#viking ancestor au

[howtodrawyourdragon]

You think hiccup would feel uncomfortable wearing modern clothing in the ancestor au?

Hiccup is probably the most used to linen, wool, fur and leather, so it would certainly be a big adjustment for him. Especially for someone who canonically seems to have made at least some of his own clothes (judging by Hiccup's leather work and flight suit as well armor in both Httyd 2 as well as RttE and THW)

Maybe some things he would find better (such as stretchy clothing) but more unforgiving things, like jeans, would be a nightmare on him. Hiccup's prosthesis, for example, would not mix well with the stiffness of denim.

And even if Hiccup attempts to make clothes he's more comfortable with, fabrics just found at stores are infamously worse in quality than they used to be. So even then, he would need to search far something of quality to feel comfortable in.

Especially if you were to headcanon him as autistic (like myself and others do, Hiccup is autistic in this AU) then a whole new variety of types of clothing could mean sensory hell for him. And then you add in scars, canon or otherwise, those don't agree with just about every texture there is either.

[angel-of-the-moons]

Running With The Wolves

Wolfwalker!Moon Knight (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

Summary:

You're on the verge of being labeled a witch, but can one handsome stranger (and his two "brothers") save you from the same cruel fate as your mother, who was labeled as one and burned at the stake?

Can you handle the truth about your heroes identities, despite it all? Would you find out who your masked savior truly was beneath his cloak?

Only you could answer that.

TW/CW: Witch hunts, violence, graphic violence, graphic death, blood, public execution, parental death, persecution, grief, depression, Wolfwalkers AU, Moon Knight AU, incorrect lore

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I was watching Wolfwalkers and it gave me the idea for the boys. I did a little research into the lore, so some will be inaccurate (my pagan ancestors would frown upon me lmao) as well as historically inaccurate; so what is in this fic is largely based on the film. It will be especially inaccurate because y'know, Marc is American and Jake is Spanish and Steven is English etc, as well as Khonshu being around (but in the comics he's had a Viking Moon Knight so this isn't too far fetched he'd be in a place like Ireland) so please bear with me, my poor mind has been going through it lately and I wanted to write somethin' pointless, so enjoy this weird ass AU I came up with! (Header does not indicate the reader's race!)

Taglist: @enheduannasposts

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PT. 1

"I heard tha's the girl who lives on the outskirts." You heard a young woman whisper to her friend. Her accent was clearly not from Ireland. She sounded like one of the people from England. They'd been arriving slowly but surely, like a trickle from a leaky bucket, since you were a child.

Your skin prickled as you looked over the vegetables in the market stall, tended to by an old woman who was blind in one eye. Mary, her name was. Mary was probably one of the only around here who was kind to everyone, unless they gave her a reason not to. And those two English girls certainly gave her a reason...

"Aye, ye two hussies best be leav'n this girl be!" She spat, waving her old wooden stick around. "She 'ent done nothin' to ye!"

The two women jumped back with a yelp and scurried off, an armored guard eyeing you and Mary warily.

Your nose crinkled at him and you turned your nose up as you looked back at the crop Mary was selling.

"I'm sorry, lass. I don't like 'em either." Mary said, winking her blind eye at you.

You can't help but smile as you trade some herbs for the vegetables, placing the juicy morsels into your basket. "I just would like for things to go back to the way they were." You sighed.

"Like when I was a girl, before they came to our town. Things were fine, everything was in balance."

Mary leaned in, holding a finger to the sky as she spoke quietly to you.

"Aye, lass. But don't worry. The crimes these English folk are doin' to us? They'll be payin', mark my words! The land, the very sky itself is angry because we can't honor the promises we made so long ago." She grinned, half her teeth missing from old age. "Then, maybe we'll be forgiven."

"Aye, or maybe be consumed by the wolves and the forest while we're at it." You smile sadly. You remembered being safe in those woods as a girl, playing in the creeks, chasing birds and hares, the wolves singing on the breeze...

But the wolf attacks have become ever so common, now. None had been bitten, but their homes had been trashed, their livestock spirited away into the cover of night, wolf tracks everywhere. You were the only one whose homestead was spared. You often wondered why. The only thing different between your little plot and the rest of the homes that were driven empty was... wait.

They were all English.

You weren't. That house you lived in had belonged to your family for nearly half a century. The English farmsteads were placed on the grounds that were cleared by the King's woodcutters and soldiers, they were the ones being attacked. Not you.

But lately, you've heard other tales as well. A "devil in white" the King's men would ramble, their voices shrill with fear. A man in white armor who moved like a ghost, and fought like hell itself. You paid no mind, figuring it may be some hermetic hunter who called the forest home, who simply didn't want to have them invade his solitude.

Maybe--

"Lass, you should get home." Mary said, looking at you with worry as a small gaggle of women whispered and pointed at you. You were used to the stares, you'd been getting them as a child. But since the English arrived, those whispers became accusations.

"Witch."

Your mother had faced a similar accusation, given her odd habits and ways of whispering to the wind.

Some considered her addled, even moreso when she began raving of spirits and the voices she said came from the ground.

You remembered the night that she died, the horrible, evil way that she left this world.

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You were only twelve years old, gripped hard by the local men as the bishop to your village spoke from the Bible, quoting things about the crimes of witchcraft and how your mother could only be cleansed by fire.

You screamed, and kicked, and cried and cursed, but all that earned you was a punch to the gut as they lit the kindling beneath your mother's feet.

You'd heard tales of witch burnings, but you'd never ever thought such horrible deeds would come to your town; your safe, warm little home.

Your mother was strange, yes, but she taught you many things that had proven useful. The best herbs to cure the worst fever, the best tonics to drink to cure an ailing cough, how to track in the woods, how to trust the forest to show you the way home; but only if you respected it as a living being, and respected the souls who lived within.

She wasn't a "witch" to you.

She was your mother.

And she was right in front of you, burning.

"Mummy!" You screamed, your voice sounding as though you swallowed shards of pottery.

She looked at you, and smiled, crying and struggling against the ropes that bound her to the stake.

The fire crept up, up, until it reached her feet.

You could smell it--the acrid, disgusting stench of oil and burning flesh. You could see her skin blister, peel, and burn away as she screamed, begged for mercy. Mercy that the church was not willing to grant her.

You screamed and cried until your throat was raw and bloody, struggling until you broke free of the men's arms.

You didn't think twice on it--you leapt towards the pyre.

Your mother was dead. You knew this. But all you wanted was to hold her one last time, even if all that was left now was blackened, charred flesh.

Your soft, delicate hands burned, your dress beginning to catch aflame as you desperately tried to reach for what little remained of the woman you loved most in the world.

The pain was so blinding, so debilitating that your vision went white around the edges, and you saw the world begin to go dark.

"Damn it--put the girl out!" Was the last thing that you heard before you lost consciousness.

When you'd awoke, it had been two whole days since your mother's trial and burning. Two days since she plead to the "court" about how they were treating the land; that if they didn't change their ways they would all suffer for it.

The first face you saw was the bishop looking down at you with a solemn and sad expression, completely different from the way his eyes had gleamed maniacally as he cheered the death of your mother.

"I'm sorry, dear girl." He said kindly, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your arms and hands were wrapped in clean linen--or, well, as clean as they could get it, anyway--your burns itching and painful.

You gritted your teeth, feeling hot tears burn as you glared at him, your throat still raw and aching.

"You killed her!" You meant to yell, but it only came out a hoarse croak.

"Aye, girl, I did. But I took no pleasure in it."

Liar. Filthy, disgusting liar! You wanted to shout, You smiled when she screamed!

"Your mother was bewitched by the devil, don't you see? The only way to ensure she could make it to heaven was if she was cleansed by fire." He told you, his wrinkled eyes looking at you with such gentleness you could almost scarcely believe this was your beloved mother's executioner.

"At least now, you know your mother made it to the gates of heaven. And hopefully God finds it in Him to grant your mother eternal peace." He continued, "After all, she loved you greatly, and there is nothing more pure than a mother's love. Even if it was the love of a witch."

You bite back bile that wanted to rise--partly from the pain, partly from disgust--and turned your head away, your tears heavy like chains that hung from your lashes and held your eyes closed.

"So hopefully, we can pray she found salvation and forgiveness in the fact she loved you so."

His hand brushed a lock of burnt hair from your face.

"Don't worry, girl... You can go home. But I must implore you not to give in to the teachings your mother no doubt gave you. None of that talking trees or animals nonsense, you hear?"

You wanted to kick him, to bite his disgusting fingers off and pluck out his eyes. But... all you did was nod, and say:

"I understand."

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Later that night, barring the English women's gossip, you'd had a fairly decent day. Your snare on the edge of the forest had gotten a nice hare; providing you with some nice soft fur and meat and bone.

You'd spent your days thereafter doing much of the same work you'd done since you returned to your empty home the week your mother died. You gardened, placed more snares, cleaned the house, worked the loom, began weaving a small tapestry.

One night, you were broken from your tedium by heavy hands on your door, making you yelp and prick yourself with a needle.

You stuck your bloody fingertip in your mouth and stuffed the tapestry into your heavy wooden chest, rushing to your front door to see what was the trouble.

When you opened it, there was the bishop, flanked by two men in heavy plate armor. You felt a shiver creep up your spine; the sight was eerily similar to the night your mother was taken away, only this time the bishop looked so ancient he looked like a piece of dried, brittle leather.

"Dear girl, thank God you're alright." The bishop breathed, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder.

Your brow creased, and you opened your mouth to speak, only for him to cut you off.

"That... That man, that devil whom the townsfolk here and elsewhere have been seeing--he was here. Tonight! He killed four of the King's finest men!" He said, panicked, his touch cold and clammy.

"And earlier in the day... wolves. A pack of white wolves! I feared for you, girl. I know that you're alone and so far from town." He shuddered a breath. His lungs sounded awful, even to your ears. Honestly... If the man had allowed it, you could have fixed his long coughing illness. He's been suffering for years with it, sometimes to the point where his surmons had to be delivered by proxy.

He was suffering... but so had your mother, whom he murdered in the name of his god.

Your jaw was tight, and you nodded. "I... I see. I haven't been attacked yet, sir. B-but I will keep an eye out and alert you if I see anything strange."

You wouldn't.

"I don't want that devil to hurt anyone else."

You hoped he chased them all away.

He mistook your shaky voice for one of mutual fear for the man that haunted the nights, like the dreaded vampires back in England and the smaller towns and villages.

"Yes, dear girl." He put his hand to your cheek and smiled, his aged features twisting in agony. "A good girl. May God protect you."

"And He, you." You replied, the words tasting like rotten meat on your tongue.

"Such a good girl." He turned, coughing into his hand. "May God help civilise this land..."

Thunder boomed in the distance, almost as if the very sky itself was urging the cruel men on their way, to leave you be.

As soon as your door was closed, you grabbed a nearby cauldron and heaved it over to your hearth, hanging it from the iron hook and dumping the pail of water into it to boil.

You hastily stripped your clothes free and dumped them into the cauldron, rushing to find your small bottles of tonics.

When you'd found the ones you needed, you dumped them, alongside fresh herbs, into the pot with your soaking clothes.

You knew, based on your own observations, that those who coughed often spread it through touch or spit. And he had coughed into his hands and touched you; you simply don't want to take the risk.

You had to start selling your healing tonics "under the table" as Mary said, as cleaning agents for clothes and blankets just so you could pass it to the townsfolk with sick family. You hated doing that, but seeing a sickly child able to run around with her siblings again without fear of that wretched cough was worth the pain of lying.

You watched as the water bubbled, standing naked as you poked at the fabric with your long wooden spoon, swirling it around and around.

Once you deemed it hot enough, you carefully picked up the cauldron and set it on your stone slab at the mouth of your hearth, you scooped some of the herbal water into your wash bucket and began scrubbing at your clothes mercilessly to rid it of any possible sickness.

Once they were clean enough, you hung them near the fire to dry (but not close enough to catch fire while you were asleep).

You felt goosebumps chill your skin as the wind rattled your shutters, so you grabbed a heavy woolen blanket to wrap yourself up in while you dug around for a new linen dress to put on.

It was a small comfort, given how early in the year it was, and these certain storms always brought unseasonably cold weather in their shadow, but you accepted it nonetheless.

You walked over to your wooden chest and pulled out your half-finished tapestry. It was one your mother started when you were barely hip-height; your father, strong and large, next to your mother, petite and soft. Interconnecting between them was you, holding their larger hands in your tiny ones.

Much of it was unfinished, and only within the last year did your grief finally allow you to finish what she started, as this was the only thing left that you had of her. When the church took her away, your mother knew they were coming, so she hid certain things out in the woods for safekeeping, only telling you their whereabouts. Once the church lifted it's eye from you one autumn day, you finally ran out into the clearing your mother hid her things in.

Being able to have something to visually remember your parents by wrenched your heart in a bittersweet way, but it was all you had of them, other than their rings you wore, hidden and slung low beneath your bodice so nobody would see.

You knew if the bishop found out... He would have them all destroyed, burned like your mother; and he would likely have you thrown into the stocks and publicly lashed as punishment.

In a twisted way, the bishop cared for you. He saw you as an innocent, God-fearing girl who had been brainwashed by your witch mother, whom only acknowledged the paganistic "Old Ways".

You hated having to keep up the act, but you didn't want to die. You owed it to your mother and father, wherever their souls were together, to live on.

You blinked, and a heavy teardrop splashed down onto the tapestry.

Your body jolted with the clap of thunder. How long had you been crying? Had you been crying this whole time, but didn't realize it? Oh, you hated how often these crying fits would strike you.

All you wanted to do was think of the happy times with your family, but it always came back to the fact that they were dead and you were alone.

You dropped back onto your bed, the old, dried wood creaking beneath your weight, the smell of the straw mattress stuffed with dried flowers and clovers soothing to your senses.

Your eyes felt heavy, weighted down from your painful thoughts, and you turned your head to look at the wreath above your bed, shamrocks with dried berries carefully strung together; it was something your mother taught you. You couldn't remember the significance of the thing, but making them when you were bored became a mundane comfort.

You closed your eyes and sighed heavily.

You would need to check your snares in the morning.

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Your leather shoes squelched in the mud as you carefully made your way to the treeline early that next morning. You nervously chewed the inside of your cheek to check if the coast was clear before venturing into the bushes.

It was early enough none had arisen yet to start the day, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon as you set off into the forest.

Yes, setting your traps beyond the treeline was dangerous, as they would tell you, but you knew the game in the woods was fat and ripe, perfectly full of meat. If you could hunt at all, you would try your aim at shooting one of those slovenly bucks with a bow and arrow.

But a hunter you were not. Trap-maker, yes. But no hunter.

Your tiny iron dagger was slung low on your hip, your mostly-empty wooden sack carrying fresh bait for any snares that were sprung, or if the bait had been snatched.

The first two traps hadn't been sprung, but picked clean, most likely by birds and quick-witted squirrels. No luck in catching anything.

But as you neared your final trap, you heard an odd noise. A wheezing sound, almost, followed by heavy pants and a whimper.

Your footsteps stopped as you peered around the thick trunk of an ancient tree, your breath catching in your throat as you looked at the sight in front of you.

It was your last snare, set up with some bread and berries to lure in a rabbit or squirrel (as was your typical game) but it seems that this time, somehow... you snagged a wolf.

And this was not a normal wolf; it was one with fur as white as the coldest snow, now muddied and stained from the soggy ground it flailed around in; your snare secured firmly around its neck and front paw, cinching the two together in a painful manner.

Your heart broke as you saw the creature struggle and wheeze, choking out quiet howls that couldn't be heard through the underbrush.

With your jaw set tight, you stepped out of the clearing, and the wolf turned to you, trying to limp away.

"Shhh, hush, now." You soothe the animal, your hands out in front of you as you got lower, trying to seem less threatening.

Yes, the townsfolk feared wolves, but you wouldn't just leave this beautiful creature to slowly strangle to death on one of your own traps; your soul wouldn't be able to handle the weight of guilt.

"I won't hurt you, sweetie." You say, your voice calm and soft as you reached out.

The wolf snapped tentatively at you, whimpering as the pain of the cord dug further into its throat and paw, red stains now blotching the white fur.

"It's all right. I won't hurt you..." You urge the panicked animal. Your own eyes locked with its dark brown ones, and you could almost hear its thoughts plead:

Help me. Please. It hurts. Please!

You wait for the wolf to still, and sit its haunches on the ground, those big, pained eyes staring right through to your very soul.

Once the wolf is calm, you hook your fingers through the snare, reaching for the part of it that looped around, and try to loosen it enough for it to slip free.

But to no avail, the amount of flailing the wolf had done had twisted and cinched it to the point you couldn't. Your brow pinched and you nervously chewed the inside of your cheek before unsheathing your dagger.

Upon seeing the glint of the blade, the wolf whimpered and panicked again, beginning to flail once more as you reached for it.

"No!" You say, frantically trying to calm the beast. "Stop! You're making it worse! Please--I'm not going to hurt you."

You grunt as you leap forward, crushing the wolf against you in a bear hug, trying to calm its thrashing body as you swing your sharpened blade through the cord, severing it from the branch it was tethered to.

You sliced your thumb in an attempt to cut the cord around its throat, but you somehow managed it, your blood leaving fresh streaks of red and pink through the wolf's surprisingly soft fur.

You drop your dagger and release the animal, falling back on your bum as you carefully crawl away as the canine heaved for uninhibited air, its barreled chest shaking with effort.

Once it had collected itself, it limped up to you, it cut paw hanging an inch or two above the ground as its wet, charcoal black nose sniffed at your wounded thumb.

Its pink tongue laved out and lapped up your blood, as if to say "sorry" for causing you to injure yourself for trying to aid it.

Your eyes however, were drawn to the cuts into the wolf's throat and paw, oozing small rivulets of blood as it stared at you.

"Oh... You poor..." You breathed, rising to kneel on your knees, dirtying your skirt even more.

"I... Those can get infected. Please. I... I can help you..."

You don't know why you were trying to bargain with an animal, but somehow it paid off. The wolf nosed its way into your lap, ears flattened up and eyes pleading up at you.

"Okay..." You murmur, scratching behind one of its ears. "Let's get you home, boy. I have stuff there that can help ya."

The wolf whimpered.

"Er... Well, I assume you're male?" You chuckle awkwardly, trying to think of how to carry this large and hefty animal back home without being seen.

"I'm not gonna violate you by takin' a peek or anything." You clear your throat when one of the wolf's ears flop as "he" tilts his head at you.

"Er. Okay. Let's go..."

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It was easier than you thought, getting him back home. As the sun crept higher, the fog and mist were your ally as you smuggled the "dangerous" animal back to the safety of your home.

You had to haul him over your shoulders and beat feet through the underbrush. Once you were safely inside, you had to (with great difficulty) maneuver the wolf down onto your bed.

You chuckled when he rolled over--and he was most definitely a "he"--and began rolling this way and that into your blankets, making small huffs and growls.

"Ah-ah..." You murmur, reaching out to brush your hand through his muddy fur. "You might make your injuries worse, 'kay, m'love?"

That seems to get the wolf's attention. You weren't sure if he could understand you, which honestly had you thinking you were crazy, but the way he sat up and stared at you, one ear flopping down as he looked up into your eyes sent a strange feeling through your body.

"Hmm..." You murmur, brushing your fingers tentatively around his wounded throat. From his muddy thrashing he'd accumulated a fair amount of dirt, and that would lead to infection.

You hike your skirts up and tie them around your waist, and you could almost swear you saw a look of modesty cross the wolf's eyes as his ears slicked back against his head and he buried his muzzle into your warm blankets.

You scratch the back of your head, a little confused at his reaction as you adjust your knickers and rush to gather your herbs you'd need, plucking dried leaves and roots that hung above your hearth.

You set the herbs down into your mortar and pestle and begin to grind them down, mixing them evenly into a dissolvable mass that would melt in the water once you'd boiled it.

You crack your knuckles and grab a pail, untying your skirts and smoothing them out, frowning at the mud stains as you reach for your door, making a "shush" gesture to the wolf.

"Stay quiet and don't go near the windows! It's dangerous if you're seen." You gently urge him before slipping outside into the morning light once again.

The trek to the well was always annoying, but your neighbors never minded you coming to fetch water, knowing how dangerous it could possibly be for you to hike to the creek at the edge of the forest just to get yourself some of the life-giving liquid.

You inwardly cringed when the Kenny's daughter, Aisling, was already at the well; her belly already round with her unborn child. Barely 19 years of age and she was already with a babe; she was often sickly as a child, this you remembered, so her family (namely her husband) was very concerned about her well-being and that of her impending birth.

Upon seeing you approach, Aisling smiled widely and waved at you, saying your name chipperly, almost like an excited morning bird.

You were really hoping not to have a conversation so early, afraid someone would know you were harboring a wolf inside your home...

"Hello, Aisling. Feeling well this morning?" You hum innocently at her as you tie your pail up, before cranking the wench and lowering it down to the water below.

"Yes, surprisingly!" She giggled, patting her belly with a soft smile. "M' little one decided it was a good day to let mummy keep food down."

"That's good! I still recommend broths if you feel nauseous, however..."

"I know, I know. My mum is constantly making sure of that." She sighed with a roll of her eyes, hooking her own two pails of water onto her yoke.

Your hairs raised and you reached out, the wench slipping from your hands and your bucket dropping all the way back down into the water below the earth.

"No! You mustn't lift something that heavy." You caution. "It's not good for your baby."

"Ohhh! You sound like my father." She sighs, frowning deeply, her hands on her hips. "I'm not helpless, y'know!"

"Yes, I'm aware, but--"

"Aisling!" Her husband panted, trotting up to the both of you. He was at least a decade or so older than she was, but nonetheless it was a good match; he seemed to love her greatly. He was English, and one of the few kind ones you've known, in fact. A gentle giant.

This fact was emphasized when his large bulky hand reached down to touch her belly, sighing with relief. "No, no, you know that you can't be out here alone! The wolves!"

"I 'ent seen no wolves!" Aisling pouted up at him.

"That doesn't mean no wolves see you, m'love." He sighed dejectedly at her. He gives you a kind smile and a nod, hoisting the yoke over his own shoulders, "Aye, lass. Glad to see someone else talking some sense into my pretty little wife, here..."

"Bah!" Aisling scoffed, throwing her arms in the air as she waddled back down to their house.

He shook his head with a chuckle, "I swear, if we have a girl and she turns out like her..."

"You'll have your hands full, alright." You sigh, cranking the wench again.

"Aye." He says, giving you a cautious look. "But, I must warn you, the same way I did Aisling... with these wolves about, it's dangerous..."

"I know." You smile. "I'll be fine."

"Alright..." He replies, giving you one last look before going back home to his wife and family.

You on the other hand, rushed back home with your water to your waiting furry companion...

You almost dropped the pail of water when you saw what he was doing. Somehow he managed to nose open up the chest containing your mother's things, and was insistently sniffing the tapestry.

"Ah! No, no, no!" You frantically say, setting the water down to rush over, gently shoving his snout to the side to close the chest.

"Gah..." You sigh in relief, and smile softly at the wolf, reaching out to pinch and squish his cheek. And surprisingly, he took it well, making a little "whurf!" as you do.

"Don't go through my stuff, it's not very polite after I risked my arse you take care of you." You chuckle, setting yourself to task of boiling the water with the ground herbs. You kneel next to the remaining bit of water on the floor, dipping a rag into the pail and making a clicking noise with your teeth.

The wolf tipped his head to the side, ears pricking up at the noise as he slowly moseyed over to you shyly.

"Oh relax, I won't poison ya." You chuckle, dabbing the soaked cloth onto his fur, cleaning him of the muck.

He of course, did not like this. He whimpered and tucked his tail between his legs, his gorgeous brown eyes pleading with you.

"Ah! That won't work on me, Mister... You need to be clean before I can clean your wounds!" You cluck at him, not falling for his cute little attempt.

Thankfully, he sits there and lets you gently massage the mud away, carefully cleaning around his wound sites before hastily grabbing the pot of boiling water and pouring some into a wooden bowl.

You scratch behind one of his ears and say softly, "Now... I'm going to take care of you, okay? Now... just let me..."

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"No! Down! Bad wolf!" You groan, watching as his tail wagged happily, one of your kirdles firmly in his jaws, daring you to come get it.

"Ooooh! I should have left you in the woods!"

His ears flatten back and his eyes get big, giving you the sweetest, saddest look you've ever seen...

And it definitely broke you.

"Ah... You little... mouth off my clothes!" You grunt, tugging the garment from between his teeth, groaning at the sight of tears from his fangs.

He dropped down onto his front paws, wagging his tail happily as he makes a playful whine and yip.

"Oi! Ya seem just fine now!" You scold the animal, shaking the torn kirdle in front of him.

It was true. In just one day, your furry companion seemed to have healed miraculously faster than what was natural. It concerned you... but you didn't feel threatened by the creature's playful antics.

If anything, having him around made you feel less... lonely.

Dinner was almost ready, a simple stew with vegetables and salted meats tossed in. You weren't sure if wolves could eat such a meal, but you would feel awful if you were eating and your new friend merely had to sit and watch.

You sigh and toss your clothes aside, watching with a snort as the wolf playfully dove for it, rolling around and kicking it with his feet as you used your ladle to scoop two bowls.

You curled your feet beneath you as you plopped a spoon into your bowl before placing the spare on the floor. Your wolf's ears perked up and he sniffed the air, licking his chops as he abandoned your torn-up kirdle in favor of investigating the food you placed for him.

You smiled around your mouthful as he accidentally dipped his nose too deep into the broth, whipping his head around with a heavy snort.

"Ah, that's not how you eat, by the way..." You hum innocently, and again, your wolf gives you an almost human reaction, flattening his ears back as he seems to glare at you for a moment, before lapping at the food, curling his tongue around to eat the bits of veggies and meat.

"Oh, I'd love to keep you, but you don't belong here, fella." You say, scratching his ear softly in an affectionate way. Your skin crawls when you hear a mournful howl travel from the forest, across the fields, and into your house.

Your wolf whimpers and looks at you.

"As soon as you're ready, I'll sneak you back out to the woods." You promise him.

"I won't let anyone hurt you."

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He looked out from the treeline, his glowing white eyes staring out from the darkness.

A large, fluffy animal--a gorgeous white wolf, fur stained with mud--sidled up next to him, ears flattened back.

"Still no sign of him?" He sighed, frustrated.

The wolf whimpered, his tail tucking and nose dipping towards the ground in a response that seemed to say "no".

"Damn it!" The man roared, his fists balling tight as he began to pace angrily.

"Still no sign of your third?" A deep voice rumbled from the trees.

He lifted his gaze to spot him in all his imposing glory--Khonshu; god of the night sky, the moon, justice and many things in-between. His lithe frame ominously perched on the limb of an ancient, thick tree. One of his legs dangled down while the other supported his arm, his dominant hand clutching his staff in a tight-fisted grip as he stared down at him.

But mostly, he was his fist of vengeance. He was dispensing justice against those who imposed their will on the weak; like the other Englishmen who oppressed the local populace with their threats of jail, execution...

He also had to deal with bandits. Bandits, constantly seemed to prey upon travelers trying to find better places to live, to eke out a livelihood to support their families.

But right now, he was on edge.

He was incomplete. He was missing a vital part of himself. Someone he would not be able to fully function without.

Finally, his tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth and allowed him to speak.

"No."

"He is alive. I can feel it." Khonshu sighed, almost sounding bored. "You and your wolves... Sometimes they are a gift... other times it is a curse."

It was true... there weren't many of his kind left, and they were useful as a commodity, but also a vast hindrance if they were separated. Very few were born after being hunted to near extinction, and even fewer still were bitten and turned.

He tipped his head to the side, "He will come back. But until then, we have work to do. There is a group of soldiers that have taken women and children from their homes. I'm sure you can deduce what it is that they intend to do to them. I want you to stop them and set their captives free." Khonshu tapped his staff against the thick bark of the tree, and in a sharp breeze, he vanished.

"Right..." He said, his throat tight; his body thrumming with anxiety, his hand shaking immensely at the strain of lacking such a vital part of himself. He wondered still, if he would be able to control himself, to hold himself back without him.

His wolf companion moved forward, nudging his snout into the palm of his hand, whimpering softly.

Sparing one last glance over the countryside, he made a hefty sigh.

"Where the hell are you?"

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

Pt. 2: I will get to it eventually, I swear you guys

Extra super late author's note:

Yeah it's gonna be at least one or two more parts. I am gonna split it up to ease on the scrolling time for you guys! That and it feels neater than cramming so many lazy time skips into one post. I am going to get the rest of my drafts cleared (hopefully) and begin eating away some of those asks I have piled up in my inbox (that Tumblr didn't manage to delete by some miracle...)

My trip might be postponed, dealing with a lot at home, like me almost burning the house down today and almost passing out from the damn smoke because wooooo fire is bad

If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have none whatsoever!

[bravo4iscool]

badass military!lagertha for @bumblebeesfromvenus 🤭

(task force 141 x modern!military!vikings!AU)

tag list - @yazt09 @blackhawkfanatic @hatterripper31

(masterlist overview | vikings masterlist | call of duty masterlist | join my tag list!)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

johnny frowned as he looked at lagertha. was that a sword in her hand? was she actually taking a sword to the mission?

“do you think she’ll actually use it?” he nudges simon’s arm with a whisper. his eyes were fixated on lagertha and the sword, still not understanding the use of it.

simon sighs and rolls his eyes. “if she’s taking it with her then yes, she’s gonna use it.” it was a bit confusing to him to but then, he’s never worked with the norwegian army, let alone one of their task forces, before.

johnny hums. after a few moments he nudges simon again. “look!”

“what?” simon groans.

“the second lieutenant has an axe! what the fuck?” a quiet laugh leaves johnny mouth as he watches the norwegian’s gear up. this was all so new and somewhat confusing.

bjorn gazes towards johnny and simon, a slight frown on his face. “they’re judging us,” he mumbles as he plays with the axe in his hand. he turns his head to look at his brothers.

“probably because you’re taking an axe with you,” sigurd snorts, sharpening the blade of his dagger, without looking up. “you look like our ancestors. it’s probably funny to them.”

bjorn’s jaw tenses and his eyes narrow. “why are you saying it like that, huh? i am proud to be a descendant of odin!”

sigurd raises his hands in defense. “by all the gods, not even father goes into battle with an axe and he’s even closer to odin than you,” he laughs before continuing to sharpen his blade.

“will you ever shut up sigurd?” ivar groans, massaging the bridge of his nose while ubbe and hvitserk try to suppress their laughter.

lagertha rolls her eyes at the words of the boys, focussing on fitting her body armour. she was aware of the looks they were getting from the 141. their weapons were everything but standard issued but then, their whole task force also wasn’t.

ragnar sits beside her, cleaning his rifle. “i told him to leave the axe. he doesn’t want to,” he mumbles with a slight shrug. “he looks like a fool.”

lagertha laughs and shakes her head. “but it work for him, no? just like me and my sword.” she looks at the blade, as sharp as the day she forged it. “we always were different from them. don’t you remember the stories of the saxons and the vikings, mhh?”

ragnar chuckles, “i suppose you are right…”

“i always am,” lagertha grins.

-

“fucking hell,” johnny curses when he sees lagertha’s sword slice through a man just in front of him. his eyes are widen open while she turns around.

“you okay?” she wants to know, extending her arm to help johnny up. he grabs it and lets her help to pull him up to his feet.

once he’s back on his feet, his rifle in his hand, he nods. “am fine.” his eyes fall onto the sword. “that was—crazy,” he mumbles, looking up at her again.

she only laugh. “well thank you. but i think we should get going.” she quickly checks her comms before he takes off into another building, johnny following close behind her.

soon after they are reunited with the other and johnny can’t help but notice the way blood is smeared all over bjorn’s axe. maybe those old weapons really did work…

“soap, how copy?” price asks and johnny gives him a quick thumbs up. the captain checks with the rest of his team while ragnar eyes his boys and lagertha.

he grabs ubbe by his neck, pulling him close. “everything alright?” he asks and ubbe nods. then ragnar moves on to sigurd, then bjorn before his eyes meet lagertha’s.

there aren’t many words exchanged between the both of them. they didn’t need that. lagertha nods and a small smile spreads on ragnar’s face. everyone was okay.

he turns towards price and with a single exchange of looks they know it’s time to continue. they still had intel to secure and a target to kill.

-

lagertha screams as she digs the blade of her sword into yet another man, even the hilt already coated in blood. a few strands of hair fall into her face, her cheeks sprinkled with blood.

her chest was heaving, her body armour almost restricting her breath as she grabs the gun from her thigh to shoot the man running towards her.

she fixes her ear piece before wiping her blade off with her sleeve.

as simon gets into the room, rifle drawn and ready to engage, lagertha already finished every single man in there off. he comes to a halt, letting his rifle slightly sink before regaining his composure.

lagertha gives him a subtle nod before she moves to leave the room. simon follows, almost like a lost puppy. he’s never met such a strong woman…

[local-littleguy]

hey . hey hey. are you like me in the fact that you used to like httyd as a kid

and then when the hidden world came out you really didn't like it and you didn't know why

well a few weeks ago i got my little goblin hands on the httyd hidden world art book and then realized. O h . The reason i didnt like it was because they were telling a different story than the one i wanted to hear. they wanted to tell a story about The Wild and Nature and i just wanted to see the funny dragon and his best friend be best firends

so i am going to start brain dumping about my httyd modern au rewrite

here's some out of context fun facts !!

toothless really fucking loves humans. he is dragon autistic about them

hiccups real name is Hayden but hiccup was a nickname that Just Kinda Stuck

toothless and the lightfury are siblings. she is so tired of his shit. theyre Worsties

hiccup is aroace

the hidden world is a universe parallel to our own where dragons live. we get the cryptid/ghost hunter vibes :333

they all get to use magic and i think im gonna give hiccup a dragon form or something (pleasing the child in me who wanted hiccup to Be Dragon Also)

lightfuries are the "main" species, an exclusively albino variant that survived well due to their semitranslucent skin allowing them to become invisible. nightfuries are melanistic, very rare versions (a subspecies)

they're derived from a common ancestor, a gray dragon that was probably called sky furies or something

since i'm american (unfortunately) the whole story takes place on the north shore bc there's lots of nordic stuff there. new berk (hiccups town) was made by viking settlers thousands of years ago and that's why they all have funky viking names because Honoring Heritage

dragons :3333

[vivianleighwishesshewasme]

Soul Bound-12

Elijah and Gina Bouchard (soulmates AU/ re-incarnation)

Never have I ever part 2- Witchcraft and secrets.

A secret of Gina's past is shared over one to many glasses of wine. Rebeka is determined to help. (no warning)

________________________________________________

Rebeka and Gina were the only ones left awake after 3 a.m. The witching hour. 

The library and living room combo was still littered with pillows, blankets and young women. Candle light flickered through the room illuminating two women deep in conversation and laughter. 

Both blondes sat back reclined on large pillows as they talked and laughed about life so far. They were only a few feet apart, enough to hear one another and not disturb the others, but still close enough to keep pouring glasses of wine and the occasion hand pat when someone said something funny or ridiculous. 

“I’m impressed by how restrained you are Gina, if my love interest were in the house and most everyone was asleep I’d be climbing into their bed.” Rebeka’s eyes glinted with mischief. She laughed when Gina blushed and drank from her wine deeply to avoid the observation. 

Gina could drink. Rebeka was actually impressed that she had viking blood but the little french women in front of her could throw back like an ancestor. 

“Do you have a charm that allows you to drink like a fish? If so, I want one for Christmas.” The ladies laughed and Gina shook her head sending her blonde hair everywhere. 

Truth was she was fuzzy and warm. 

“No, it just must be from  practice and genetics.” Gina chuckled and brushed off the drinking comment. She knew Rebeka meant it as a compliment. She still felt a bit embarrassed though, it did come in handy at frat parties much to her date's chagrin. Those college boys were drunk under the table long before she was. 

“And I am having a very hard time not running up the stairs and seeking him out, truth be told, but I’m also enjoying girl time. I don't make friends easily and I trust far less than I let on.” It was true, Gina counted her sister as a friend and one other girl from back home. That had been it. She’d been burned too many times and teased mercifully back at their old school. 

“I gathered that with your necklace. Anti compulsion charms are actually hard to make let alone come by. May I ask why you wear one around us?” Rebeka’s tone was even and calm as if she was offhandedly remarking about the weather. Gina had to do a double take. She suddenly felt ill. 

“I wear it around everyone, Rebeka. It actually…..it….” Gina looked  bleary-eyed. Rebeka felt bad and leaned forward to stroke her arm. Tears welled in Gina’s eyes and her lip quivered. Whatever thought she was fighting was strong and deeply personal. 

“It’s alright, I'm sorry to have asked. I didn't realize it was so personal. It’s alright Gina, here, give me the glass, luv.” Rebeka gathered the frail blonde into her arms tightly and hugged her as if trying to keep the other women together.

“Someone made you do something horrible under a compulsion didn’t they?” Rebeka had no idea how far off she was. Gina wouldn’t give anyone the chance to control her….she couldn’t even control herself. 

“It's worse than that.” Her soft voice sounded foreign and weak to even her. Gina pulsed back to look at the Mikaelson sister who looked as if she deeply regretted asking now. She couldn’t have known. 

“I wear it to keep my power at bay or at least in check…when I was little I…..” Sobs wracked Gina’s body shaking her shoulders and small frame violently. 

Rebeka tried her best to calm and comfort her friend. She was at a loss. Clearly this was some deep seeded shame Gina was hiding but Rebaka had the feeling it wasn't Gina’s fault. Her soul was pure, she’d seen it. 

Rebeka had caught movement in front of the doorframe. Elijah stood in the open doorway with his arms wide open. Rebaka wasn’t sure if he was gesturing what had happened or if he expected his little sister to release his women to his embrace. 

“I don't know. I broke Gina.” Rebeka confessed feeling sheepish and helpless as she patted her friend on the back. Her sobs were more like pathetic little hiccups now and the occasion was a hot tear on her face. 

“That’s obvious sister. I told you not to talk about…” He stood still as Rebak shot him a hateful glare and gripped Gina tighter. 

“I didn’t!” She shot back, clearly upset with the accusation. “I mention magic, that’s all.”

“She didn’t do anything Elijah. I did. I’m fine.” Gina had pulled back and sniffled as she whipped her own tears away and gave them both a weak smile. Rebeka’s vampire eyesight had caught the flash of a flinch going across her brother's face. He hated seeing women in pain, unless he disliked them and they crossed his family. There were exceptions. 

“Cleary, because this is how you always look.” He scoffs but his face softened when Gina’s eyes widened at his sarcasm. 

“We probably just had too much to drink and she's tired.”  Rebeka brushed off her elder brother's attitude. She was too tired for it. 

“Let's get you to bed.” Elijah strode toward her and lifted her to her feet without asking. His arm went around her shoulder protectively. Protecting her from what he didn’t know. 

“It’s not her fault.” Gina’s defense of his powerful sister was sweet and touching, she had been loyal in her last lifetime too. 

“Night.” Gina called over her shoulder as she was led out, partially against her own will. She was too vulnerable for a fight at the moment. 

“Night Gina.”Rebeka called out, her hearing telling her they were already halfway up the grand staircase. She plopped back and pouted on poufs thinking about Gina’s surprising reaction to her question. 

Rebeka’s head turned toward two lumpy outlines on the floor. One shifted. Sophie was turning over. She stopped halfway and propped herself up on her elbows to address Rebeka. 

“Gina accidentally killed someone in our family when she was seven. An uncle with horrible intentions and hands. She stepped in front of me, to protect me and her power flared through him like a whip made of flame. She’s scared of her powers. She was scared of herself, Rebeka.” Sophia's blatant admission was spoken with truth. 

Rebekka actually felt bad for Gina. Her aversion to the supernatural made sense now. She’d have to be gentle and slow with her friend. 

She’d have to warn Elijah lest he scare her off again. 

“I thought your family’s bloodline was deluded. Fire isn’t exactly a power given to a weak witch.” Rebeka  thought Sophia shrugs and lays back down, ending to conversation. 

“What if someone knew a very old and powerful witch who could teach her to contain and manage her power. That would be better than hiding it or worse, having it flare up with no control, correct?” Rebeka rolled her eyes when she realized the other sister was already fast asleep and snoring. 

The question was still valid, even if she’d only said it outloud to herself. 

She was now determined to help Gina. She stood and walked over to the library behind her and started scanning through the mass collection of books her family had obtained over the many centuries. There was at least something that would help the witch.  

Raw untamed power was too dangerous to both enemies and the wielder. 

________________________________________________

[bluegekk0]

do the bugs have their own language or are they just speaking english?

They do have their own language. Well, languages. Them speaking English in the game is, to me, simply just a translation meant for the player, and in reality they speak in their own language.

Of course, every land/kingdom in their world has its own official language, and within those are smaller communities with their own dialects and even distinct languages. This is also the case in Hallownest. Before Vyrm's arrival, the different groups of bugs had their own languages. The group that would later become known as the Mantis Tribe shaped their own language, as did the ancestors of the Deepnest tribe, The Mushroom Clan and the Mosskin created by Unn. The Moth Tribe, because of their connection to The Radiance, spoke in the ancestor language that I'm going to mention later.

After Vyrm arrived in Hallownest, and following his marriage to The White Lady and the creation of the kingdom, they introduced a common language to communicate with the smaller settlements that were to become part of the kingdom. The language was a mix of the one used by WL and her mansion court (the same language Vyrm learned as he studied the soul magic tablets, so it shows a connection between WL and soul that goes far back), as well as elements of the language of wyrms that Vyrm spoke, and the individual languages of the different tribes.

Throughout the years, this language became the official language used in Hallownest, though elements of the old languages were not lost, and became the most apparent in the form of individual dialects and accents. Generally though, the languages in the Hallownest region share a common ancestor language, which resembles Scandinavian languages of our world. As to how it sounds, I imagine something similar to this. So it is kind of Viking-like, it's definitely the kind of vibe I'm going with for my interpretation of Dirtmouth, and it would carry over to other places as well. So even though the languages were different, there were elements that allowed for limited communication between different tribes, and that immensely helped in shaping the official language of the kingdom. The strong accent got lost over time, but generally it still resembles its roots.

As a little fun fact that I mentioned before, the differences between the language WL spoke and Vyrm's native language are the most apparent in his name. In Hallownest, the word "wyrm", denoting his species, is spelled with "w", but records from his homeland actually write is as "vyrm". Since he chose to name himself after his species, that is the spelling he went with, Vyrm. This does mean that his name was, unfortunately, usually spelled incorrectly, especially since most bugs knew him as The Pale King, and his real name wasn't widely used (instead, he was simply called "the wyrm", and so the Hallownest spelling took priority). WL's influence in the language was far greater than his, so during his time as the king, he simply just accepted the incorrect spelling of his name. He only embraced his real name after Hallownest's fall and his return from hibernation, since that is when smaller communities became more independent from each other, and the old languages reclaimed their influence, as there was no official language that dominated the conversations (the "Hallownestian" language basically became a secondary language, used mainly in trading and for communication between different settlements).

So at the current time of the AU, the languages you'd hear are a mix of the old official language, and the individual native languages, with the latter becoming more and more prominent as time goes on. The City of Tears still sticks to the official Hallownest language as it was the most closely connected to the crown, as does WL. Dirtmouth is a mix of both the official language and the old dialect that was prominent in the town even during Vyrm's reign. The other tribes, particularly the Mantis Tribe and the Mushroom Clan, have always prioritized their native languages, only using the official language for trading and communication, and so nothing has changed now.

---

As for the FPK family:

Vyrm used the official language during his reign so he's used to it, though over the years post-hibernation, he allowed what he remembers of his native language, as well as the Dirtmouth dialect/accent to slowly take over, so at the current point he talks a lot more like a native Dirtmouth resident. Though Grimm's accent also had an influence on the way he speaks, so all in all a bit of a chaotic mess, particularly in regards to his accent.

Grimm's speech is the most Scandinavian-esque of them all, he was born in this region many years before many of the cultures formed, so the language he considers his native is the one that basically kickstarted them all. For this reason, he has a very unique way of speaking, one that, ironically, makes him sound far more alien than anyone else in the town, as his accent is very strong. Though it's also worth mentioning that, as a result of his many travels, he can speak many languages and in many accents fluently, and he's able to effortlessly switch between them mid-conversation. So he's able to adapt to the Dirtmouth dialect easily, though he sprinkles in some of his native language elements, and definitely lets his strong native accent loose.

Hornet is a bit similar to her father - even though she was born in Deepnest, she was too young to learn its language and its accent, so for most of her life she only used the official language of Hallownest. She did learn some dialect elements of the Hive while she trained under Queen Vespa, and Dirtmouth does have an influence on her vocabulary and accent, so she's in a similar situation as Vyrm, though a lot more consistent (she tends to default to the accent associated with the official language).

Holly can't speak, but they learned how to write, so I'll count it. They never learned to write prior to their sealing, most of their writing lessons were taught to them, surprisingly, by Grimm - as he helped them recover from their infection wounds, he taught them the basics of writing so that they could communicate. And because Grimm ended up staying in Dirtmouth, those lessons continued, and it shows in the vocabulary they use when writing - it has many elements of the ancestor language Grimm is the most familiar with. They expanded their knowledge to elements of Dirtmouth dialect vocabulary, as well as the vocabulary of the old official language, but it's very clear who was their teacher.

Zote speaks in the accent of his homeland, located not too far from Hallownest, so all in all it doesn't differ that much from what you'd hear in Dirtmouth. When it comes to vocabulary, though, he's definitely the type to pick up an old book and adapt the archaic language, thinking it makes him sound smart, though he's too confident of his skills and often ends up completely misunderstanding what those words mean.

Lewk, Asta and Milo's accent resembles a mix of Vyrm's and Grimm's. Not much else to say here, I think it makes the most sense that they'd copy their parents and the way they speak.

---

This turned out quite long, but it's an aspect of the AU worldbuilding I'm actually super invested in. I suppose my uni major has something to do with it, as the class related to the history of languages was one I found particularly interesting. And it's really fun to come up with some lore regarding the languages and accents for the AU. So I hope this was enjoyable to read!

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

My current list of things I haven't posted yet.

Out of Wedlock - Prologue

The Newlyweds - Prologue

Fathers - Prologue

Au Gust of Whump:

Day 1 - Contract

Day 3 - Binding

Day 4 - Scheming

July Break Bingo:

He Won't Leave Her Hanging

Stripes

Scam Calls (Angst)

Party Fun

A Good Partner

Far From Okay (Whump)

Special Treatment (Angst)

July Break Flash Bingo:

You're Just Like...

Reward

Viking Ancestor

Breathing Down His neck (Whump)

Aug-Kissed:

A Kiss For Him

The Audacity

Butterfly Kisses

A Little Cut, A Little Kiss

[healerqueen]

WIP Ask Game

I wasn't tagged, but I really wanted to do this game, so I'm blatantly stealing it from @batrachised. Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs. Buckle up, folks. I have a lot of WIPs. Some are more active than others. I'll list them with their code names that I frequently use. Avonholm Series: Marcus's Short Story Avonholm Prequel (Roger's book) Evelyn's Wedding Short Arienna's Birth (Short Story) Book 1 (Avonholm Series) Book 2 Book 2.5, College & Capital (Arienna's first book) Book 3 Book 3.5 (Arienna's second book) The Sad Book (with a happy ending) Next Generation Series (Avonholm Sequel Series) Ancient Queen Novel (Avonholm Ancestors) (aka Queen) Rowena Novel (Anglo-Norman Avonholm) Other Low Fantasy: MG Kingdom Fantasy Novel Byzantine-Inspired Kingdom Novel Black Forest Story Historical Fiction: WWII Train Short Story 1830s Novel Viking Novel Harvest Antioch, AD 46 Futuristic and Sci-Fi: Memory (Dystopian Series) Broadcast

Sci-Fi Adventure Series Sci-Fi Spy Novel Sci-Fi Jungle Desert Sci-Fi Adventure AUs: Modern AU (Avonholm Series) Queen Modern AU Western AU Fanfiction: Return of the King / Houses of Healing Novel (my only fanfiction and a very serious one) Whew! That really IS all of them. For the sake of the game, I made a complete list. I'd be honored if anyone wants to hear about any of them. I haven't counted in a while--how many is it? It's 31, if I count the entire Next Gen series as one book, and 28 if I lump in the short stories with their prequel. I have a couple of shorts that aren't on the list, but they're lumped in with the main series. I'm going to re-start the tag game by tagging all of the new and old buddies I've found in my short time of being active on Tumblr. I have an unreasonable number of WIPs, but I've tagged a reasonable number of people. @oldfashionedbooklove @thejoyousjester @freenarnian @scarvenartist @e-louise-bates @elsabet-writes @bookshelf-in-progress @incomingalbatross @lover-of-the-starkindler @isfjmel-phleg @tsfennec @idratherdreamofjune @sisterdragonwithfeathers @fictionadventurer

And if you see this and want to do it, consider yourself tagged!

[beardedmrbean]

Okay I go to point it out that yes it sad that I have never seen what my direct ancestors look like in ancient and medieval times. And probably never will

But this post I found probably point out a issue I been noticing https://www.tumblr.com/ainomica/686212780028739584

Wait

Are

Late Gen x leftists

And millennials

Using

Pop Culture

As the basic

For

Human warriors

Knowledge?

Oh that explains the black Vikings shit

Yes let say that black peoples were deadass part of some of the most prolific slave traders and rapists in human history? Ooookay!

But let me use my Chimera republic as example of my fantasy au

Though btw the chimera republic is basically fantasy USA strong arming all of the Americas into an empire. Yeah the Americans (or perhaps prime chimerans) are tongue and cheek about but allow the cultures and languages to exist

But let me set up a story-wait best anon

But I think the issues is a lot of people view history from pop culture. No metroplation blacks

Just because pedo land aka Hollywood don’t glorified African warriors at the moment. Doesn’t mean their ( unless they’re pos like the Dahomey) stories shouldn’t be told

Do social media make everyone have the mentality of a bitter 15 year old or something?

>The analogy between Samurai and cops is also appropriate because they used to "break in" new swords by killing peasants who were outside past curfew.

So much samurai stuff is just BS myths, undoubtedly the "insult" thing was abused regularly, I'm not sure how bad the insult needed to be but still.

Class stuff in that post is still pretty much spot on to my knowledge, but a lot of the legends and such are actually myths.

This guy was funny, because he wasn't doing a bit. I think the idea behind the Vikings and Celts came out of the need to cry about dreadlocks belonging to black people and evidence proves those two groups also had a hairstyle like that, so obviously that means they were black somehow.

This is another fun one, USJW is a joke blog

Aztecs and Olmec's are in the mix in this one

Yes let say that black peoples were deadass part of some of the most prolific slave traders and rapists in human history? Ooookay!

Everyone is guilty, sooner we can accept that the sooner we can stop blaming everyone else.

But let me use my Chimera republic as example of my fantasy au Though btw the chimera republic is basically fantasy USA strong arming all of the Americas into an empire. Yeah the Americans (or perhaps prime chimerans) are tongue and cheek about but allow the cultures and languages to exist

Look up the Ottoman Empire, they were good about that occasionally, at least on paper they were. Achaemenid (Persian) Empire too, long as nobody rebels and everyone pays their taxes you can keep your language, culture, and religion. Again it was like that on paper, reality is it's own thing.

But I think the issues is a lot of people view history from pop culture. No metroplation blacks

probable, of course then people start to emulate them and that's when it gets bad, emulate Uncle Phil instead

Just because pedo land aka Hollywood don’t glorified African warriors at the moment. Doesn’t mean their ( unless they’re pos like the Dahomey) stories shouldn’t be told

Both should be told, truthful dahomey type people stories would be good as well as folks that didn't sell off their fellow Africans to Arabs and Europeans.

Problem is

way way back we just don't know, nobody does for sure, and less way back the slave trade kicked into high gear and folks were gettin sold to people in the MENA region.

Might need to just go off of mythology or oral tradition stories, searching for all this stuff gets rough because you look up Africa and you get Egypt and the rest of northern Africa.

Do social media make everyone have the mentality of a bitter 15 year old or something?

Twitter made it so people could only digest information in tiny doses, which meant nuance was lost, which in turn created a lot of ignorance, which human nature when it comes to pride makes admitting ignorance difficult, which made people's ability to actually hold a conversation where differing viewpoints are brought into play vanish.

Same with Facebook except the difference is there's only so much text you can add to a minions meme.

Reddit is good for creating a echo chamber, but at least you can put a lot of text down but living in a echo chamber tends to make one believe that their opinion is the majority one when reality may be totally different.

I do not envy mental health professionals, things are going to get worse as worse for them in the coming years.

[galleriaartethule]

https://www.buchdienst-hohenrain.de/product_info.php?products_id=27

Uwe Christiansen - Hans-Christian Petersen

Wilhelm Petersen. Der Maler des Nordens

Grabert Verlag

176 Seiten Großformat Leinen 259 teils farbige Abbildungen ISBN-13: 978-3-87847-124-0 

Hier liegt erstmals eine repräsentative Monographie über Leben und Werk des Maler Professor Wilhelm Petersen vor, dessen Schaffen den großen Zeitraum vom Ersten Weltkrieg bis in die achtziger Jahre umfaßt. Der schon früh durch große Ausstellungen hervorgetretene Künstler wird nicht von ungefähr »der Maler des Nordens« genannt. Wie kaum ein anderer hat der gebürtige Elmshorner mit dänischen Vorfahren en Menschen und die Landschaft Norddeutschlands dargestellt und in seinen Gemälden die »Seele des Nordens« eingefangen. Seine friesischen Frauen und Männer, die Fischer, Bauern und Handwerker sind Ausdruck der herben Art Schleswig-Holsteins. Seine Kobold-, Sagen- und Märchengestalten, insbesondere aus seinem Buch »Ut de Ooken«, sind ein Zeugnis von der im Volk noch lebendigen nordischen Mythenwelt. Die großflächigen Gemälde zur Vorgeschichte und zur Wikingerzeit, nach neuesten wissenschaftlichen Erkenntnissen geschaffen, geben Kunde von Blütezeiten des germanischen Nordeuropas. Die tief beeindruckenden Zeichnungen aus dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, oft an vorderster Front entworfen, spiegeln die Härte und das Grauen des Krieges für Soldaten und Flüchtlinge wider, zeugen aber auch von Aufopferungsbereitschaft und Gemeinschaftssinn. Daneben hat der Künstler als Schöpfer der »Mecki«-Figur und anderer lustiger Serien für die »Hörzu« wie für die Köllnflockenwerke humorvolle Reihen geschaffen, die eine Generation von Kindern erfreut haben. Die hier meist farbig aufgeführten Wiedergaben der vielen Gemälde und Zeichnungen vermitteln einen Überblick über das so vielseitige Werk dieses Malers, der über alle Wechselfälle unseres Jahrhunderts sich und seinem Malstil treu blieb.

This is the first representative monograph on the life and work of the painter Professor Wilhelm Petersen, whose work spans the long period from World War I to the 1980s. It is no coincidence that the artist, who made a name for himself early on with major exhibitions, is called »the painter of the north«. Born in Elmshorn with Danish ancestors, he has depicted people and the landscape of northern Germany like hardly anyone else and captured the »soul of the north« in his paintings. Its Frisian women and men, the fishermen, farmers and craftsmen are an expression of the harsh nature of Schleswig-Holstein. His figures of goblins, legends and fairy tales, especially from his book »Ut de Ooken«, are a testament to the Nordic mythical world that is still alive among the people. The large-scale paintings on prehistory and the Viking Age, created according to the latest scientific knowledge, tell of the heyday of Germanic Northern Europe. The deeply affecting drawings from World War II, often drawn from the frontline, reflect the harshness and horror of war for soldiers and refugees, but also testify to self-sacrifice and a sense of community. In addition, as the creator of the »Mecki« figure and other funny series for the »Hörzu« and the Köllnflockenwerke, the artist created humorous series that delighted a generation of children. The reproductions of the many paintings and drawings, mostly in colour, provide an overview of the multifaceted work of this painter, who remained true to himself and his style of painting through all the vicissitudes of our century. 

Il s'agit de la première monographie représentative sur la vie et l'œuvre du peintre, le professeur Wilhelm Petersen, dont l'œuvre couvre la longue période allant de la Première Guerre mondiale aux années 1980. Ce n'est pas un hasard si l'artiste, qui s'est fait connaître très tôt par de grandes expositions, est surnommé « le peintre du nord ». Né à Elmshorn avec des ancêtres danois, il a représenté les gens et le paysage du nord de l'Allemagne comme presque personne d'autre et a capturé «l'âme du nord» dans ses peintures. Ses femmes et ses hommes frisons, ses pêcheurs, ses agriculteurs et ses artisans sont l'expression de la nature dure du Schleswig-Holstein. Ses figures de gobelins, de légendes et de contes de fées, en particulier de son livre »Ut de Ooken«, témoignent du monde mythique nordique encore vivant parmi le peuple. Les peintures à grande échelle sur la préhistoire et l'âge viking, créées selon les dernières connaissances scientifiques, racontent l'apogée de l'Europe du Nord germanique. Les dessins profondément émouvants de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, souvent tirés de la ligne de front, reflètent la dureté et l'horreur de la guerre pour les soldats et les réfugiés, mais témoignent également de l'abnégation et du sens de la communauté. De plus, en tant que créateur de la figurine "Mecki" et d'autres séries amusantes pour le "Hörzu" et le Köllnflockenwerke, l'artiste a créé des séries humoristiques qui ont ravi une génération d'enfants. Les reproductions des nombreux tableaux et dessins, pour la plupart en couleurs, donnent un aperçu de l'œuvre protéiforme de ce peintre qui est resté fidèle à lui-même et à son style de peinture à travers toutes les vicissitudes de notre siècle.

Questa è la prima monografia rappresentativa sulla vita e l'opera del pittore professor Wilhelm Petersen, la cui opera abbraccia il lungo periodo dalla prima guerra mondiale agli anni '80. Non è un caso che l'artista, affermatosi presto con grandi mostre, sia chiamato "il pittore del nord". Nato a Elmshorn con antenati danesi, ha raffigurato le persone e il paesaggio della Germania settentrionale come quasi nessun altro e ha catturato "l'anima del nord" nei suoi dipinti. Le sue donne e uomini frisoni, i pescatori, i contadini e gli artigiani sono un'espressione della natura aspra dello Schleswig-Holstein. Le sue figure di folletti, leggende e fiabe, in particolare dal suo libro "Ut de Ooken", sono una testimonianza del mondo mitico nordico che è ancora vivo tra la gente. I dipinti di grandi dimensioni sulla preistoria e sull'età vichinga, realizzati secondo le ultime conoscenze scientifiche, raccontano il periodo di massimo splendore del Nord Europa germanico. I disegni profondamente toccanti della seconda guerra mondiale, spesso tratti dalla linea del fronte, riflettono la durezza e l'orrore della guerra per soldati e rifugiati, ma testimoniano anche il sacrificio di sé e un senso di comunità. Inoltre, in qualità di creatore della figura di »Mecki« e di altre serie divertenti per »Hörzu« e Köllnflockenwerke, l'artista ha creato serie umoristiche che hanno deliziato una generazione di bambini. Le riproduzioni dei numerosi dipinti e disegni, per lo più a colori, forniscono una panoramica dell'opera poliedrica di questo pittore, rimasto fedele a se stesso e al suo modo di dipingere attraverso tutte le vicissitudini del nostro secolo.

[da3dm]

Hi 3D! How are yous doings today! :D

I have a lie about your ancestors thingy for history tomorrow and my brothers making runes for me to prove I’m related to the Viking Harold Bluetooth :] so that’s fun! Do you have any plans for this week?

(and and and I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, I’m really not trying to be and I don’t mean to, but is it alright if you answer pt 3 of infodump soon? I want to send all three parts to a friends to clear some stuff about the au up, if that’s okay if you :p)

Cookies?🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪

-✨anon✨

That sounds fun!

Also I wasn't holding it on purpose

I had and extremely busy day yesterday and I'm half asleep right now, kinda forgot I had asks at all

I was already answering your ask when you sent this but I didn't say much, I'm sleepy

I don't find it rude you reminded me but I don't hold onto info dumps for long or on purpose

I'll have to munch those cookies for some energy

[howtodrawyourdragon]

To be honest for the Viking ancestor au, I can imagine hiccup being the older brother figure for Tom.

I can definitely see that! Especially with who he was for the other Dragon Riders. It was more than just a leader or a friend.

Ruffnut hung out with him when Tuffnut hung out with Gruffnut. Hiccup was the first to notice that somethings hadn't gone right in Heather's life and he's also the first one she admitted to that she was adopted. He was the one to notice that Snotlout wasn't himself and gave him the opportunity to boost his confidence. And later, when Snotlout pissed Astrid off so badly he had to flee from the Edge, he was the one to get the other Riders off their asses to go look for Snotlout when a storm possibly threatened his life.

He gives Fishlegs opportunities to be in charge and disappointing Hiccup clearly has an effect on all of them. He keeps Astrid grounded and lets her rant when she needs to, but then also reminds her that the twins and Snotlout are valuable members of their team so she could remember that at her angriest, too.

All of these examples are from RttE and continuing on will just make this answer go on for way too long. The point is, Hiccup tends to take people under his wing. Thinking also of Eret just immediately being accepted as the newest Dragon Rider near the end of Httyd 2.

I've always thought of Hiccup as more of a father figure for Tom specifically, considering that Tom doesn't have his birth father in his life. But then ever since coming across the TNR's version of the Book of Dragons, Tom tried to translate/read all that he can, follow in Hiccup's footsteps (literally in one ep, when he tried to find that "resting place" that was apparently just a spot that Hiccup liked to sit in) and trying to make a man who died 1,300 years ago proud... I always took it as Hiccup serving kind of like a father figure for Tom.

So even in death, he's still taking people under his wing and Tom is just longing for that connection. I do plan on exploring that in this AU, I just need to get to writing it.

Thank you for the ask about my AU! (◠‿◠✿)

[rogue-vigilante]

WIP Tag Game

Rules: Share a snippet from whatever you’re currently working on, and then tag 5 people.

tagged by @carrotsofthepirabbean

I also genuinely don't know 5 people I can tag so here's one and if anyone else wants to, go for it!

From a slowly expanding AU I've been planning for far longer than I should where Hiccup successfully runs away from Berk during HTTYD 1

Staying means that he’ll have to kill a dragon.

It's a sobering thought, and Hiccup is steeped in melancholy by the time he reaches the little glade. Back in his home, the idea of leaving seemed so different, the concept of running away both too big and an insignificant choice. He would have thought that alone in the woods, the thought would have solidified into a more optimistic reality. Instead, it just leaves him sadder and confused, plagued by everything he’s leaving behind. Running away isn’t a small decision, it means leaving everything he knows behind, venturing out into the archipelago with no future and a blank hole that he’s leaving behind.

Perhaps he should just stay, find another way out of the final exam tomorrow. There were some berries around here that made someone violently ill and he could just pretend that he'd eaten a bad piece of fish last night. Surely his father wouldn't make him fight in that condition.

But even that would only delay the inevitable.

“Toothless,” Hiccup calls out to his friend, heart not in his words. “We’re so leaving. We’re leaving. Let’s pack up. Looks like you and me are taking a little vacation, forever.”

He drops his basket and checks the straps on his riding harness, sighing as he does so. The closer he gets to leaving, the less he actually wants to go. He wants to find another solution, find another way to get out of the mess he’s in.

“Oh man.”

At this moment, Toothless bounds towards him and Hiccup remembers that he’s not leaving everything behind. Toothless had this strange ability to cheer him up when things seemed hopeless and lost. Maybe it was the hints of a toothless smile, maybe it the way he bounced towards him, so full of possibilities and the chance of an evening flight. He does seem to catch some of Hiccups melancholy though, stopping with the question loaded in his head tilt.

Then he buries his head into Hiccup’s chest, knocking him to the ground. Taking advantage of the window of opportunity he’s just created, Toothless continues to press his advantage and nuzzle into Hiccup, still asking that same question.

Why?

He’s not asking why he’s leaving, but why he’s sad about it. Toothless had seen himself in Hiccup the same way the Hiccup had seen himself in Toothless. He’d always known that Hiccup is different compared to the rest of Berk. Perhaps his leaving was inevitable. Besides, he’s not going alone, he’ll have his best friend by his side. Together, they could achieve anything.

“You’re right bud,” Hiccup says, wrapping his arms around Toothless’s neck and burying his face into the cool scales.

He’s still sad about leaving all this behind, but the future is starting to look a little brighter. He’s not alone, and while it would be hard in the beginning, they’d find a way. Together. Besides, once he’s away from Berk, maybe he could start finding out all the little truths about dragons that he never would have seen otherwise. Maybe this is who he was always supposed to be.

Vikings would always hate dragons; it's a fact of life. The same way the sun rises in the morning and eel leaves a nasty taste in your mouth. Vikings and dragons would never get along. They would never listen to the truth that they weren’t so different from each other. That they could get along, could teach each other so much more if they weren't constantly fighting. If they weren't bound by old traditions and the fearmongering of their ancestors, if they just took a chance then maybe they'd see. But no, vikings are a stubborn lot, and Hiccup knows that they'll never change.

Leaving might hurt, but maybe in the skies he’d finally be free from the chains he’d never realised he is wearing until now. His denial at how different he was from them holding him back and down for so long now. And taking the first step away from them and everything he'd knows was always going to be painful, along with the realisation that he’ll probably never see any of these people again. But maybe this step was inevitable. If not today, then sometime in the future. The first step would always be this hard, only he’d be plagued with regrets about all the things that he did in the meantime.

He needs to say goodbye and leave.

Only he would never really get to say goodbye. Not really. To the rest of Berk, Hiccup would just vanish in the forests the night before his big moment. What would his father think? He’ll wake up tomorrow and find that his son has disappeared. Just a neat bed and a space in his home. How long would he take to fill it? Would it even be filled, or would it be like his mother, gaps in the home and a presence that was never quite there?

The guilt from that realisation winds its way through Hiccups stomach and he gives Toothless another pat. It hurts to leave, but his father doesn’t deserve that. Doesn’t deserve to not know what happened to his only son. Besides, he’d probably authorise some sort of search party, which would mean that he’d have to fly further away to avoid getting found. But Hiccup couldn’t just fly by the Main Hall on his way out, not without getting shot at and maybe risking Berk to the wrath of the Chieftain Alliance. Not without risking Toothless, which he isn’t willing to do.

He's not going to tell Stoick to his face either, that would be an unmitigated disaster and Hiccup doesn’t want to be anywhere near him when he finds out. Having Gobber pass on the message would probably have a similar result. Which leaves him with the only option of writing a letter and leaving it for his father to find. It would delay his departure, but it would give him the chance to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, writing such a letter is harder than it seems, and many pages found themselves thrown in the water for Toothless to excitedly chase. He didn’t know if it should just be a simple goodbye or if he should tell his father about Toothless. And if he does tell him about Toothless, then how much does he want to reveal? Eventually, he decides on the whole truth. His father needs to know that they’re wrong about dragons, needs to know that whatever happens Hiccup will be alright. Needs to know that, one day, maybe, he might return.

It's late by the time he finishes a letter that he’s happy with.

[splickedylit]

Watching you revisit your Homestuck AUs recently and seeing how much you've grown has given me new life. Definitely riding that nostalgia high, and it made me remember From Under Bridges— it was one of my faves from you and another prime example of how you manage to take clown church and make it into something really unique 👀 if ever you were inspired to revisit FUB with some hastily scribbled doodles or project notes, just know I, an anonymous fan, would be sighing dreamily into the void

Aww, haha! Let's see. If anybody remembers From Under Bridges (the unfinished concept/fic where Karkat is a scout in the ongoing landwar between the human and alternian empires and gets captured by the alphas/betas and culture clash and scheming ensue) here's an enormous post of thoughts. (Possibly art to follow, we'll see).

I have inserted a readmore because I love you all and respect your dash length, and this got...quite long.

needs more recognition of the self through the other. I feel like this is an underlying theme in a lot of culture-clash fic; I think that if I wrote FUB now, rather than being some kind of well-respected noble house or something, the alphas and betas would be the KIDS of well-respected noble houses, who were all scanadalous or inappropriate enough in some way to their society to get half-exiled to a "prestigious" guard post near the border

this gives them a reason to connect with Karkat, when it comes to light that he's also been outcast, because of his own societal rules/standards. It also makes it a secret that they have him, which makes things significantly more dramatic lol.

Maybe for extra backup theme, any ancestor/guardian we meet who IS culturally accepted has managed that by repressing some part of themself, trimming themself down to fit into the place that's been made for them? Primary theme is a good old-fashioned "we're not so different and the things that are different can be Good Actually", secondary themes of how sometimes societal/cultural norms that have been held for generations are cruel actually, and need to be let go of.

Related to the culture clash angle; the cultural dynamics need sprucing up. I'm all for a lot of the stuff I included in my original concepts for the trolls, intricate jewelry and facial markings for blood color, etc--but especially if the humans are presented as a kind of pseudo-european historical pastiche, it gives everything some uncomfortable Noble Savage flavor in retrospect. Chalk another one up to "sheltered white teenager tries to do culture clash", lol.

thoughts for ameliorating that; the trolls are more technologically advanced than the humans. Via magic and weird biotech, trolls are working with devices and forces our human protagonists don't understand, but the reader would understand as like, a rudimentary phone. Humans are feeling great about developing plumbing and gas lighting, but trolls don't bother with shit like that because they can plug weird biotendrils into a psionic and light their whole city electrically. Even though in this universe they cohabitate on one landmass, from a human POV trolls truly do feel like aliens, they do shit the humans have trouble even comprehending.

The field humans ARE more advanced in is automated/mechanical inventions, especially weaponry. They fuck around with elements and rocks and chemicals and shit, they discover gunpowder. The one really magical thing they have going for them is the barrier between them and the trolls, maybe?

Actually, the barrier could easily be a spell the Sufferer somehow leaked to them, and was promised some form of amnesty, and instead got sold out and executed. That would fit nicely into the theme of societal cruelty and also give a good reason for Karkat to be able to break in and get captured.

might help to use more trappings of historical nonwhite cultures with the humans, and vice-versa with the trolls? Sprinkle in some viking-inspired braids and clothing styles, cloaks and layers. Especially for warmbloods, who would necessarily need some protection in cold temperatures (unlike seadwellers who I've always assumed were well-adapted to crushing icy deep-sea conditions). Vary up some human skintones and clothing designs.

Hell I could push anachronism further if it came down to it, especially on the angle of trolls being tech-advanced. This is my boyfriend, he's a psychic nightmare creature from the depths of darkness. He's got bones braided into his hair and elaborate gold earrings and facepaint and he DOES wear a jacket made of leather with bone spiky epaulets. Karkat has sickles and bone armor and ritual quadrant jewelry but also the ritual is Ritual Of Call Boyfriend and it's essentially a very basic cell phone.

Going ahead and making the call that the Church of Mirth in this AU also uses righa forachtae, my conlang from Poor Unfortunate Shoals. Because I make the rules, is why. The church itself probably wears less gold, since my theory in Shoals was that the seadwellers not being around meant the clowns had all the gold they wanted to fuck around with--but the general vibes are probably quite similar, just with more bones in the jewelry instead. Very maximalist body decoration and body mods. Piercings and tattoos encouraged, more aggressive religious self-mutilation thought highly of especially during worship/in a bacchanalian frenzy.

A possible accepted/unacceptable parallel, hm--the Grand Highblood is still in power because he killed the Sufferer, despite Pale Temptations. Later the GHB and the empress fuck with Tavros and Gamzee flips out and confronts his ancestor about it, publicly letting his quadrants come before his duty, which gets him thrown out. It does fit the pattern. HM.

Chewing over the thought of a translation spell that doesn't do any psychic translation or anything, it just forces the person's mouth to speak whatever they want to say in your language instead. Would make a good comparison to the first attempt to get to know each other with a drastic power imbalance as captor/captive. Especially if troll and human languages have some noises that the other group can't make, and it gets increasingly tiring and painful to be magically forced to speak the other person's language for extended periods of time. hmmm.

Oo, oo, late-game concept because I like the Midnight Crew as angry mentor figures and I've been struggling to figure out who the head of the human empire would be if not SS: human kingdom split into derse and prospit courts? Black and white kings+queens each ruling a half but with uneasy peace between the two sides in the face of the troll empire's encroaching border?

oh shit wait okay, I was contemplating the alphas and betas each having their own estranged guard posts but instead; Derse and Prospit split. One house run by Slick and Deuce with John+Jade+Jane+Jake and Karkat, and one house run by Droog and Boxcars with the Strilondes and....a guest of their own? :oUc HMM.

Each of them is trying not to let the troll information they find out get across to the other house because there's a friendly (or not-so-friendly if you ask Derse) rivalry between the two. Narrative tension as we the reader jump back and forth and each group is learning radically different things about their prisoners and also troll society, and the impending moment where they have to come together and Reveal their Tactical Advantage to the other side.

Goddammit I kind of want to go back to the fic just for that part, that would be delicious. Dammit.

It seems like the lesson for the humans to learn from the trolls (mostly indirectly) is "people should interrogate their society, because when you're in the 99% of a society you're discouraged from realizing that the people sitting on your shoulders are just there because they've convinced everybody they should be" and the lesson in response is "advancement doesn't have to be cruel, improvement doesn't have to be exploitative; people will function because of fear but they'll thrive because of freedom and cooperation".

TBH it feels like this storyline culminates in two simultaneous revolutions/coups and I have no IDEA how to write that lmao. It does sound very fun though. The disgraced offspring of the society's power, influential, or infamous people all show up at once but oh damn they've allied with each other, shit. Oh no once they stopped accepting our cultural praxis as law we stopped having authority over them oh shit.

[lathalea]

For the imagine ask game…

My character of choice is Thorin. 👀 My apple pies are the best 🥧 and I love to listen to heavy metal.

🍒 (Cabin in the woods! Thorin lost his way and we have to stay the night 🤣) and a everybody lives AU.

Thank you so much 🥺☺️❤️. This made my day!

Hi @xxbyimm! Remember your ask? I’m back with your imagine! Sorry it took me a while... but now you’re getting not only an Everybody Lives AU, but also a Modern AU. Enjoy!

🍒 - Stuck Together with Thorin, Everybody Lives AU

You went for a weekend hike into the mountains. Just the nature, blue sky and the trail ahead. At first everything was perfect.

But then it turned out that the trail was really badly marked and for some reason your phone’s battery died so you couldn’t even check where you should be going. You stood at a fork in the forest path, wondering whether you should turn right or left. 

Then another hiker came. He was handsome, with a mane of dark hair and a short beard. And those blue eyes…! He stopped there as well, so you asked him for help. At first, there was a frown on his face, but then he said he knew the way and, reluctantly, he agreed to lead the way to the mountaintop since he was going there too. Oh, and he told you that his name was Thorin, muttering something about his family’s Viking ancestors.

You thanked him for his offer and soon you continued on the trail together. Thorin wasn’t much of a talker, he mostly communicated with grunts or two-syllable words at best and it was clear he didn’t hold people like you, “a city girl” in high regard. What a grump! But you tried to ignore it and hoped you’d soon get to that mountaintop and each of you would go your separate ways. There was one good thing about this - walking behind him made you admire his, well, very nicely tailored hiking trousers. For aesthetic purposes only, of course.

Anyway, you both walked, walked, and walked and… there was no mountaintop in sight. It was getting dark when it became clear that you weren’t anywhere near your destination. You confronted Thorin about this and he finally admitted that he may have lost his way. Twice. He took two wrong turns on the way and now you were stuck somewhere in the forest away from civilization. And he had the audacity to say it was all your fault, your constant blabbering about pretty flowers, trees, and cute animals made him distracted, apparently. Needless to say, you were furious and weren’t shy about telling him what you thought. Loudly.

You were both standing there, shouting at each other, when suddenly rain started pouring down from the sky. First you hid under a tree, but it didn’t help much. You had to find a better shelter before you drowned in that deluge… or got eaten by wild animals. You could have sworn that you heard something that sounded like a bear’s roar somewhere nearby. You started walking faster.

It was almost completely dark when Thorin pointed ahead. A small, wooden cabin stood there. Just what you needed! You both quickly got inside to escape the rain, your clothes soaking wet.

It turned out that the cabin was empty, but you found a message from the owner inviting you to use it in need. Yes, you were definitely in need, you had to sleep somewhere, your clothes needed drying and this place had a nice fireplace, so why not?

As Thorin started working on starting the fire, you changed into dry clothes you had in your backpack and realized two things. One: you were really hungry and there wasn’t much food left in your backpack. Two: this place had only one bed.

You and Thorin were borderline ignoring each other, your anger still fresh, but you appreciated the warmth and coziness created by the fire. After rummaging through the pantry, you found – among other things – some flour, sugar, and quite a few apples. It’s been a while since you’ve made one of your legendary apple pies. You decided to bake it, but only because you felt like this and totally not because you were trying to show Thorin that a city girl like you could cook and survive in the wilderness without any problems even with a grump like him.

When the apple pie was ready, you put it on the table and heard how Thorin’s belly rumbled. No wonder, the cake smelled wonderful. Stifling a smile, you offered him a generous portion as an olive branch. Perhaps he was a grump, but he managed to chop some wood in the meantime so you wouldn’t freeze in the night. He deserved some food, too.

Thorin muttered a “thanks” and you started eating. At one point, his eyes fell on your t-shirt (the dry one) and he asked you whether that Amon Amarth logo was just a fashion statement. You rolled your eyes and explained that no, you got this t-shirt at a concert because you happen to love the band, and that actually the “Jomsviking” album is not as bad as they say!

Then Thorin asked you what you thought of “Twilight of the Thunder God”, their other album, and before you knew it, you were throwing song titles and band names at each other. Who would have thought that a grumpy hiker like him would know so much about heavy metal? And not only that! He also knew all about Amon Amarth’s inspirations from the Lord of the Rings that happened to be one of your – and Thorin’s – favorite books! You both agreed that it was a shame that Tolkien hadn’t written any more books of Middle Earth.

Since Thorin seemed to have a decent taste, you decided to forgive him his earlier grumpiness, at least a bit. You actually spent a really nice evening with him, talking about everything and nothing, while rain kept falling outside.  He told you about his family – his sister and two teenage nephews, and you told him a bit about yourself.

When it was time to go to sleep, he said you’d take the bed while he’d sleep on the floor. You refused – the bed wasn’t that narrow, there was only one blanket, and the floor was hard and dirty. Besides, you both were adults, what could go wrong?

Thorin and you managed to somehow fit in the bed, even though he took much more space – he probably got all those muscles from hiking. But it was sort of pleasant to fall asleep next to him, sharing body warmth and listening to the falling rain.

In the night, you had the weirdest of dreams. You dreamed of Thorin, but in your dream, he had a golden and black crown on his head, he wore opulent robes and sat on a green marble throne. As you approached him, he stood up, walked towards you, took you into his arms and murmured: “I have been waiting for you, my queen.” And then he kissed you tenderly.

You woke up suddenly only to see that Thorin’s eyes were already open. You could still feel the taste of his lips. In a low voice, he said: “I just had a feeling as if I knew you from somewhere.”

“That’s funny,” you replied, moving closer to him, “because I have exactly the same feeling.”  

Your fingers intertwined with his and this time you were the one who kissed him. Your kiss was both tender and unhurried, but that was precisely what you needed. A handsome man who perhaps was a grump, but turned out to be a good kisser. Besides, you weren’t in a hurry. The mountaintop could wait.

💨💨 Imagine Ask Game rules (asks closed) 💨💨

[fabseg-creator]

I present to you a Miraculous concept based on Vikings.

For now, I call this AU: Viking Ladybug.

Characters:

-The main characters:

Hilda Cröm a.k.a. Valkeria/Valkyria the Ladybug miraculous holder. She's a barmaid at the tavern from her village. Her dream: Become a warrior girl/Valkyrie who defends the weaklings.

Harold Faramir a.k.a. Weggie the Cat miraculous holder. He/they is the adoptive son of the Village chief (also the heir for the governance of the village). He/they doesn't want to be a chief or a lord but he/they prefers play (Nordic) music for people. He/they wants become a bard.

-The major/secondary characters:

Hilda's parents.

The village chief.

The bully/daughter of the village chief.

Hilda's friends and classmates.

Twin siblings, Hilda's classmates.

Random villagers/adults (ft. "Kratos").

-Upcoming characters:

Thor, Dragon miraculous holder (prince of the Thunder).

Mjölnir, Ox miraculous holder.

Unnamed Snake miraculous holder, evil sorcerer (main antagonist).

Loki, female character, unknown miraculous not yet identified (she possibly will have got multiple Miraculouses).

Fenrir, a raider, Fox miraculous holder, Loki's subordonate.

Gorilla's ancestor (Harold's protector).

The place(s):

Somewhere in Norway.

The history period:

9th-10th century.

To be honest, I was inspired from How to train your Dragon, Trollhunters, Conan the Barbarian, Lord of the Rings, God of War and Thor. I had searched on Google about Nordic mythology informations.

I feel Harold in Weggie's armor looks like Darth Vader. ^^

Miraculous from Thomas Astruc.