, Clotho,” the mother rebuked, but the syllables were about as harsh as spring butterflies—for SHE, too, anticipated the boy’s expression as he stared into the face of his own hamartia. 

“Hubris!” the hag cackled, yet the tremble of HER deathly grin belied the ever-present tears that traced the weary lines of HER face. “What a terrible conclusion.”

For the Moirai, this fate was nothing more than a short-lived, tragic play. 

And so, the month of Posideon passed quickly for both the three and the prince. The information inked into the yellowed scrolls was his proverbial labyrinthine thread, tugging his body to his salvation. Through the throngs of regular humans, his path was etched towards the harbingers of heresy: alchemists and their ilk. 

Throughout these days, he hardly thought of Sophos Nous at all; yet the familiar sensation of exoneration remained. He would prove himself before THEM; he was ready to put Aha to trial in front of the assembly if need be. 

The archontes were not infallible. 

This fact applied to Aha especially. 

When he probed those labelled as heretics, he was bitterly reminded that this wasn’t their fault. They were not the lawmakers, nor were they those with choice. Victims. Shackled to the Elation, their actions were akin to those of a puppet: pushed towards their day of reckoning by a force far superior to their own. 

Thus, the seventh prince worked tirelessly. Through the short days, through the long nights—he toiled away in his tower. He compiled sets of arguments, practised endless logos, drafted out the evidence necessary to condemn those at fault within the upper echelons of Metis. 

Gamelion came and went. Under the guise of a serving boy and some forbidden enchantments, Veritas walked the long stretches of the palace with nothing but worn sandals on his feet. He traced its ancient mosaics: memorising the old walkways and floor plans gifted by one of his acquaintances. For preparation was the friend of success, and the prince was nothing if not successful in his endeavours. 

It all led up to this night—stepping into the room sequestered from any official floor plan. 

“Look at him,” the maiden cooed. The spindle in HER cruel hands stilled momentarily—for a brief while, none were born. Though, this was an insignificant deviance in the tapestry of humanity: far too quick for anyone to realise. “Has he realised he’s out of his depth yet?”

“Hardly,” the matron scoffed. “He’s ablaze with self-righteous anger, as it were. Surely he could not have been ignorant of the sins on his own blood-kin’s hands?”

“Lachesis,” the hag warned. “Keep silent and enjoy the act.”

“Don’t tell me you feel sympathetic, Atropos?” the mother sneered, for it was ludicrous that the Moirai felt any sort of attachment to humanity. To fairly allot, the reason for THEIR very existence, was no longer possible if any bias was introduced to any of them. 

“Hardly,” the crone muttered. HER sentimentality would not affect HER role in this universe; just as it had been before, and as it would be after, HER shears would continue their severing of life from humans. 

The three were rapt as the prince gazed around the hall. Every turbulent beat of his heart, every miniscule grit of his molars, every bitter fist his sinuous hands made—all of his reactions were carefully documented, since a tragic hero like him had not been observed for an age and then some. 

It was by no means a modest room. The circumference of the marble spanned the equivalent of the large temple dedicated to the Elation, propped up by frieze-decorated columns. Stone reliefs etched into the walls depicted the rise of his lineage; they were intertwined with a sickening repertoire of mythos that they had no place against. Heroes of the old gleamed bright against his family’s wickedness—so utterly out of place he couldn’t help but gaze foully at the castings. 

Turned yonder, and the door through which he came glinted with the tell-tale light of an enchantment: a rippling string of formulae that indicated the space warping which enveloped this place. Yes, although the archon had expressly forbidden use of enchantments, they clearly had no qualms about taking the knowledge for their own gain. 

For the Elation is above the law. 

Past the vast anteroom was another door; this one, too, distended and undulated under his piercing gaze. Or rather, the silent movement of his mouth as he shattered its illusions and breached its innermost chamber—and this one was the one which struck him still. 

The seventh prince could only watch, horrified, as the expanse of terror unfolded before him. There was no escape from the sight, not unless his eyes were plucked out of his skull. 

Aeons. 

There was no space unblemished by golden cadavers. Cadavers, for statues surely wouldn’t possess faces distorted in crazed screams and bodies contorted in the most despicable of agonies. Cadavers, for surely their pain had ended—he prayed they were dead within their metallic shell, he prayed their souls had departed the material world, he prayed that his presence didn’t disturb their rest any further. 

Bile rested bitter in his mouth, and he struggled not to let the acrid film swirl into vomit—for his stomach churned and his palms grew clammy at the sight. 

These were the supposed threats to the Elation—innocents whose only crime had been to be against the tyranny of his family. 

For their dissent, they’d been dipped in molten gold—either dying through the intense heat, or slowly withering away as the alchemy chipped away at their flesh. 

Both options were equally horrifying. The seventh prince’s vision swam, and he barely made it back to his tower before his legs finally gave out. 

Yes, the prince had gained the knowledge he finally needed to take down his family, but at what cost?

Deep inside, he already knew the heavy feeling in his heart was the price he was beginning to pay. 

If only he knew the fate allotted to him at the end of this thorny path. 

Anthesterion trickled by slow as a fat bee. Sluggish. Every second was prolonged, every moment was accompanied by his racing pulse and adrenaline-stricken brain. No longer did he need to act the cowed prince—for before his siblings, his mouth grew dry and his pupils constricted into mere pinpricks. 

When he glanced at his sister, he saw the golden woman who’d wept with her body curled in on herself: shoulders hunched to her ears, hands sharpened into desperate claws (gouging at her flesh, since everyone knew pain nullified pain—and what greater anguish was there than losing your very body to aureate?). She’d writhed in her last moments; the harrowing movements had sent shockwaves all throughout the security enchantments. 

He could taste her tears.

When he stared at his three brothers, he also stared at the man who had ripped off his own arm to escape his inescapable fate. He stared at the blood that had pooled like gilt on the marble floor, for not even his most ardent lifeblood could evade the disgusting talons of his kin. He stared at the expression of horror the man had: eyes bulging out of their sockets, mouth twisted to an excruciating scream, and a wretched gaze afflicting him. 

He could feel the oily sanguine dripping from his own hands. 

He could no longer escape his siblings either. 

They relished in the iron grip they had over the city. They revelled in the generated fear. They savoured their long talks—talks which Veritas was now privy to, talks in which he did his best not to heave up the fruit in his stomach and the bilious film that now perpetually dwelled on his tongue. He was reviled, but they indulged in their craving for petrification with a particular sapidity that broke him down—over and over and over until he could no longer smell anything that didn’t carry the stench of copper. 

That was perhaps the month in which the seventh prince grew the most ill. 

Elaphebolion trailed its ghostly fingers around his neck like a noose. He grew careless in his haste to put his family before trial: left too many loose ends, made too many connections, and drew the attention of far too many eyes. 

It didn’t take long for his tower to truly become the cage of his metaphor. 

No, it took less than three days from his last meeting with an informant to find the door to his tower securely locked. Overnight, while the seventh prince restlessly slumbered, wrought bars enclosed his windows in one final trap. 

Thus, the prince was prince no longer, but a bird with its wings clipped forevermore. 

But that was not the end of it—for if it was, his life-thread would not have been seeped with the bloodiest of carmines. 

Mounichion was when Aha finally came to visit THEIR wayward son. 

Join me, THEY offered—though Veritas knew THEIR proffered hand was no salvation, but puppet strings that would attach to his own. For the ceaseless entertainment of the Elation, this was perhaps the greatest mercy Aha could extend: to become a dull marionette in this gilded cage until only his bones were strung up for all to ridicule. 

And when THEIR son’s incensed gaze did not waver, THEY sighed. 

Maddened with grief, boy? THEY mocked the look in his irises—once as bright and sweet as cherries, now dulled to the hue of dried blood. 

Kill me, those numbed eyes seemed to respond—but futilely, the youth wanted to live. 

“I’ve something much better, son.”

Mounichion was thus the month of confinement, where Aha planted a short-lived weed of hope that sprung up in the cracks of the prince’s heart—and withered just as quickly. 

Thar-gelion was when Veritas avoided death, but lost many things in return. 

It had started off small. His vision began to blur somewhat, but he chalked it to confinement in his tower. Even when he crafted himself ocular lenses and fitfully forced himself to sleep in the topmost room, there were moments in which the edges of his sight faded and greyed with a frequency that slowly increased. 

He browsed anatomical manuscripts. When the light from the twin Suns was particularly dim, he struck the oil-lamps with crude enchantments and perused their words as though they held the key to his answers—yet the lack of solutions was not enough to alarm him.

It should’ve been. 

His sense of smell was next to mute, though this was a far more subtle difference than his sight. Being confined to a particular area would obviously force one to grow accustomed to its ins and outs—including the odours and various scents of it. It wasn’t a problem, until one day Veritas Ratio noticed he could no longer quite smell the papery fragrance of his scrolls, nor the rich tang of his ink. 

Yet still, he ignored the warning signs. After all, he was preparing for his eventual execution. 

Naturally, his taste palate, too, had dulled due to his weakening olfactory sense. Although, this loss was far less profound than one might have anticipated—but it made all too much sense if one took into consideration his status as a prince awaiting judgement. Feed him enough so he survives. A few pieces of flatbread, some cheese, and one or two bruised handfuls of dried fruits were dropped through the bars daily—along with a skin of sour wine—much like feeding a wild bird when it had not yet been tamed enough for the door to open. These various foodstuffs were bland enough that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he could taste either way. 

Thus, the prince simply did not notice this sense fading.

The next sense to take leave was his hearing, and this time he did feel the difference. His balance was affected, though he surmised that was due to the lack of nutrients his body received. But when the fragile rustle of paper against his fingers stopped registering; when the tell-tale thump of his heart in the silence of his room grew silent; when he could no longer hear his own neurotic waves of breathing—this was when the seventh prince realised something was dreadfully wrong. 

He’d screamed himself hoarse, tearing at his skin with his nails to wake from this forsaken dream—only to no longer feel his crescent nails digging into flesh. 

No. No.

Air came shallow to the prince as his fading eyes desperately fixated on the blood welled on his arms. He could not feel the wounds. He could not smell the metallic crimson dripping in rivulets. He could not hear the hasty, panicked breaths and his racing pulse. And finally, when he put his mouth to staunch the flow, he could not taste the acrid tang on his palate either. 

And so, the prince spent the month of Thar-gelion slowly losing his mind. 

Skirophorion was when it came to a bitter end. 

In those days, His Highness barely left his bed. Sleep was now the only respite; he could no longer read his books, he could no longer pore over his beloved tools, and he could no longer support his weakening body. Any meals were now delivered far more sporadically; alas, the prince rarely ever ate. 

Death was imminent. 

His mind had long since given up, and his body was sure to follow. 

Any day now. Veritas could only count the seconds, the minutes and the hours—no longer could the youth cross the days off, not when his joints and limbs had petrified. 

Death was a mercy the prince would not receive. 

It was when Aha next visited THEIR son at the tower that Veritas truly learnt of the state he was in. 

No, he was no longer at his tower. That was a lie—a last comfort afforded to the prince. 

Poor child, all of this suffering could have been avoided, Aha’s message burst bright in his dulled mind. He thought he felt his index finger twitch. 

Would you like to see what you look like? The golden impression faded, as though Aha was waiting for the prince to answer. Well, I suppose you can’t answer either way. 

A sort of horrified fascination lingered in the scholar’s mind. Had his flesh, too, been transmuted to an aureate statue?

Did you think you’d join your people as one of MY sculptures? The question shook sympathetically, or maybe it was a dry laugh as the king looked on at THEIR pitiful son. 

No, child, you deserve a tragic end befitting MY line. 

And thus, the youth blindly awaited his judgement. 

Death shall never end thee, for madness will be thy salvation. 

No longer did he sense Aha’s presence. 

Rather, one last image was transmitted through the king’s enchantment—a cliffside, in which Veritas could faintly see his own features carved into the rock. Then, nothing. 

The stone smoothed out, and his image was struck from history forevermore. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

When the next Day of Silence came and went, the prince was truly mute. He had no mouth, after all—so not a scream left him. 

The only thing he had left were his thoughts: one last, final burden. 

Is this the cost YOU foresaw, Nous? 

Veritas Ratio’s arrogance was no more. And so, the prince’s story came to a swift, acrimonious end. No, not end, for that implied that he was not shackled to limbo.  Bound to neither gold nor a statue, he would spend the rest of time waiting to be purified of his sins—for gold was finality. Gold was the most sacrosanct form of death he had not been afforded. 

And as the prince continued to count away the seconds, the minutes, the hours and eventually the years which trickled past in the hourglass, only insanity awaited him. 

This was the tale of the seventh prince; an elegy hidden from the footnotes of history. 

Within the game Lament of Ouroboros, his sorrows were summarised thusly:

A strangely warm vein of ore. 

Hero, come here when dusk kisses the edge of the Borderlands. As your palm brushes against the rock, you may be able to feel the pulse of a slumbering prince. 

Three sentences were all that was afforded to the disgraced prince, forgotten to all but the Moirai. 

Three sentences were how his tragedy was retold. 

Three sentences, a final insult to the most pitiful of princes. 

. 　⁺ ✦