#v; forge of empires

[merchantofwhispers]

^ how nik saved gemina and ulysses from that island

"That's precisely how I remember it happening. The sun glowing in my hair, my shirt torn open by the divine wind, guided by glory and determination to such an isolated little rock. They were so cute cuddled up at the stern, a shame I couldn't introduce myself sooner, but-.. They needed rest and I still had to ferry them to safety."

(@iincantatorum/@deepseawarlock)

[iincantatorum]

Ulysses do you think you'll miss that island once you're back home?

A furtive glance towards Gemina was all it took for Ulysses to know the answer right away, "I will think about it fondly. At first I thought landing there was a tragedy but now, I have realized that it let me experience a lot of peace. I feel changed, as a person. Less uptight, for sure. Might even be a surprise to the fellow viziers, but I do not care. I never spent much time with them before, nor will I now. Instead, I see myself engaged with another preferable pastime, such as frolicking with merchants."

@merchantofwhispers

[merchantofwhispers]

@deepseawarlock

[pyrokineticwarrior]

"I don't know where I am. I seemed to have lost my way. What is this place?"

"You're lost? Oh, I can help you, I'm Devlin by the way," he introduced himself as he ceased his polishing movements on the large, silver shield that showcased the shape of a fearsome lion. He had just finished a practice event before the great show later this week, and there were some audience members even in such circumstances. While the crowd seemed to have cleared away, she looked like she couldn't find the exit, and instead come to the back room where the warriors would be hydrating and rubbing their faces with towels.

"This place is the hero's den, where we relax, or try to. I'm the only one here- the rest went out to the bath house. What is your name, fair lady?"

[kaynothanks]

THE BARGAIN STORE

Pairing: Loki x goddess!reader

Summary: You, a goddess hiding on Earth, encounter Loki, who eons ago vowed to kill you. Loki never was one to keep his word.

Warnings: (18+ mdni) loki, what else? the smut just happened, i don’t even know how (yes, I do), oral (f receiving), loki has ulterior motives, mention of blood (lip), unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering

Word-Count: 6.5 k

Nobody suspected anything. Never had. For the past few decades, you had been the owner of your little shop, after spending many centuries on the run.

Throughout centuries, there had been wars and revolutions, plagues and remedies. You had stood witness to them all. Watched from the distance as civilizations went into ruin and new ones emerged. You had made sure not to get too involved. It wasn’t your place; not your planet and not your people. Still, you had been on earth for a big part of your lifespan. In your world, you weren’t anything special, a sheep in a broad herd. And you had had enough of it. So, you had left. Ran from your responsibilities, bid no goodbyes and settled for something less.

Centuries had woven themselves into the very fabric of your being, each era a thread in the intricate tapestry of your existence. You had been many things: a whisper in the wind, a shadow in the twilight, a force as ancient and unyielding as the stars themselves. Yet, for the last few decades, you had chosen a far simpler, more unassuming role—a shopkeeper, tending to a quaint little establishment nestled on a serene street, far removed from the cacophony of the bustling city that surrounded it.

Your shop was a sanctuary, not just for you, but for all who sought refuge within its walls. From the outside, it appeared no different from any other boutique that dealt in herbs, teas, and the occasional curious trinket. However, its essence was imbued with something far more ancient, a magic that hummed quietly beneath the surface, perceptible only to those who truly believed or those who, like you, were of another world entirely.

This little shop was your haven, a place where you could be both less and more than what you were. Here, you were not the goddess who had danced among the stars, who had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, who had fled from a war that threatened to consume her very soul. Here, you were simply the keeper of secrets, of remedies both mundane and magical, offering solace to the weary and the lost.

Your reasons for choosing this existence were manifold, but at their core lay a desire for peace, for a semblance of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. You had grown weary of the endless conflicts that had defined your existence, of the power struggles that had torn apart realms and ravaged worlds. Earth, with all its simplicity and complexity, offered a respite, a place where you could hide in plain sight among its inhabitants, who remained blissfully unaware of the greater cosmos that swirled around them.

The shop became a reflection of your desire for tranquility. Its walls were lined with shelves laden with jars and bottles, each containing herbs and potions that held whispers of your old world. You delighted in the mundane tasks of tending to your plants, mixing herbs, and brewing teas, finding a sense of purpose in the healing and comfort your creations provided. Your customers, none the wiser to the true nature of your being, were drawn to your shop by an inexplicable pull, leaving with remedies for their ailments and, sometimes, a lighter heart.

For years, this life had been enough. You had convinced yourself that you could forget, that you could move beyond the past and forge a new existence among the humans you had come to cherish. But the past, as it often does, refused to remain buried. It came for you on an unremarkable day, shattering the peace you had so carefully built with the ringing of the shop's bell and the entrance of a figure from a life you had tried to leave behind.

Loki's arrival was a storm on the horizon, a harbinger of chaos that threatened to upend the world you had created. The God of Mischief, with his piercing gaze and sly grin, embodied everything you had fled from: the power, the destruction, the endless machinations of gods and men. His presence in your shop, a place that had been untouched by the affairs of gods for so long, was a stark reminder that one could never truly escape their nature or their past.

The last time you had seen Loki, it was on the battlefield. You had been on opposing sides, and his last words to you were a vow of death. Yet, here he stood, looking around your shop with a curious gleam in his eyes, not having recognized you yet. Or had he? With Loki, one could never be too sure. You steadied yourself, the mask of the shopkeeper sliding effortlessly into place. "Can I help you find anything?" Your voice was calm, betraying none of the turmoil inside.

Loki turned his attention to you, his green eyes piercing. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "I'm looking for something unique," he declared, the silk of his voice wrapping around you like a familiar shroud. His steps were measured as he approached, the predator within barely leashed. "A gift for someone who values... rare items."

You couldn't help but wonder who Loki would consider worthy of a gift. Your curiosity, however, was a dangerous thing, especially around him. "I have a few rare herbs and special tea blends. If you're looking for something more unique, perhaps a potion or two? Depending on what you wish to achieve." You kept your tone neutral, professional.

It was a game of cat and mouse, and you both knew it. Loki's lips twitched into a smile, and he moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "And what would you recommend for someone seeking... forgiveness?"

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Loki was asking for forgiveness? From whom? The thought that it might be you crossed your mind, but you dismissed it just as quickly. "Forgiveness is not easily obtained by potions alone. It requires sincerity and action. But," you paused, turning to fetch a small, unassuming bottle from a shelf behind you, "this may aid in opening the heart to forgiveness, making it more receptive."

He took the bottle, examining it with a thoughtful expression. "And what do you seek, shopkeeper? What would you have me pay for this aid?"

"Peace," the word slipped out before you could stop it. It was the truth, however. Peace was all you had sought by coming to Earth, peace from your past, from the endless battles and politics of gods.

"A tall order," Loki mused, placing the bottle down and stepping closer, invading your personal space. "But perhaps not impossible."

The tension between you was palpable, a dance of curiosity, old grudges, and unspoken questions. "Why are you here, Loki?" you dared to ask, needing to know his purpose. Your heart raced, not just from surprise but from a resurgence of a darker thrill you thought you had buried deep within. The life you had led before, filled with power plays and destruction, beckoned with a seductive finger through Loki's emerald gaze. As Loki dared to step closer, crossing the invisible boundary you had mentally drawn around yourself, a surge of defiance ignited within you. Your heart raced, not solely with fear but with the resurgence of a power you had long kept dormant. With a thought as sharp as a whispered incantation, you summoned a dagger into existence. It materialized in your hand, its golden blade gleaming with a light that spoke of ancient magics and forgotten realms. This was no mere weapon but a relic of your divine heritage, a testament to the might you once wielded freely.

You didn't hesitate. The years had taught you caution, yes, but they had also honed your instincts, sharpened them into lethal points. As Loki advanced, a smile playing on his lips as if he were merely a predator toying with his prey, you struck. The movement was fluid, a dance you had performed countless times across the battlegrounds of the stars. The blade sliced through the air, aimed with deadly precision at the figure before you.

But the strike met no resistance. Instead, the dagger sliced through the illusion, the projection of Loki dissipating into nothingness, leaving behind only the faintest traces of his magic in the air. It was a trick, a mere sleight of hand from the God of Mischief, and you had fallen for it. A cold realization washed over you, a reminder of Loki's cunning, of the depths of his power which, it seemed, had only grown over the years.

Before you could recover, before you could even curse your own folly, arms enveloped you from behind. It was an embrace as familiar as it was unexpected, one that spoke of countless lifetimes and entwined destinies. His hand snaked around your waist, securing you against him with an intimacy that belied the years of separation and the shadow of past betrayals. The other hand, firm and unyielding, gripped hold of your wrist, effortlessly disarming you of the dagger you had conjured. Its golden light flickered and died, leaving you exposed, vulnerable in a way that went beyond the physical.

Loki's breath was warm against your neck, his presence a cloak of inevitability you found yourself powerless to resist. "How I have missed you, darling," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin, a mix of threat and endearment. In that moment, with Loki's arms around you and his voice weaving spells of its own, you were transported back across the aeons, to a time when love and war were intermingled, and your fate was inseparably tied to the whims of gods.

The realization that the figure you had attacked was but a projection, a mere echo of Loki's true self, sank in with a weight that was almost suffocating. It was a reminder of his mastery over illusions, over the realities he could weave with a mere thought. Yet, the arms that held you, the breath that teased the hairs at the nape of your neck, they were undeniably real. This was no illusion but the god himself, in flesh and blood, as tangible as the tumultuous history you shared.

The conflict within you, a storm of emotions and memories, raged with renewed intensity. Loki's proximity, his touch, it reignited flames you thought had long since turned to ash. But this was not the time for reminiscences, for getting lost in what had been. The immediate truth was that Loki, the very being who had once vowed your destruction, now held you within his grasp, not as an enemy, but with a possessiveness that spoke of deeper, more complex intentions.

As his hand released your wrist, letting the vanished dagger be forgotten, you were left to grapple with the reality of his return. His words, laden with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, echoed in the silence that followed. Was it a declaration, a manipulation, or something in between? With Loki, the lines were always blurred, the truth as shifting as the sands of time. The shop around you, once a sanctuary of peace, now felt like a stage set for a confrontation centuries in the making. The tranquility you had so carefully cultivated was shattered, replaced by the crackling energy of a storm about to break. Loki's presence, both familiar and foreboding, promised nothing and everything, a paradox that was his very essence.

Still ensnared in Loki's unexpected embrace, his words lingering in the air between you, a whirlwind of emotions battled within you. Anger, betrayal, and a flicker of something dangerously akin to longing. His presence, his closeness, was overwhelming, yet you found the clarity to make a choice. You would play his game, match his deceit with your own cunning, even as thoughts of vengeance danced just beneath the surface of your composed exterior.

Turning your head to face him, you allowed the moment to stretch, to teeter on the edge of something neither of you could fully grasp. Your lips hovered so close to his, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, a tantalizing promise of what could be. "Have you now, my love?" The words slipped from your lips, laced with a venom sweetened by the honeyed guise of affection. It was a challenge, a provocation, delivered with the precision of one who knew just how to stir the god of mischief.

Loki responded not with words, but with action. He hummed, a sound that vibrated with a multitude of unspoken thoughts and desires, before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. It was a bold move, one that sought to bridge centuries of separation and silence with the intimacy of a moment. The kiss was a fusion of past and present, a clash of wills and desires, as complex and enigmatic as Loki himself.

Yet, as his lips moved against yours, a part of you recoiled, a reminder of the chasm that lay between what was and what could never be. With a resolve as cold and sharp as a blade, your hand found its way into the silk of his dark locks. You allowed yourself a brief second, a heartbeat, to feel the warmth of him, to breathe in the scent that was undeniably Loki, before your fingers curled into a fist, gripping tightly.

With a swift, decisive motion, you pulled him away, breaking the kiss, severing the illusion of reconciliation and intimacy. "I don't believe you for a second," you hissed, the words dark and laden with all the unspoken truths and lies that had accumulated over the years. It was a declaration of war as much as it was a rejection, a line drawn in the sand that marked the boundary between past affections and present distrust.

Loki, taken aback by the suddenness of your rejection, the intensity of your grip, could only stare, the mask of charm and seduction slipping to reveal a glimpse of the genuine surprise and, perhaps, a flicker of a bruised ego beneath his mask. The god of mischief, so accustomed to being the orchestrator of deceit, found himself momentarily at a loss, caught in the web of his own making. The air between you crackled with tension, charged with the electricity of a storm on the horizon. In that moment, with the remnants of the kiss still lingering like a phantom touch upon your lips, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare. It was a tapestry woven with threads of love and hatred, betrayal and longing, each stitch a testament to the turbulent history you shared.

Your defiance, your refusal to succumb to the seduction of a momentary weakness, set the stage for what was to come. It was a declaration that you were no longer the deity who had fled, who had sought refuge in the shadows of anonymity. You were a force to be reckoned with, a player in the game of gods, and Loki would do well to remember that.

Loki's response to your defiance was as swift as it was unpredictable. His initial surprise at your resistance melted away into that all-too-familiar grin, a mischievous curve of his lips that had always heralded trouble. The atmosphere shifted palpably, charged with a tension that was as much about power as it was about the unresolved history simmering between you. He advanced, the godly aura that clung to him making the air around you thrum with energy. His approach was deliberate, each step calculated to intimidate and enthrall in equal measure. You found yourself retreating until the solid form of the front desk halted your escape, the mundane reality of your shop a stark contrast to the unfolding drama.

Loki's fingers, cool and assertive, found the hem of your clothes, tugging with a playful yet disapproving frown. "I must confess, I find myself at odds with your choice of attire," he remarked, his voice a low purr that vibrated with an undercurrent of something darker. "These... mundane garments do not suit you. I miss the dresses of old, the ones that whispered secrets against your skin, the ones I could remove with but a thought." His words were a deliberate provocation, designed to unnerve and reminisce a past intimacy that had once been.

Before you could muster a retort or push him away, he lifted you with an ease that spoke of his godly strength, sitting you atop the counter with a possessive certainty. The action was bold, an invasion of personal space that he seemed to relish, watching for your reaction, gauging how far he could push before you snapped. His behavior, this blend of familiarity and threat, placed you at a crossroads. Part of you, the part hardened by centuries of hiding and surviving, screamed for caution, for you to summon your powers and push him away, to reinforce the boundaries he so blatantly disregarded. Yet, another part, perhaps the part that had once known him more intimately, that remembered the complexity of his character, urged you to wait, to use this proximity to your advantage.

The realization dawned on you then, amid the tension and the charged air, that Loki's tactics had shifted because he needed something from you. His words, his actions, were part of a larger game, one that involved merely his goal, and by extension, you. It was a game of manipulation, of old affections twisted into new strategies, but it was also a game you could play.

"So, you miss the past," you found yourself saying, voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. Your eyes locked with his, a challenge laid bare. "But the past is a realm even you cannot return to, Loki. We are not who we once were, and desires... desires can be as fleeting as they are dangerous." It was a gamble, invoking both your shared history and the undeniable tension of the present. You sought to remind him that you were not the same deity he had once known, that you had grown and changed, just as he had. In this dance of words and wills, you were not just the prey he might have assumed you to be; you were a player in your own right, with your own cards yet to be revealed.

The next move was his, and the air between you crackled with the anticipation of it.

Loki's gaze, a maelstrom of green, held yours with an intensity that bordered on the palpable, each flicker of emotion a testament to the centuries that had shaped him. His response, when it came, was threaded with the weight of ages and the depth of a god's desires.

"My yearning for you," he began, his voice a low thrum that seemed to echo with the gravitas of eons passed, "has never been of the fleeting kind. It is as enduring as the stars that light our skies, as unyielding as the fabric of reality itself. To suggest otherwise is to misunderstand the very nature of my being."

With these words, he sank to his knees before you, an act so filled with symbolic surrender and yet charged with an undercurrent of strategy. In this position, Loki, the god of mischief, the architect of chaos, positioned himself in a posture of fealty—or so it seemed. Yet, you knew better than to take the gesture at face value. Loki was many things, but straightforward was not one of them. Every action, every word, was laced with layers of meaning, designed to manipulate and coax the desired response from those he engaged with.

His move was bold, a calculated risk meant to disarm and perhaps to remind you of the dynamics that had once defined your interactions. It was an acknowledgment of your power, your importance in this intricate game he was playing. Yet, it was also unmistakably a ploy, a way to close the distance between you, to weave a narrative of shared history and unresolved tension.

The air around you seemed charged, thick with the history and the palpable tension of the moment. Loki, on his knees, looking up at you with an intensity that spoke of genuine desire mixed with the ever-present calculation, presented a picture of vulnerability. Yet, you were not so easily swayed. You knew the depths of his cunning, the lengths he would go to achieve his ends. His admission, cloaked in the grandiosity of his age and station, left you with a choice. To engage, to allow yourself to be drawn back into the orbit of his world, his plans, or to hold firm, to remember the reasons for your distance, for the life you had chosen away from the machinations of gods and their games.

The moment stretched, a tableau of tension and possibility, as you weighed your response, acutely aware of the stakes, of the game that was afoot, and of Loki, who knelt before you, a god cloaked in the guise of a supplicant, yet undeniably dangerous, undeniably compelling.

As Loki knelt before you, the atmosphere thick with tension and unspoken words, you made a decision. Lifting your leg, the black of your heeled shoes catching the light and glinting ominously, you pushed against his shoulder. It was a gesture meant to distance, to assert your autonomy against his sudden show of vulnerability or manipulation—whichever it truly was. Your voice, when it came, was laced with a mixture of resolve and undeniable truth, a reflection of the complex dance that had always defined your interactions.

"Your desire for me," you began, your words deliberate, "could never hope to keep pace with your lust for your myriad schemes and machinations, my love." The term of endearment, spoken so, carried a weight of irony, a nod to the past entanglements and the understanding that, for Loki, the pursuit of his goals often overshadowed everything else.

Yet, instead of acquiescing to the push, of allowing himself to be dismissed so easily, Loki's reaction was to tighten his grasp on the situation—quite literally. His hands, those instruments of mischief and manipulation, found your leg, his touch bold as he held you in place. Then, with an audacity that was quintessentially Loki, he pressed his lips against your calf in a kiss that was as shocking as it was calculated. It was an act of defiance, a refusal to be pushed away, and a statement of his intent all at once.

This gesture, so intimate and yet so brazen, served multiple purposes. It was a challenge to your autonomy, a test of your boundaries, and an undeniable declaration of his continued interest. Yet, it was also unmistakably Loki—crossing lines, blurring boundaries, and always, always pushing for more than what was offered. The action left you momentarily stunned, grappling with the rush of emotions it elicited. Anger, irritation, an unwelcome surge of something more confusing, all mingled together. It was a reminder of the power he wielded, not just through his magic, but through his very presence, his ability to unnerve and to provoke.

In that moment, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare once more. It was a tangled web of attraction and repulsion, of history and the potential for future conflicts. His refusal to be dismissed, to be pushed aside, was both infuriating and intriguing. It was Loki in all his complexity, challenging you to respond, to engage, to once again become entangled in the endless cycle of push and pull that had always defined you.

The next move was yours to make, and the shop, once a place of mundane tranquility, had become a battleground of wills, a stage upon which the next act of your shared story would unfold. With a flick of your fingers, reality within the confines of your shop twisted and shifted, unfurling like the petals of a flower under the first light of dawn. The mundane guise that had cloaked the truth from prying eyes dissolved, revealing the hidden splendor that no ordinary human could perceive. The illusion you had meticulously maintained for years now peeled away, and the floor beneath your feet transformed, paths of gold unfurling like rivers through the space. Artifacts, their origins as ancient and varied as the stars themselves, now adorned the walls—each piece a testament to histories untold and powers unimaginable.

But the transformation did not stop with the shop. It enveloped you as well, the very essence of your being responding to the unspoken command. The simple, mundane dress that had draped your form vanished, replaced by attire that echoed Loki's wistful remembrance. What materialized was reminiscent of your homeland's attire, designed for the relentless heat and the unyielding brightness of your realm. It was barely more than a tunic, the silk woven in patterns that spoke of ancient craftsmanship and royal decree, clinging to your form in a way that left little to the imagination. The hem flirted with the very brink of decency, the rump of your body barely shielded by the delicate fabric, a bold declaration of your heritage and status.

In this transformation, you reclaimed a fragment of your past self, the visage you had donned before you sought refuge and anonymity amongst the mortals of Earth. The change was not merely physical but symbolic, a shedding of the facade you had adopted to navigate the complexities of a world not your own. Standing there, in the true appearance of your being, you confronted Loki not as the unassuming shopkeeper he had encountered moments before, but as the goddess you truly were—powerful, formidable, and undeniably yourself. You stood before him not as an adversary to be underestimated, but as an equal, a being of immense power and depth, whose true nature was as complex and as potent as his own.

The shop, now a reflection of truths long concealed, served as the perfect backdrop for the unfolding confrontation. The artifacts that lined the walls, each bearing witness to the ages and the stories they contained, stood as silent sentinels to the encounter between two beings who transcended the mundane, whose histories were intertwined with the very fabric of the cosmos.

In this moment, the illusion shattered, the truth laid bare, you awaited Loki's response, the air thick with anticipation and the weight of unspoken challenges. The game, it seemed, had shifted, and the rules were being rewritten with each passing second. As the golden light settled and the true form of your shop shimmered into existence around you, Loki's initial reaction was a momentary flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into an appreciative smirk. His gaze swept over the transformed space, taking in the ancient artifacts and the streams of gold that ran like rivers across the floor. But it was the change in you that held his attention captive. The way the silk of your tunic clung to your form, the bold declaration of your divine heritage—it was as if he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

Loki breathed, his voice a blend of admiration and something darker, more primal. "This," Loki's voice wove through the air with an echo of ancient power, "is the true essence of you that lingers in my memory.” His eyes, alight with a mischievous and predatory gleam, never left your form as he slowly circled you, taking in every detail. "Hiding in plain sight, were we?" he mused, his tone teasing yet laced with an edge that hinted at the complexity of your shared past.

Despite the tension crackling in the air between you, you stood your ground, your posture radiating confidence and power. "And what of it, Loki?" you countered, your voice steady and imbued with strength. "Did you expect to find me cowering? Diminished?"

Loki's circling came to a halt, and he faced you, the distance between you charged with an electric anticipation. "On the contrary," he replied, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable weight, as his fingers went forward, pulling at one of the strings keeping your body hidden from his gaze. "I've always known your strength, your... resilience. It's what makes this game so exhilarating."

The word 'game' hung between you, a reminder of the countless layers and facades both of you had navigated over the eons. This moment, however, stripped away those layers, revealing the raw essence beneath. It was a confrontation, yes, but also a recognition of the profound connection that had always existed between you—a connection fraught with complexity and contradictions.

"Are you certain you wish to engage in another game, Loki?" Your voice, steady and imbued with a quiet power, cut through the charged silence, even as you felt him unbuckle your shoes, his fingers deftly and slowly slipping them from your feet. "I seem to recall your rather... unfortunate defeat last time." The words hung in the air, a challenge and a reminder of past encounters where the balance of power had shifted, leaving Loki on the losing end.

Loki's hands stilled momentarily as he lifted his gaze to yours, a cunning glint sparkling within those deep green eyes. "Ah, but my dear, to dwell on a solitary defeat is to overlook the endless expanse of the game," he mused with a sly, almost serpentine smile. "The allure for me lies not in the victory or the loss, but in the exquisite complexity of the play itself. The interplay of strategy, the artful dance of minds. And," his voice dropped, a velvet caress against the tension hanging in the air, "the delicious possibility of reversing fortunes, which, I assure you, is a prospect I find most... exhilarating."

As he spoke, his fingers slid underneath your heel, leading your leg to rest over his shoulder with a care and precision that contradicted the levity in his voice. Loki laid another feathery touch to your thighs, gripping them tighter as he wedged his face between them, while you held fast to the edge of the counter. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your core.

There was no need to harbor affection for the man to appreciate the artistry his mouth provided. His tongue grazed the surface of your clit and you felt a tremor coursing through your very bones. He delved deeper, his taste encompassing the entirety of your core. As he did, your legs seemed to tighten inadvertently around him, though it posed no barrier to his indulgence. Your cunt clenched and you were swept away as his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs, pulling you closer onto his awaiting tongue. The surge of familiar emotions within you was overpowering, far too intense for your unprepared body. Your head fell back with a moan as you gave yourself to him in your entirety and Loki groaned, his tongue honing in on your bud as he chased your orgasm. He refused to relent until the heat had filled you whole, filled your soul. You writhed underneath him, hips helplessly buckling. Loki chuckled, a melodic blend of amusement and triumph, resonating with an undercurrent of sly cunning.

“That’s it, darling,” he coaxed as a surge of desire blossomed within you, enough to part your lips into a broken cry. His dark hair peeked between your fingers and his tongue snuck out to lick his lips while his gaze was set on you above him. His hand wandered to your tunic and yanked it away. His thumb grazed your nipple when he returned his mouth to your center, two of his fingers slowly dipping into your glistening heat.

“Loki,” you whimpered, tightening the hold on his hair—he matched your movements, arm securing you to him so forcefully no might on Earth and beyond could have parted you from his lips. He curled his fingers, rubbing that special spot inside of you and your stomach twitched. You felt him grin against your heat, teeth gracing over your sensitive bud, as a tremor ran through your body.

“My tempest darling,” he sighed when he finally pulled his fingers from you, leaving behind such an agonizing feeling of emptiness. You were about to retaliate, when he stood, bringing your body this his, hand running along the length of your thigh before he hoisted it against his hip. “Even if doubt shadows your heart, my dear, believe me, the absence of your taste on my tongue has been an ache most persistent,” Loki declared, his voice weaving together assurance and playful sincerity. One of his hands made quick work of undoing the dress pants of the black suit he was clad in, the other clutching your thigh close—so terribly tight you were certain even the skin of gods could be bruised by his hungry fingers. His lips found yours, softly at first, though through the looming desire burning within, Loki’s control appeared to stray when you bit into his lip, drawing blood. A groan tore from his throat, eyes darkening as he looked down at you, refusing to part from your gaze even as he entered you. Your mouth fell open against his, a silent moan slipping from your lips, his forehead dropping onto yours. He moved then, pulling out barely before he pushed back in so deeply it shook you. Loki had always been the embodiment of wickedness wrapped in the guise of charm; an enigma whose very presence stirred a vicious blend of temptation and sin, drawing all who encounter him into a dance with the devilishly divine.

“How I’ve missed you,” he whispered against the heated skin of your neck, traveling downward to softly kiss along your bared collarbones. His voice was a divinity, dark and rich and soaked with the sweetest of all sins. The emerald green within his eyes reflected the gold surrounding you. One of your hands cradled the back of his neck, fingers catching loose strands of raven hair that had grown so long in the centuries you hadn’t laid your sights on him. Loki held your thigh in a fierce grip, fingers digging further into your flesh with every stroke of his throbbing cock with your heat.

“You swore to kill me, my love,” you gasped as he delivered another harsh thrust, your head fell forward against his shoulder a searing pleasure built within you.

As his teeth grazed the delicate skin of your neck, savoring the salty essence of your being, Loki’s hand traveled from the curve of your thigh, securing you firmly against him at your waist, moving you against him in a refined rhythm. Against the warmth of your skin, he murmured, “To kill you, my little deity, would be akin to consigning a part of my own soul into the abyss.”

A gasp caught in your throat as he thrust into you deeper than before and you collapsed against him, coming with a cry of relief. He continued thrusting into you, arm keeping you secured against him as though you were about to vanish as you had done all those years ago. He lifted your chin, his mouth capturing yours when you felt him jerk inside of you. You felt his warmth spilling into you, his shameless groans filling your ears as he emptied himself within you. Breath mixing with his, you stayed there for a moment—in which the world seemed to narrow down to the space between the two of you, to the silent conversation spoken through glances and the slight tremors in your lungs.

Loki stole another kiss, then, as if breaking from a spell, his expression shifted, his early devotion to you giving way to a more serious, contemplative mien. “Business with you, my tempest darling, had always been a delight most exquisite,” Loki said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that bordered on violence. “I trust you’re familiar with the tales of the Celestial Compass, aren’t you?”  he continued, referring to an artifact of immense power and ancient origin, rumored to guide its holder to whatever they sought most in the universe. It was an object that you had kept hidden away, its location known only to you.

The mention of the compass sliced through the tension, a stark reminder of the stakes at play. Loki's presence in your shop, the transformation of your surroundings, the exchange of words—all were mere preludes to this moment.

"Why, Loki?" you asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and defiance as you fixed the tunic he had so carelessly pulled aside. "Why seek the compass now? What is it you desire so fervently to find?"

Loki's smile then was enigmatic, a mask that offered no clear answers. "Ah, but revealing one's desires so openly is a dangerous game, my dear. Let's just say... I seek something that has long eluded me." The ambiguity of his response left you wary, aware that Loki's desires were seldom straightforward and often entwined with greater schemes and hidden agendas. Yet, the acknowledgment of this quest, of his need for the compass, revealed a vulnerability in Loki—a crack in the armor he so carefully maintained.

As Loki awaited your response, the weight of centuries and the anticipation of what was to come hung heavily in the air. The next move was yours to make, in a game that was as much about uncovering truths as it was about concealing them. In response to his inquiry, your reply came not in words, but in the form of a serene smile, a silent echo of your shared past. With a casual flick of your fingers, you vanished into the ether, just as you had done countless centuries before, leaving Loki alone in the confines of what now appeared to be a decrepit shop. Its once vibrant essence faded, reflecting the sudden void your departure had created.

Loki, momentarily taken aback, quickly regained his composure. A laugh, rich with both amusement and a tinge of admiration, escaped him as he reached out to snatch a golden letter materializing out of thin air. The letter, simple yet profound in its message. The words, though brief, carried the weight of eons, a testament to the enduring dance between you two. Loki's gaze lingered on the golden script, a smirk playing on his lips, already plotting his next move in the timeless game between you.

“Farewell, my love.”

[cadmusfly]

Let's Judge The Signatures Of Dead Frenchmen - Marshals of the Empire Edition

plus some bonuses at the bottom

This is a shitpost I've just wanted to do ever since I noticed Masséna's signature.

I know signatures are not meant to be legible, god knows mine isn't, but look at it, it's all the same letter!

I'm lazy so I'm only going to judge the ones on wikimedia and a few extra from letters, sorry to Marmont and others who did not get their signatures scanned and then made transparent for osme reason who is going to forge a dead frenchman's signature

Of course Bessières has a nice one:

Berthier is also pretty nice:

Loopy! Wait as has been pointed out to me, that could be an Alex. Did anyone ever call him Alex or Al

I love Lannes' because he circles his name!

A fancy guy like Murat's gotta have a fancy one, right?

Nice but not as loopy as Berthier's, honestly not the fanciest here

Davout has a nice legible one

Let's look at Soult's-

Woah, he's taking up a bit of space there! Where are you going with that t, champ?

Augereau is nice and straight I'm in awe as someone physicalyl incapable of writing in a straight line even on lined paper

Mortier is also really nice!

but also Ed Mortier. He called himself Ed. Do you think his friends also called him Ed or perhaps Eddie

MacDonald is Massena tier

can you guess who this next one is

hint: not french

Lefebvre's goin for the loop:

Jourdan is all classical:

Cant find Bernadotte pre-kinging but dude why is your kingograph so large who transcribed it like this

@phatburd linked me St Cyr's and

Very nice!

Victor lets see

I think I see a V in there. And a treble clef.

Oudinot:

I can kinda make it out!

But anyway I've been saving the best for last.

I have no words for this artistic masterpiece by Marshal Michel Ney.

Is that an umlaut or an emoticon? What are the two lines doing - error of transcription or part of the actual signature? Why do the loops just keep on going????

Is he just self conscious of how short his name is?????

Bonus!

Eugène de Beauharnais how's your-

he just didnt know when to stop.

Junot:

circle! pretty circle! napoleon did say he has pretty handwriting

Duroc:

Man he turned that c into an underline

This was fun! Next I'll rate all their coat of arms of something

[growingstories]

Growing stories

[mikashisus]

The Regula Solis Epoch: Masterlist

The Regula Solis Epoch takes place in a renaissance era— in a time where the golden age of the Remurian Empire loomed over the heads of the people of Teyvat.

Although each one includes the story of someone different, they all have one thing in common:

The Golden Age of Teyvat.

☀️

Volume I: Abandon Ship

(mermaid!neuvillette x fem!pirate!reader)

With one of the Remurian fleets hot on your tail and stolen treasure of the crown on your ship, you were ready to take to the Eastern Seas.

When one of your crewmates catches a mermaid of all things on the outskirts of the Dark Sea, you finally think you've hit the jackpot when it comes to treasure.

In the end, however, you come to a startling revelation: is all the treasure in the world really worth more than a life? And suddenly, you have to make a choice... either a huge sum of gold, or the man you've fallen head over heels in love with.

Volume II: Leaving London

(kazuha x gn!knight!reader)

The legendary pirate ship known as “The Alcor” has begun stirring up trouble in the Northern Seas. Although Queen Catalina does not see it as a threat, the General of the North Wind Knights thinks otherwise.

With the risk of angering the Queen on his hands, General Anton issues an order for all knights a part of the navy to seize every last one of The Alcor’s crew.

With no choice but to listen, you obediently set out to hunt down these pirates. However, it doesn’t exactly go according to plan when you cross blades with a foreigner to the Northern Winds.

Volume III: Flesh and Bone

(hunter!tartaglia x gn!werewolf!reader | ao3 exclusive)

The bitter cold forests of Snezhnaya were not kind, nor welcoming to humans. Lurking in the darkness of the tundra were glowing eyes and warning growls.

After being ardently warned to never trespass farther than the outline of trees meeting the wastelands, Ajax takes the risk and crosses to the frozen tundra. With a bag slung over his shoulder and a determination to show his father that the wastelands were fit to be hunting grounds, he readied his bow.

Amidst the hunt, he finds a wounded wolf on the brink of death. Deciding to show it mercy and heal its wounds, Ajax soon finds that this “wolf” is not your normal run of the mill animal… and taking it back to the village was a grave mistake.

Volume IV: Kaleidoscope

(criminal!xiao x fem!adventurer!reader)

Being called to serve Lady Iris, you were expecting just about anything to be asked of you. However, being tasked to watch over a prisoner who stole from King Remus’ grand vault was something else entirely.

Amidst your journey to retrieve this item, you begin to wonder if the prisoner you were tasked to watch over is even a prisoner at all. He makes no move to escape, and it seems as if he does not plan on talking to you. Finding the exact item he stole was not easy either, and it appears that your journey will get worse as the truth slowly unravels.

In the end, you find yourself wondering who is to be trusted: the foreigner from Liyue, or Lady Iris, who bore no hesitation in sending your friends to their deaths.

Volume V: Masquerade

(lyney x fem!vampire!reader)

As a descendant of the noble Edana line, you grew up with an ardent belief that humans were entirely food and nothing more.

For centuries, you live holed up in your family’s manor, your boredom growing tenfold with each new decade that passes.

Eventually having enough of your boring, high class lifestyle, you step onto the streets for the first time in almost a millennia, looking for something to satiate your interest.

This comes in the form of a budding magician, who wants nothing more than to break down your walls and show you what the world looks like in blinding color. A world that wasn’t coated in gray, and a love that wasn’t forged in blood oaths.

Volume VII: Ambrosia

(venti x fem!dancer!reader | ao3 exclusive)

It was time for the annual Festival of the North Winds in the eastern kingdom of Mondstadt.

Amidst the preparations for the festival, a wandering bard arrives in the bustling city. Without a clue on this bard's origin, the people of the city welcome him and his talent for music with open arms.

Venti soon finds himself in a predicament when a dancer from a foreign nation steals his audience time and time again. As one who would not back down from a challenge, Venti decides to entertain her and participate in her game.

However, when she mysteriously disappears the night before her performance at the festival, Venti realizes it is up to him to go find her. He doesn't realize that he would get himself wrapped up in a feud between an ex-soldier and the army of Snezhnaya.

author’s note: the “regula solis epoch” is a project i have been working on for literal months now. it takes place a few hundred years before the archon war and is completely canon divergent. i tried to incorporate as much remuria lore as i could. i hope that all of you enjoy reading these as much as i will writing them. each fic will be released in order, so “abandon ship” will be first on the list! if you’d like to be added to the taglist for any and/or all of these upcoming fics, then leave a comment or send a msg to my inbox!

taglist — ; @tragedy-of-commons

divider: @/cafekitsune

© 2024 mikashisus. do not plagiarize, copy, repost, feed to ai, or translate my works to any other platforms.

[empiredesimparte]

Napoleon V's Garden Party at the Tuileries: The Kick-off to the Coronation Festivities

⚜ Le Sacre de Napoléon V | N°19 | Francesim, Paris, 29 Thermidor An 230

To establish his own style, the young Emperor Napoleon V does not hesitate to distinguish himself from his father. He takes a keen interest in the opinions of the French people, whom he wishes to meet personally. During the garden party held at the Tuileries, he interacted with many guests, including civilians, soldiers, artists, and intellectuals. The event, marking the beginning of his coronation festivities, was an opportunity for Napoleon V to demonstrate his more modern and accessible approach to monarchy. He listened attentively to the concerns of his subjects in a relaxed and friendly atmosphere, reflecting his desire to forge stronger bonds with the people.

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

⚜ Traduction française

Pour imposer son style, le jeune empereur Napoléon V n'hésite pas à se démarquer de son père. Il s'intéresse de près à l'avis des Français, qu'il souhaite rencontrer humainement. Lors de la garden party organisée aux Tuileries, il a personnellement échangé avec de nombreux invités, incluant des civils, des artistes, et des intellectuels. L'événement, marquant le début des festivités de son sacre, a été l'occasion pour Napoléon V de démontrer son approche plus moderne et accessible de la monarchie. Il a écouté attentivement les préoccupations de ses sujets, dans une atmosphère détendue et conviviale, reflétant sa volonté de créer des liens plus forts avec le peuple.

La Garden Party de Napoléon V aux Tuileries

Les splendides jardins du Palais des Tuileries ont été le théâtre d'un événement des plus prestigieux : la garden party impériale, organisée pour célébrer le couronnement récent de l'Empereur Napoléon V. C'est une première sous le Troisième Empire, feu l'empereur Napoléon IV n'ayant pas repris cette tradition pourtant initiée par Napoléon Ier et Napoléon III au XIXe siècle.

L'Empereur Napoléon V, vêtu d'un costume blanc sur mesure, resplendissait aux côtés de l'élégante Impératrice Charlotte, dont la grâce et la beauté ont fait tourner toutes les têtes.

Madame Mère, Marie-Joséphine, rayonnait de dignité, apportant une sérénité touchante à l'événement. Accompagnée d'Hortense, la sœur cadette de l'Empereur, elles ont charmé les invités, incarnant parfaitement le renouveau de l'empire. La princesse Hortense doit bientôt s'envoler pour l'Ecosse, afin de rejoindre son prince charmant, le duc Oliver de Rothsey.

Le Prince Impérial Henri, héritier présomptif, et son épouse, la Princesse Napoléon Olympia, étaient également de la partie. La distinction du Prince Impérial complétait parfaitement l'élégance sophistiquée de la Princesse Olympia, formant un couple harmonieux.

Les invités, charmés par l'hospitalité impériale, se sont livrés à des échanges chaleureux et des moments mémorables. La Maison Impériale a invité des français de tous les horizons, ayant accomplis de nombreux services pour la Nation.

Plus qu'une simple fête, cette garden party symbolisait une nouvelle ère de prospérité et d'unité pour l'Empire français. Elle démontrait l'engagement personnel de l'Empereur Napoléon V à perpétuer les traditions impériales, tout en ouvrant la voie à un rapprochement et une écoute des Français.

[whencyclopedia]

Thessalonike of Macedon

Thessalonike of Macedon (c. 345-295 BCE) was the daughter of Philip II of Macedon (r. 359-336 BCE) and one of his several consorts, Nikesipolis of Pherae (also spelt Nicesipolis). Born to the Argead family of Macedonian rulers like her half-brother Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE), Thessalonike married Cassander (r. 305-297 BCE), and after his death, she probably acted as regent for their sons.

In contrast with such a high profile, historical details about Thessalonike's life are relatively rare. And yet, her character still casts resounding echoes in both myths and history, in her legendary personification as a mermaid and as the eponym of Greek's second largest, emporium city, Thessaloniki.

Birth & Family

The uncertainties around Thessalonike's historical background start with her date of birth. In the absence of direct hints in ancient writings, scholars have tried to use the meaning of her name as a clue. Stephanus of Byzantium, a 6th-century grammarian, in his geographical encyclopedia, Ethnica, notes that 'Thessalian Victory' was an expression to celebrate Philip II's victory (nike) in Thessaly (Ethnica, v. 'Thessalonike'). Philip’s first grand victory in Thessaly, at the Battle of Crocus Field, effectively awarded the king of Macedon with the life-long archonship of this major Greek city-state right at the south of his kingdom. The title was granted to him by the Thessalians themselves, who had initially called for his help to fend off the Phocians. Philip has been openly applauded by both ancient and modern historians for his numerous political and military achievements in Greece. And yet, this enormous boost of his power as the ruler of Thessaly – and, in effect, of all city-state members of the Amphictyonic League – was nothing less than the dawn of Macedonian glory in the Hellenic world, where the Macedonians were always regarded with contempt.

Philip's victory over the Phocians and their allies, a formidable and ferocious force fighting against the Amphictyonic League in the Third Sacred War (354-346 BCE), scored the first auspicious, game-changing point for the League after a series of inconclusive battles. Philip could also reduce the Phocians' capability by securing an alliance with their main supporter in Thessaly, the city of Pherae, by taking Nikesipolis, a young lady from the family of Jason of Pherae – an ex-ruler of Thessaly – most likely as his second wife (marriage is not verbally mentioned to have taken place, although it is hardly doubtful given the context and later events). Therefore, many scholars connect the birth of Philip's new princess - purportedly an immediate outcome of her mother’s union with him - with the Battle of Crocus Field in 353/2 BCE.

This dating, however, may not match comfortably with the other turning points of Thessalonike's life. Philip II was assassinated in 336 BCE at the wedding of his elder daughter, Cleopatra, with her maternal uncle, Alexander I of Epirus (r. 343/2-331 BCE). The marriage was arranged by Philip himself – a common practice in the ancient Greek world, and many other nations' upper classes throughout history, to secure treaties, mitigate hostilities, pay tributes, or forge alliances. However, by the time of his death, Philip had not revealed any plans for Thessalonike's marital future, presumably because she was still very young. She was believed to be only a child when his half-brother, Alexander the Great, succeeded their father and took the lead in Philip's intended crushing campaign against the Persian Empire. Historians have established that royal women of the Argead court became marriageable in their mid-teens. Thessalonike's half-sisters, Cynane and Cleopatra, were given to the men chosen by their father in their late teens. Therefore, it is unlikely that Philip II in 336 BCE had not already introduced a potential son-in-law for a 17-year-old daughter.

A second date that may question 353/2 BCE for Thessalonike's birth is her marriage in 317 BCE or shortly after to Cassander (Kassandros, c. 355-297 BCE), a commander of Alexander the Great and one of the ferocious belligerents in the Wars of the Diadochi, the succession struggle after the death of Alexander the Great. Cassander secured his claim on the Macedonian throne by turning out to be the ultimate winner of the Second War of the Diadochi when he took the strategically important harbour city of Pydna and put the chief claimants of Alexander's crown, his mother Olympias, his Persian wife Roxana (Roxanne) and their son Alexander IV, to death. Still, like the other Diadochi, Cassander also wished for a familial link with the Argeads to justify his succession of Alexander. And Thessalonike, one of the two surviving daughters of Philip II, was ideally close at hand. She was in Pydna with Olympias, who had raised her ever since Nikesipolis' death only 20 days after childbirth.

Cassander

The Trustees of the British Museum (Copyright)

Apart from obtaining justification, scholars believe that Cassander must have hoped to father a new branch of the Argead dynasty with Thessalonike. This could raise at least a few comments from ancient writers had he been marrying a 36-year-old woman. Moreover, in the heat of the Diadochi wars, it would have been even less likely for Olympias to leave her stepdaughter unmarried for such a long time without trying to use her in the fabrication of an empowering alliance with a king and/or commander. Again, relying on her name to figure out a terminus post quem, a date after which she must have been born, scholars now generally agree that Thessalonike was most likely born around 346/5 BCE, after her father's decisive victory that uprooted the Phocian power once and for all and thus terminated the Third Sacred War. Based on this date, she would be around 9 years old on Philip's assassination and in her late twenties at the time of her marriage to Cassander.

Continue reading...

[merchantofwhispers]

@iincantatorum | Sinday

Soft, panting breaths tainted with the faintest scent of spilled wine met every action and touch. That was not to say that wine had caused this, there hadn't been enough. The majority of it was now spilled onto the floor, knocked over by clumsy hands reaching forward and crawling into an inviting lap. No, this was a tension that had built up for what felt like months and the coil had finally snapped.

Gemina's lips explored along the throat of the Vizier, her legs straddling either side of his hips as she slipped her hand beneath his top. Her own clothes were falling from her shoulders and riding up her thighs, giving him easy access to wherever his hands wished to wander.

"God." She whispered as her lips caressed just beneath his ear. A line was about to be crossed and Gemina understood that, but she couldn't ignore how badly she ached for him. "Am I dreaming again?"

[merchantofwhispers]

iincantatorum​:

There was no time for bruised egos to play a part. Any part of him that felt insulted to let a woman protect him was a thing of the past- because of the two of them, the only one who would be taking lead was Gemina. Ulysses felt dizzy from the terror he felt, remembering the sickening growling noise and the sharp, powerful fangs of these canines. He wanted to grip onto Gemina when she was going to part from him, but she was already gone, and then watched with wide eyes what she was doing to make her form larger, and then the howling stopped.

They were gone.

“That was… a close call?” Ulysses chuckled sheepishly. “I’m so sorry, I was so useless…it’s just- I have this incessant fear- ever since this hunting trip gone wrong.” 

He lifted his shirt up to reveal the freshly healed scar on his chest. Three long spikes, from the scratch of a wolf, it clearly seems.

The torch held high in front of her she walked just beyond the entrance, vanishing into the dark where only the glow of light could be seen from inside. It was quiet until it wasn’t, a sharp and shrill shout in her mother language before waving the fire. The rustling became erratic and loud, but lessened as the creature she’d snuck up on ran away. She returned and tossed her weapon back into the fire before coming to rest down next to her companion. 

There was a moment where she almost interrupted his apology, but his reveal stopped her from letting the dismissive words leave her. Gemina looked at his scars with worry only to instinctively reach out to touch them, the pads of her fingers gliding briefly with the marred skin. After a second she flicked her eyes up towards his and slowly withdrew her touch, smiling rather shyly upon realizing she should have asked. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about. I think if a man is to have one thing he truly fears, wolves would be a good option.” She admitted quietly. “That must’ve been absolutely terrifying. Were you hunting the beast or-.. Did you just cross paths?”

[ospreyeamon]

revan as the ghost

I had the odd experience of playing KOTOR 1 and having my Revan, then playing KOTOR 2 and discovering that I liked its Revan more than mine. Revan as Narrative Ghost/Controversial Historical Figure is far more interesting to me than Revan as main character.

Part of it is that 2 fleshes out Dark-Side pre-amnesia Revan into a more compelling character. All of the juicy hints about the deeper plan and purpose behind the Jedi Civil War, the past relationship with Kreia who is as preoccupied with her former student’s legacy as with her own, the probable betrayal of Revan’s own forces led by the Exile at Malachor V.

The motivation of preparing for the future great war against the True Sith is great because it doesn’t preclude the other motivations of vengeance, power-lust, and the love of warfare. Revan might have despised the atrocities of the Jedi Civil Wars as evils necessary to save the galaxy. Revan might have subconsciously latched onto the True Sith as an excuse to solve the problems with the Republic and Jedi Order using outright warfare because everything looked like a nail after the Mandalorian Wars. Revan might have just been acting with an eye to the long-term logistics of forcibly holding power in the Republic post-conquest and was never planning on fighting the True Sith Empire because Revan thought it was a real threat, but because another war would be politically convenient. Revan might have slid from one to another over time.

Maybe Revan always considered himself to be loyal to the Republic, even if the Republic didn’t always appreciate the form that loyalty took. Maybe Revan decided that democracy doesn’t work and the Republic would be better off under a competent autocrat. Maybe Revan decided that the structure of the Republic’s constituent governments – mostly monarchies, aristocracies, and corporate plutocracy – meant that it wasn’t a real democracy and believed a benevolent dictatorship could be used to build a foundation of true democracy. Maybe the future long-term structure of the Republic’s government wasn’t a major consideration, with Revan taking the pragmatic view that the best government for the Republic would be the one that enabled it to survive.

Supplying that backstory as a jigsaw of character dialogue was an excellent choice, especially since it also works well for the events of the first game. Brianna the Handmaiden believes Revan showed the desire of his heart when he killed Malak during the Battle of Rakata Prime; Kreia thinks she’s completely wrong about that.

All the characters have at least heard of Revan; the Exile, Kreia, T4-M4, Mandalore, HK-47, and the Jedi Masters knew Revan personally. And, beyond being a mere person, Revan represents things to people.

Kreia is invested in the idea that Revan was always driven by some vision of a greater good, that she never became primarily ruled by hatred or power-lust. Kreia has a low opinion of those she views as dominated by emotion and is unwilling to believe her prize student ever fell into that trap. She really wants every choice her old Padawan made to have been well-informed and well-considered, always feeding towards Revan’s larger goals rather than undermining them. (Yet, there are a couple of Revan’s actions, like killing Malak, that I feel Kreia would have preferred to blame on the Force, on the unfairness of the universe, rather than on Revan.)

It’s a major blind-spot in Kreia’s assessment of Revan. Cutting Malak’s jaw off but keeping him as her second-in-command – seemingly not expecting any negative effect on Malak’s loyalty – is unlikely to have been anything but a short-sighted emotional outburst on Revan’s part.

In contrast to Kreia’s narrative, I think that Revan’s disappearance in unknown space between the games was unplanned and unwilling. Revan apparently spent years attempting to build a massive logistical staging ground for a war with the True Sith; locating the Star Forge, invading to capture Republic infrastructure, brutally converting captured Jedi. Why, after previously engaging in such large-scale preparation, would Revan leave to fight the True Sith alone, without telling anyone but T3-M4? Why would Revan leave without warning Admiral Carth of the Republic Navy and battle-meditation master Bastila Shan about the threat?

More likely, I think, that Revan’s memories were returning in tatters and scraps. Revan became increasingly sure that there was something important she couldn’t remember; some vital secret that would explain so much, and spell disaster if not uncovered. Revan’s journey to unknown space began as a temporary trip retracing a past journey, searching for prompts to resurface those memories. Something went wrong.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Revan despaired of the state the Jedi, Revanchist Sith, and Galactic Republic were in after the Battle of Rakata Prime and the “end” of the Jedi Civil War; despaired of the mess she had apparently made trying to manipulate the Republic and Jedi into forms capable of standing up to the True Sith. Maybe Revan came to doubt his previous assessment that the True Sith Empire were planning to invade the Galactic Republic, since it had been more than a decade since the beginning of the Mandalorian Wars with still no sign of them, and left to do some quiet scouting without raising what might be a false alarm that triggered an avoidable conflict.

Another judicious choice of character trait with KOTOR 2’s Revan was – and even post-amnesia still continued to be – secretive. Revan kept the grand strategy for the Mandalorian Wars close to her chest; good for operation security, but also good for hiding your plan to purge your own forces. Even HK-47 and Kreia, who were close to the Revanchist Sith’s upper command structure, aren’t certain what Revan was trying to achieve because Revan didn’t tell them. When Revan vanishes between the games, it is seemingly without having told any of her companions save T3-M4 where or that it was to investigate the True Sith Empire. That repeated failure to share information provides another justification for the ambiguity.

That bled through when I replayed 1 and imagined a new Revan, a stranger even to himself.

How did you change so much? Could you change again?

You remember your mother’s face, remember her voice as she read to you from the histories she loved so much, but the records in the Jedi archives imply that’s impossible, that you were given to the Order too young. You remember racing your swoop bike across the fields of Dantooine as a teenager; as a teenager you were a Padawan studying in the Enclave there. How many of your memories are real? How much of you is real?

Is there a monster slumbering under your skin that might awake, unravelling the person you are now to take your place? Did the young Revan have all the Jedi Masters fooled, rotten from the very beginning? Might you eventually live your life haunted by nightmares of committing another person’s atrocities?

More frightening than the idea that you and the Revan lost to amnesia are different is the idea that you are the same; that your past choices won’t be beyond comprehension or justification. If you remember, will you understand why you started the war? If you remember, will you understand why you bombed Telos? If you remember, will you discover that you have been the person who could make those choices all along?

[officalroyalsofpierreland]

An Executive Decision

Emperor's Study, Palais de Royal Rouge, Pierreland

Katalina: Did you have to be so combative with her David? Honestly!

David: She started it!

Katalina: Dios Mio! David, if you had just pulled back the letter-

David: Like I could! It would've made me look weak!

Katalina: Yet you are now looking like an asshole. For fucks sake David, you could've told them that Felipe forged the damn letter. I know that the young Napoleon V is not a fan of your son and Vivianna could've-

David: Then I look like I have no control over my own family!

Katalina: You don't! Watcher, you couldn't even leave Felipe in here alone. What if he rummaged through your desk? And found the fucking report about what happened with your father. About Ben's-

David: Katalina. You know we don't fucking talk about that. Ben. was. killed. by. firing. squad. That is what happened. And it shall stay that way.

Katalina [pushing his hand]: Yes. yes. I know, tow the party line. However, what if he found it! He's bound to find out you've cut him off. He knows you're angry.

David: And he didn't find it Kat. And let us hope that the truth goes with us to the grave. Felipe will be punished. Granted it shall sound severe.

Katalina: Not exile...David...the children.

David: no no...like you said, I already look like an asshole. Strip him of his titles. Bar him from my presence for a number of years but allow for his wives and children to visit if they wish. Matches the current level of asshole if you ask me.

Katalina: Like they will if Felipe is barred. David...think this through.

David: Why are you always questioning my decisions?

Katalina: Cause they've been fucking questionable lately! I don't know what's happened with you and age, but some of your decisions are not well thought out. Hence, what is happening with Lenerd.

David: The Empire must not look weak-

Katalina: He is a toddler! Who is our blood. He is not a matter of state, and yet your fucking pride made it one!

David: He is de facto heir of the IU right now! How would we do succession? Co-parenting? Religon? Cause dear Watcher, Eloise is marrying the Simparte boy-

Katalina: Who will have more of a fatherly influence on our grandson than his own father at this rate.

David: Louis is not-

Edmund: Are you two always going to be fighting when I get summoned.

Edmund: Cause this is getting awkward...and frankly, the fact I can't tell Dee Dee any of this is stressing me out...

Katalina [sighing]: I'm sorry Eddie...we can't risk any leaks...I'm already worried about Felipe.

Edmund: I haven't seen him lately...what's going on?

David: Let's all sit.

Edmund: Is everything alright with him? What did you decided to do about young Lenerd?

David: I haven't heard from your brother in a while and....I technically didn't decide anything.

Edmund: What does he mean? Mama?

Katalina: Your brother...forged your father's handwriting stating that your father will not tell Louis about Lenerd or acknowledge him-

Edmund: No...

Katalina: And burned the original letter

Edmund: No

Katalina: So now your father has refused to recall the letter, and is attempting to carve out a tentative peace with Queen Viviana instead of just putting his ego aside...we tell everyone in 10 years the truth.

Edmund: DAD WHAT THE FUCK!

Edmund: You're going to let...my children be denied the opportunity to be with their cousin??

David: Look...it's the best I can do while giving Louis some buffer-

Edmund: Look...I love my little bro, but fuck him for a moment. He needs to be there!

David: Look at your brother's current behavior over Maggie getting a boyfriend. Tell me that's a guy ready to be a dad.

Edmund: You could just tell him to make him grow the fuck up.

Katalina: okay Edmund, you've sworn enough for the both of us at this point.

David: Look...this is the decision on Lenerd. In terms of Felipe, I want you to tell him my terms and that he will be summoned to accept them.

Edmund: I take it whatever the terms are, he has the illusion of choice?

David: Yes.

mentions of @empiredesimparte and @funkyllama

[kostantina]

HWS Female Holy Rome X England (Medieval Empire X Modern Empire)

AESTHETIC MOOD BOARD

❝Many German and English writers were fond of expressing a common Anglo-Saxon-Germanic heritage prior to 1914, but in fact this largely disappeared after the Saxon migrations of late antiquity. Important contacts remained, especially with the renewed missionary activity promoted by the Carolingians, who often relied on qualified monks from the British Isles, like St Boniface, but otherwise England and the Empire evolved separately. While a sense of Saxon heritage may have played a part, both countries were sufficiently distant not to be immediate competitors. Ironically, this opened possibilities for royal marriages which, like Byzantine-imperial matches, were intended mainly to impress a domestic audience and avoid antagonizing a king’s nobles by tying him to one local family. Otto I married Alfred the Great’s granddaughter, Edith of Wessex, while Henry III married Gunhild, daughter of Knut of Denmark-England. Edith’s and Knut’s deaths ended any chances of a lasting alliance in both cases.

❝By contrast, connections in the high Middle Ages were more significant, if less celebrated in the nineteenth century. Emperor Henry V married Matilda, daughter of Henry I of England, in 1114 as a deliberate attempt to forge an alliance with the Anglo-Norman dynasty ruling much of Britain since 1066. It was hoped this would outflank a Franco-papal alliance threatening the Empire towards the end of the Investiture Dispute.❞

-  Peter H. Wilson, Heart of Europe: A History of the Holy Roman Empire

❝On his mother's advice, Richard resigned the kingdom of England to Henry VI in order to receive it back as a fief of the empire. He was to pay his overlord £5,000 a year. Richard was now a vassal of Philip for his continental lands and a vassal of Henry VI for his island kingdom, but it seems that in England few, if any, were willing to acknowledge this, and that this part of the agreement was hushed up. At Henry's court, of course, it was regarded as the jewel in the crown.

❝On the day of his release, Henry VI and the princes of the empire had sent Philip and John a letter telling them that they would do all they could to help Richard if everything that had been taken while Richard was in captivity was not restored at once.❞

- John Gillingham, Richard I

❝On the morning of 6 August an imperial herald in full regalia rode through Vienna to the Jesuit church of the Nine Choirs of Angels. After climbing to the balcony, he summoned the inhabitants with a silver fanfare to announce the end of the Empire.

❝The Empire was certainly not dead by the late eighteenth century, and if it was sick, as Zedler and others suggested, it was not yet on life support. If revolutionary France had not intervened, the most likely prognosis was that the Empire’s socio-political order would have persisted further into the nineteenth century, but it is unlikely that this could have been sustained against the levelling and homogenizing forces unleashed by capitalism and industrialization around 1830.

❝By 1806, some leading intellectuals expressed the sense that the Empire had been sick for a long time and that its doctors had long given up hope. Goethe’s mother wrote two weeks after Francis II’s abdication that the news was not unexpected, ‘as when an old friend is very ill’. Later historians have expressed similar views that the Empire died ‘a “natural” death’ from old age, rather than having been murdered by Napoleon.❞

-  Peter H. Wilson, Heart of Europe: A History of the Holy Roman Empire

❞By the end of the Napoleonic Wars, French imperialism had been curbed in North America, the Caribbean, and parts of Asia, but soon much of North and West Africa would be brought under French political and cultural influence. Spain was no longer a major power, but after the demise of its empire in the 1830’s its cultural dominance in the countries of South America remained: their economies urban, their governments strictly centralized, and their peoples devoutly Catholic in the Spanish style (Fernandez-Armesto, 2003). The Dutch and Portuguese empires were also in decline, and yet survived, resistant to radical change because of the commercial benefits derived from their overseas possessions. However, none of these four imperial orders came close to matching the size and power and wealth of the British Empire.

❝Encompassing nearly a quarter of the Earth’s land mass and a quarter of its population, the British Empire in the 19th century grew into the most extensive empire the world has ever seen.❞

- Douglas M. Johnston, In The Historical Foundations of World Order: The Tower and the Arena

[m4gp13]

@titan-army-week

Day 2: "A new golden age"

Ok I know the Proclaimers are pretty much just known as the 500 miles guys but fun fact they're still making music and it's actually not bad.

by which I mean the lyrics and themes remind me heavily of some of the og pjo themes, specifically their song The World That Was from the Dentures Out album. The theme of the album is how 'toothless' Britain has become (hence the dentures) in recent decades. Britian as a nation has been gradually declining in power and influence from the end of WWII and because of that, people tend to look back on the 'glory days' of the empire with rose-coloured glasses (as the Proclaimers put it). They idolise it and see a return to that old ideal as the solution to many of the problems Britain has today, ignoring all the negatives of that old era and the positives of today. As well as this, the prioritisation of returning to that old 'golden age' is blinding people to the potential solutions for Britain's problems that involve moving forward rather than backwards. Now what does that remind you of?

Also, the lyrics of that song go hard.

"The world that was has now become a cause / Inspiring simple souls all over / Who have a knack for always looking back"

Instead of the TA rallying behind the initial cause of making a fairer world for overlooked and exploited people like them, they have instead allowed the so-called 'golden age' that the Titans were said to have lived in to become their cause. When Luke first turns on Percy he talks about making a 'new' golden age, however as time goes on and Kronos' influence over Luke and the army grows, it becomes apparent that the army isn't making a new golden age, they're trying to restore the old one. This shift of priorities was inevitable and that can be seen even when Luke talks about the new golden age. The fact that he's using that era as his goal shows that he's already looking backwards, not forward. He's not trying to forge a new path or come up with any actual new solutions. He's just falling back on the myth of this old utopia that Kronos has promised him, maybe because it's easier or simpler than trying to forge a new path.

"Black and white, one truth they know / The modern world will have to go / The world that was draws memories of our past / Which seem a wee bit hazy / From what I see, the summary seems to be / More meat with extra gravy"

Because the characters are living in the modern world and face problems in the modern world, they associate that world with the problems and see getting rid of that world as the solution to their problems. As for the old world, they didn't experience that era so they don't know what it was like. All they have to go on is the propaganda stories from the Titans. They ruled during that era and were cast down after it, so naturally they place that era on a pedestal and idolise it as this perfect world. They're selling this inflated sense of perfection that only exists in relation to the harsh modern world the characters live in and want to escape. However, the modern world and the golden age do not exist in vacuums. They're related to each other with one directly stemming from the other. The problems in the modern world had their origin in the old world.

"And though I feel I'm a rational man / Sometimes I'm sorely tempted / But worship of a past that never was is totally demented"

This is the kicker. The propaganda surrounding the golden age of the Titans is just that: propaganda. Golden ages only exist in hindsight, as a contrast to what came after. Eras don't get called golden until after they pass and decay. The glorious Golden Age of the Titans didn't exist until after it ended. Luke and his army are fighting to restore a utopia that never existed, and so they're fighting for essentially nothing but the restoration of the Titans' own pride. After falling so far, it has left them very insecure of their own power and sense of importance so they look back on this idealised version of their past out of a refusal to cope with their modern reality. The demigods have just gotten dragged along for the ride and are being utilised as fodder to restore the Titans' pride.

The Titans have weaponised their nostalgia for their own glory days to galvanise this army of idealistic youths to fruitlessly try to return them to a utopia that never was, dooming all of them to never achieve any of their goals.