#visage || change as the world demands

[sigmadolos]

— everyone knows this & I loved you still /     May history be kind so all may know /     that for me the fall was worth it all 

( surprise for @parieha ! )

[controld3vil]

i'll hex you, i'll possess you

pairing(s): aegon ii targaryen x wife!reader, aemond "one eye" targaryen x reader (unrequited/one sided)

synopsis: Your husband is gone. He perished in whatever was left of the battle, seared flesh, and dragon’s tar. As unbearable as it was, you fight for his throne against his brother. Believing it is for his for the taking.

notes: mentions of s02ep05, i fr feel so bad for aegon :( also cw: hints of obsessed!aemond (bc he's insane :D)

In quite a haste, you sped past all the onlookers like flies. They were nonexistent in your peripherals, your attention was entirely up ahead to the King’s chambers, the Kingsguards who stood by. Your Grace, they would say before allowing you passage past their protection. You took a glimpse, here in the dressing room for the King. Your King.

“Your Grace!” The seamstress chirped, turning to greet your lovely smile. And your righteous presence everywhere you went. It affected all now that you were the face of King’s Landing. It’s a hefty duty, yes, however, it seemed many subjects were willing, if not encouraged, of your subsequent role as the consoling figure for the realm to look to.

In front of a tall mirror was Aegon, in full Valyrian armor. You’d guessed the armor was passed down through his ancestral line, ancient, and beautiful it was kept. All the plates fit him perfectly with little alterations to adjust. Yet absent of the signature helmet paired with it, his blonde hair lay just above his shoulders, gently. 

Ever so kind were your visage toward the King. You could feel the corners of your lips curve warmly at the sight of him. He was handsome and eager to appease the people of his kingdom. Though he may not be the first choice for Throne, you knew he was trying his best to uphold the responsibilities and burden those must bear. You would have to bear it as well if you were Queen. 

“Good morrow,” You breathed, flattening the wrinkles of your dress as an excuse to eye at Aegon, openly. There was nothing to hide, simply it was different from his normal attire. In armor, in all of your lifetime, you never had to experience warfare, for better or worse. 

“Ah, my lovely wife!” In exclamation, your husband turns to compliment your captivating smile as he gleams contentedly. He takes a few steps down from the small stairway from the miniature podium, while some of his personal Kingsguard can be heard snickering. Which you wholeheartedly ignored as your attention laid straight to your King’s beaming face. “Just who I wanted to see!”

“I must speak with you,” Through your expressed delightfulness, the tone of your voice is quickly replaced with a sour one. And it seemed to have caught the attention of the seamstress and others in the room as they all paused at your subtle notion of privacy. “Alone.” Only when you mention it, it’s as though they were a flock of birds, all fleeing from the chambers at once. A few clatters and suddenly the doors were quietly slammed shut with a whisper of a demand. 

However, your husband did not seem fazed at all. He merely shrugged, casually walking to fill a cup or two with wine. Yet a visible glower can be caught right after he steps off the podium and to the table of beverages. Sometimes his reaction to your urgency was comedic. The King was never one to take duties earnestly. It’s one of his eminent flaws that all of the townsfolk and servants knew of. His days by the Silk Roads were but a regular story. But now, he is a changed man, Aegon thinks. They’ve witnessed all of his mistakes and tourneys. He’s young and has never been as interested in duty as his siblings. And now suddenly, he was pulled onto the seat as King. And you would have to sit beside him and watch. As a graceful symbol yet mute on what to say on any matter. 

How horrendous was that? 

“What troubles you, my sweet?” The sound of liquid plops as all of the noise from the outside world becomes muffled. For the past few days, it has been the most chaotic and tragic period of your life. Not just for you and Aegon, but everyone in King’s Landing. Your son, Jaehaerys, was left for dead at the hands of a murderer and false ruler. Panic was running through the streets of Flea Bottom. People questioned the King’s cruel punishment of the rat catchers though Aegon did not care for their grief. 

To you, it was more than sadness. But anger and confusion, all of your pent-up emotions ever since living in King’s Landing have made you become this way. The Capital has changed you. To who you were as a person and figure of nobility. Now you were suddenly the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet only moments ago, you were the princess of the firstborn son of the King. You should have expected war to come between siblings over the throne, yet your father persisted that the marriage would’ve led to success. Having lost your child, your son, made the promise to communicate more to Aegon. To somehow seek solace in the empty void of your heart in whatever left the world had. 

“You named Ser Criston Cole your Hand…” You mumbled slowly, the last words faded out into thin air. Was he wrong to do so? You did not want to say. For the little you knew about the battle being played at hand, you knew Aegon’s impulsiveness would come to the cost of many. Especially of the Council when they have refused relentlessly his thoughts and suggestions. So perhaps this decision would cause more upbringing for the noblemen to bleat about. “Why?”

A muffled sound and then a snort comes out of his mouth as Aegon proceeds to sip his wine. As if not a care of the world or your concern over the matter. “And why does this concern you?” 

He does the courtesy to hand you your cup, as you clasped it eagerly to swallow whatever worry your heart must feel. The Queen Regent, Aegon’s brother, Aemond, and even Criston Cole, all look for you in the guidance you have over their King. You’ve yet to make it clear that you don’t control him like many others would consider to do. You’d think it's heartless to manipulate a man of his feelings, especially your husband. 

Eventually, you lay the cup down, trailing your finger around the outer details of the golden goblet. It’s glimmering through the sun, carefully designed with outlines of a dragon and flames that surround the jugular of the base of the cup. It curves and twists under your palm as you proceed to swirl the liquid inside and watch as a mini typhoon is formed. 

“Do you believe your decision on making him Hand was just?” You lift your gaze to be met with his bright purple eyes. It always seemed intense and vivid in color whenever his attention was on you. As if you were the only person that mattered in the room. And if not at this moment.

You looked ravishing, decorated in his house colors with pops of gold from the jewelry and headwear. You had no shame in exemplifying wealth because he would give you everything willingly. No matter the cost or debt, every piece of gold, and diamond was meant to be yours. He watches as your golden droplet earrings jingle when you shake your head, contemplating your next words. “Because I do not think that was the wisest decision to be made, husband.”

“And, care to explain why?” Like every little piece of his childhood, Aegon looks at every objective like a game. Though he looked like he was trying to resist your hesitancy for his new Hand, he was staring into space at the glorious jewels that make your figure and face pop out more. 

You urged, before meeting the King by the tableside where the pitcher lay. “He is a warrior, not a politician,” You set your goblet aside, to look your husband in the eye more closely. “He does not know the ways of the people, especially those who he surrounds himself with. He was born lowborn, making him more naive than aware of tellings.” 

Yes, you make great points, he would say if you did not have that adorable scowl on your face. Aegon would admit, he was getting drunk by the minute. And your presence did not help in his regard to be sober. Regardless, he does take account of your calls, more than most that surround himself with. Everyone at the Council is eager to spout their plans and news, it makes him deaf to the ear when they have nothing to contribute when he suggests something. Nevertheless, you at least are supportive of his thoughts. Despite your constructive nature, he appreciates and craves your attention. 

Your King hums, drowsily and that was when you knew his mind was somewhere else. You would admit, you too were becoming tipsy with alcohol. After the morning Council meeting, you rather have your head hung outside with ratcatchers at the mess of the Council. You glance at his attire once more and this time, he catches you. He sees you, the way your doe eyes wander up and down his figure. He rarely has a chance to wear dragon armor like this. 

“Distracted, are we?” His breath immediately inches away from yours. And the scent of strong alcohol stings. You’re so accustomed to it, that you’re surprised you would still rebuke the scent of it. Apart from that, the look Aegon gives you makes your heart weak. His smile is sluggish but pulls you in like a serpent in water. It’s alluring and hypnotizing, the way his focus wanders in all of you, and the same for him. You can’t help but wonder if the work of the armor was tricked. And you let your desires plunder when you trace his breastplate armor. Of the harsh outlines it’s supposed to represent dragon scales. It’s majestic and divine, fit for a king. 

Almost timidly, your husband giggles at your touch. He separates a stray hair from your cheek, allowing leeway more into your personal space. You can’t feel automatically embarrassed if someone were to barge in. Because anyone could, the seamstress, Kingsguard, or worse, his mother. 

“Wear that armor more often and perhaps you’ll receive more than indecent staring,” A mischievous grin forms as again another jingle of your golden jewelry. Gods, you’re enticing and coy. Had he mentioned that? More than once. 

The first time you were at Court, it was a spur of surprise. Not only had you arrived with Prince Aemond unannounced, but Aegon encouraged it. You would suspect the disapproving faces of the men, especially coming from the King’s Hand and grandsire. How he ploys and plots with every citizen of King’s Landing to do his bidding. To save the Realm, of course, more to have the most influence in the city. You were aware of what he thinks of you. An obedient and dainty princess. The Queen and wife to the King should have no right to speak of politics. 

And yet here you were. 

“You do not have a seat in this Council,” Queen Regent, Alicent urges, gazing at her second son with slight apprehension. In doubt, she feels a quick quiver of fear the moment Aemond strides past the Council table. When it came to you, Alicent could only muster a poor glance. The one-eyed prince proceeds towards the map of Westeros that stands beside the King. He strides in confidence, abruptly ignoring every piercing stare bestowed on him. Other than him, you reached towards the seat at the opposing side of your King, hand delicately trailing down the handles of the chair.

“Aemond is my closest blood and our strongest sword. I welcome him,” Aegon lay unfazed at the subtle shocked expressions on everyone’s faces. “As for my wife, I think it should be customary for her to be by my side even in Council. As my father has allowed you to do for him, remember mother?” A playful grin, all-knowing of his lightheartedness, and carelessness of what others thought of his decisions. Surely his mother would be the most understanding, bestowing the same position many years ago when King Viserys was dealt ill and immobile. Shouldn’t the Queen beside her King as should they in every instance? 

Alicent is silent in her displeasure. There was no reason to refute the King’s wishes and sometimes made you appreciative of Aegon’s power and status. Being King was a risky position however it offered you more freedom and the ability to speak your mind more often than not. Your husband was the cause of this leverage for the most part. You expected the Queen Dowager to give you any kind of sign of comfort except there was none. Only but a forgotten thought and you were dismissed. 

It fills you with dismay, a small black hole for where her approval was meant to be. For the last few days, you’d only wished for Alicent’s consoling eyes.

“We should send troops marching to Harrehal, the Riverlands have the largest force.” Aemond waves his hand over where the location of Riverrun is plastered on the wall. It’s curved in cursive lettering, surrounding soft green fields, most notably of their Southern lands, which was an inhabited place of divided houses and discourse. The largest force, it had many issues of compromises and its lordship. “With them, Rhaenyra’s forces would be left vulnerable on land.”

The accordance of hums coaxed the second son with assurance. A sense of pride if you will, knowing how much more skilled and knowable he was than his brother. But the Hand was quick to question his methods. 

“And what of the small Houses of Riverrun? The Brackens and Blackwoods have been fighting each other for centuries. They would never work together as one,” Otto points out and it brings more skepticism and worry to the other Councilmen. Alliances with the Southerners were awkward. They do not know when or where to stop the fight. And it has become extremely bothersome at the time of war. The Bracken and Blackwoods were examples of that. They proceeded with the war more for themselves and would kill hundreds of their men if it meant to end their rivalry before the war even began. 

“We should negotiate with smaller Houses beyond the River lands then,” Your lips shudder slightly when the immediate eyes turn to you. Even your husband stares at you in astonishment and curiosity the same. Alicent looks at you warily. And Aemond, all too mysterious, holds a neutral look. “Would it not help Ser Criston Cole secure more of the surrounding Houses towards their larger forces? Gaining allies along the way to Riverrun would only add more to our numbers,”

“And in truth, give us a better advantage to overruling Riverrun altogether?” A devilish grin was on Aegon’s face at your suggestion. Your advice seemed promising and seemed risky but it was the most practical. King’s Landing had more advantage on land than the sea or sky, therefore it was evident in their leverage over the smaller Houses close to Riverrun. 

You tilt your head in amusement, all while lowering yourself to sit down. Yes, even though you had no experience in politics or war, you listened. You had ears whenever you managed to walk past one of their meetings. It should be frowned upon but you did not care. You wanted to have more say in protecting your family and House. Most things had been provided for you at an early age. You were a princess with a wealthy father, negotiations were your family’s specialty. You learned early on how to enunciate and please people with the way of your words. And here, you simply voiced what you believed was the safest way to Riverrun. Despite all the demeanors, none of the other Councilmen had anything else to say or disprove of your plans. 

“Good! Then it’s settled then,” The king rises, as well as everyone else who feels startled at his shifted demeanor. “Then Ser Criston Cole should prepare some men for the long journey ahead of us by dawn!” It was then you felt some sort of pride that would solidify your position at the Council. As long as you hold a strong mind, should your advice become helpful towards the men, you’d hoped they would see your presence as a blessing. 

In some midst of it all or perhaps the end, Aemond is quiet. He’s curious and admires you for everything you strive for. Many people would assume he despises you for taking the initiative to aid his king. But he does not believe in that no, you’re a delicate thing and would never be selfish on greed. Merely he can appreciate your ambitious strides from afar. The way you act around the people, the Council, and his mother makes him believe you were born into the role of Queen. You care for your subjects and think of what’s best for them. You do your best to stay by your king’s side even though he lacks the mind for it. 

Perhaps maybe, in some cases, he should’ve had you. 

The words struck right out of his head just when everyone was dismissed. While the nobleman rushes out of the council room, he delays his leave momentarily to catch a glimpse of you. You define the example of his House’s wealth, always proud to dress in colors of black and crimson red as if it was your second skin. However you do not forget about your own House colors, you embrace it all together with his own and it makes him wonder what kind of beauty like yourself can be persuaded by the likes of his brother. You were quick-witted, amusing, and altogether undeserving of Aegon’s love. 

You do not immediately flee the room as his mother or Ser Criston Cole had done. Instead, you slowly rise from your seat and make your way to your husband, eagerly. Aegon sits comfortably in his golden chair, smug with loving eyes at your figure. He could not help but eye at you openly even with his Kingsguard standing beside him. 

“Aemond, may we have the room?” He hears his older brother say. It does not take a blind man to know the following events as the one-eyed prince simply tilts his head in your direction. Before storming out of the room and the slam of the doors. His footsteps clank against the cold cobblestone pavement as he makes his way to his room. But all he could think about was your lively laughter as he disappeared from the scene. 

The day after Cole’s troops arrived back at King’s Landing, you felt a string of worry crawling down your spine. As you pace across your bedroom, you fiddle with the ends of your loose hair to solace the anxiety you feel in your stomach. The pit was too unbearable as more men would be escorted out towards Rook’s Rest. After Aegon removed Otto Hightower as Hand, Criston Cole became the primary candidate for the position. You voiced your concerns before but Aegon had yet to change his decisions on your advice.

Now rumors have spread that by the time Cole invades Rook’s Rest, Aemond would be by his side to counter whatever attack Rhaenyra plans to defend her councilman. It would risk losing one dragon, the biggest and largest female beast you’d seen. Doubt fills your mind when you try to shake your worries away. You shook your hands feverishly and swatted away the sweat building up against your palms. You must speak to Aemond. You should warn him of the consequences of this act. 

You found the prince outside of the castle. Vhagar resides in a shallow space close to the gateways to the city and is attentively monitored for her whereabouts. Very few dragon keepers watch over the powerful beast for her dangerous nature and size. As a cart, full of sheep was being carried by horses, you looked in awe at the amount of necessity the castle must provide for their dragons now. Surely it would impact the people’s living and cost. It worries you how chaotic and unlawful the palace seemed to behave in times of war. Even though you find yourself wanting to question Aemond’s intentions of helping Cole this way. 

Your words settle like a soothing wave in his ears. “Prince Aemond,” And when the one-eyed prince spots you, holding the reins of your horse with a steady hand, he’s not afraid to show his approval of your presence. The colors you wear today are regarded as wealth and beauty. The golden linen stretches along the cloth of obsidian, representative of his House, your House. The gown expands upon your collarbone, allowing the silver necklace you have on to become the ire of his attention. It entices him, brings him into your line of view. Clear cut diamonds you had on your earlobes, they jingle at the slightest movement you make, as you make your way towards him with ease. 

“Your Grace,” He prompts, politely. He is a plain canvas for you to paint over, to inspect over. You should not be afraid of his presence because he behaves well under yours. The prince regent eyes you down carefully and you’re vaguely reminded of the day before, the two of you entered the Council room.

“How was your ride with Vhagar?” You tenderly incite, head tilting towards his beast. Vhagar sits lazily with her entire body blended into the environment. Her muddy green scales combine with the grassy interior. The dragon pits were deemed too small for her size. And more so claustrophobic for a creature of her caliber, as a champion of many wars and destruction, Vhagar is rather docile for being the largest dragon. 

He hums before easily answering. “The morrow dew is not something to be missed during this time. Vhagar could sense it, and the warm breeze is sure to come sooner for summer,” He crossed his arms behind his back as if analyzing your every breath as you walked in irregular patterns, trailing along where his dragon resides. Your attention was not fully on him. No, not that he wouldn’t mind. But it was ignorant on your part to ignore him so easily. “Now save the rest of this nonsense for supper or shall I ask what were your real intentions for coming here? Though I welcome it,” 

You catch onto his coarse tone. Aemond dislikes those who do not take him seriously, like his brother. And you are aware of his estranged heart. You give him a look of consideration. It was the look of someone who had the upper hand. You knew he was becoming impatient with your meddling. 

“What are your plans with Criston Cole going to Rook’s Rest?” Your figure fully faces him now as you cup your hands together modestly. Surely the prince of the realm should respect the Queen’s uncertainties when he meets with the King’s Hand behind his back. A sliver of dread falls on the blonde prince as you take a step closer. “Consoling with the Hand without the King’s presence is extremely demeaning, my prince. Surely you have a right reason to go behind his back,” 

He takes a step forward, as Aemond’s eye moves back and forth from you. “We have a plan,” He is recursive in his thoughts and manners. Yet under your eyes, he feels utterly weak and broken, as if you have put a spell on him. “It is best if the King does not intervene.”

 Shaking your head disapprovingly, you fake disappointment. “Then what do you plan to do?” The longer it went on, the more you could feel his blood rising at the way you glanced and teased at his exploits. “As I, the Queen should know.”

“You need not,” The second son grunts, moving away to leave whatever conversation you were trying to muster with him. You intended to snuff out his plans with Criston Cole and expose them to your King's husband. Your King husband. What would he know of battles and formation? He knew better strategy than him yet you still side with Aegon with his pathetic whims on the townsfolk. 

Unsatisfied, you shot a disapproving grin. “I know you intend on attacking Rook’s Rest as a surprise, why else would you go with Cole?” You heard his mudded footsteps stop momentarily as you continued. “My question to it is, what are you trying to prove out of this act of disloyalty?” It flicks a trigger in him. A quick flash of anger, jealousy, and disgust, all coiled into one hole that explodes. 

“I intend to prove I am the better fit as heir,” His tone is sharp and alert as he stomps back to you with a violent gaze. His one good remaining eye, unharmed and uncut, shoots daggers at your stern face. A small part of you thinks he is handsome. The way you can rile him within seconds gives you a sense of joy and satisfaction that quenches whatever annoyance you had of him before.

“There is no denying that,” Your lips agape still at how much you were able to pry out of Aemond. However, there was one detail you needed to remind him of. “But you fail to recognize that Aegon still has an heir, Maegor.” With that, you close your mouth to form a thin line as you stand more confidently against the prince’s deadly stare. “And as Queen, I hope you do not try to cross your King’s benevolent trust with your anger.” 

It was his turn to remain there motionless. The one-eyed prince repeats your words over and over again. He contemplates them long and hard, glaring at the ground, at where you stood, close to his breath and space. But all of his emotional desires could be examples of an ill temper. You twist and turn his head like a puppeteer to a helpless marionette. And his strings had long sprung and trapped him in an immobile place.

He leaves without a word.

The battle was over. But the war continued. You became increasingly paranoid as no word from Cole’s army of Aegon’s wellbeing. You heard unreliable news. This and that but you wanted the real thing. The truth from a real member who had witnessed the battle at Rook’s Rest. As you twist the ring on your finger, you glance towards the rising crowd in the city. There were so many citizens.  They succeeded and followed like colonies of ants. 

Your anguish was reassured when the sight of the King’s army appeared. Shouts and screams returned you from your thoughts as hundreds of men walked and rode on horseback. Your lively expression did not last long, only to falter when meant with their solemn faces. What a grim battle it must’ve been.

“All hail King Aegon! Who went against and slain the traitor, Rhaenys, and her dragon, Meleys!” Cole exclaims in a harsh and undeserving undertone. From where you stood, on the high mounts of the castle, you saw the horrors of what they’ve done to the traitors. A severed head of the Red Queen, without her rider. Her flesh was torn and burnt. Charred from the attacks of another dragon, you did not believe Aegon had done so. You had doubts and Criston’s indifferent frown proved your intuition. 

Alicent was by the patio where you spied on the citizens of King’s Landing. She observes and feels a familiar dread from the aftermath she has yet to witness for herself. You have taken the position of Queen and in turn, must understand the order of things. Simply because she had a feeling that things did not seem as they were predicted by the townsfolk. 

When the wooden carriage of your husband is delivered to your bed chambers, everyone storms aside for the guards to set it on the floor. You arrived shortly after, nails and teeth clenched in fear as your mother-in-law appeared beside you with the same fixation. And somewhere else, your brother-in-law, Aemond carefully watches your scared position. The lid lifts and the soldiers hold onto the emergency bed that protects their King. In a swift motion, they lift and allow the body to hover over your shared bed.

In patience and precision, Maester Orywle walks into the chambers with several other maesters under his wing to begin a procedure and analysis of his injured body. The room is quickly transformed into a medical room, with various tools and gadgets displayed for the maesters disposal. You had little clue what they were doing, worried about your husband’s awakened state. 

“How is he?” You stumbled by the foot of the bed, where the other maesters scurry to give off Maester Orwyle a scalpel. Gods, the wounds he had mustered. You felt terrified and rightfully so. This could be the last time you see your husband, alive and breathing. “Is he awake?”

“I’m not sure, Your Grace,” Maester Orwlye replies with adequate patience. Knowing the panic and hysteria you must feel for your king, your husband, he pities in your state. You should not deserve such sorrow. “But I must be given time to work on his fatal wounds. Whether he lives or not will be confirmed afterward.” His unflinching face softens when glances at one of Aegon’s personal Kingsguard to escort you outside. The knight nods and walks forward to excuse himself before coming forward.

“My apologies, Your Grace,”

Yet you did not want to leave. Your palms felt hot and guilt-ridden with the idea of leaving Aegon alone to suffer. You urge, taking a step forward for only Maester Orwyle to hear. “How long can you be sure he will survive?” It’s so hushed with desperation in your voice. But the maester could only respond with a sorrowful shake. It breaks your heart wholly, to know not even the best medical professionals had a clear understanding or answer to their King’s expectancy. 

As you feel pathetic tears, ready to fall, the Queen Regent rushes to take hold of your forearm. She drags your pitiful self out of the chambers. The bodies that remained stepped aside for you and Alicent to leave swiftly. A quick flash of silver and black vanishes from your peripherals, but you cannot process anything that is happening anymore. 

The syllables of your name ring against your ears as the Queen Regent tries to bring you back to her. “My dear, please focus on me.” Delicate fingers drape a hold of your jaw, firmly. They smooth over the apples of your cheeks, smoothly and soothingly like a gesture a mother would do for their children. “You need to stand strong for Aegon and yourself. Your children, think of Jaehaera and Meagor! Pray to the gods for his health.” 

With that, you took a deep breath. 

Aemond was avoidant to the whole ordeal. No one besides Criston Cole was there when he found his brother’s scorched body. Alongside his dragon, Sunfrye, it looked as though he was fighting for his last breath. Aemond would’ve taken that chance to send him to eternal sleep if not for Cole’s arrival. A pity for him.

As he watches the scene before him, your grief-stricken features are what caused the most pain. You resembled a tragic painting, so angelic it’s saddening to see you this way. Aemond could’ve done it. He could have killed his brother and taken the glory of killing Meleys. Despite that, he did not and stormed from the scene. Now left in the shadows of what’s to come, he numbly waits for the maester’s work to be done with. The Council meeting will begin shortly. After Aegon’s procedure and Maester Orywle, official confirmation of whether he would live or not would determine whether he would become the true heir or not. 

This was what he wanted, yes? 

Except, everything was bleak now. All the colors he witnessed were suddenly wiped; now all he saw was black and white. Your tragic face comes into mind, along with your fragile sniffles and tears. Gods, he wanted to comfort your sweet little heart. Yet knowing he was the cause of it, made Aemond strangely more devoted to you. If Aegon does not survive, you are bound to be a widow. Your youngest child, Meagor was still but a babe, unfit and too young to understand what an heir was. Therefore he would be the rightful option if all else failed. He would rule in the King’s stead. 

That was what the one-eyed prince considered when he stepped through the doors to begin the Council. The King’s chair was empty as expected, looking lonely and authoritative without its ruler. In the same sense, on the opposite side, you sat soberly with nothing but a blank look. You wore cool-toned colors this morning. It reflected much of what you must be feeling. 

Grief, misery, and blame.  Even in this poor state, he still considers you attractive and alluring. It’s a shame you looked dejected and lifeless despite all your energy and might to stay awake. Your hair was even braided in a simpler style. Knowing you always had a knack for extraverted taste, Aemond takes in your appearance profoundly. Because perhaps, everyone in the Council can understand the emphasis on the wife of the King. As they eagerly await Maester Orwyle’s results, they all gaze at your seat for any kind of solace. 

He takes the chair to your left and sits. While the Grand Maester begins to explain Aegon’s conditions. The longer he spewed, the more you felt your heavy heart fall deeper into your chest. How would the realm react now? Their king suddenly struck and immobile to be by their side. He had defeated Rhaenys in battle however now suffered in a long-inducing coma just as his father did. Who would rule in his absence? It only made sense in your mind but you did not make it become a reality. 

“But he is very much alive, Your Grace,” Maester Orywle gives an earnest smile to the Queen Mother as she exhales with the utmost relief. “Though he will need time to recover, I do not think he will ever be the same.” 

An unfavorable grunt from Aemond brings attention from you and Cole. “So he is unable to leave his chambers.”

“I’m afraid not,” 

“Then we must choose who is to rule in his stead,” Lord Wylde speaks of the obvious, sparing everyone a momentary glance. He clears his throat and rubs his beard, nervously.

“If anyone should come in Aegon’s stead, it is his wife,” Alicent jabs, shooting quick assertiveness when she presses her crossed palms onto the table. Your name leaves her lips as a clear sign of hope. “She was the closest companion to the King and has been since this war started. It is only right for her to continue her husband’s intentions and plans.” 

“And what plans did the King have?” A pompous statement coming from her second son, which surprised you as well. Aemond was known for his restrained nature however it seems as days passed, he was slowly losing his grip on his sanity. “I am the closest heir the King has. Would it not be I who rules in his stead?” In the turn of the tides, the room is divided upon their suggestions. You can tell by the wary looks the lords hold with each other. However, you have been grateful for Alicent’s support regardless of the cold shoulder she has given you previously. 

“You are not fit, Prince Aemond,” Your fingers slide and take hold of the marble ball in front of you. The weight of the object pleasantly gives you a boost of poise to look him in his one good remaining eye. “The King’s line is still secured for my son, Meagor will become the next heir. But he is young so for the time being, I am naturally the next in line to come to his stead. As his wife and Queen, I should have a say as well.” 

It’s what Aegon would’ve wanted.

[astarionsilverbough]

Hi. Hey. It’s lit anal anon. Just the summary had me excited for this one let’s gooooo

As always: @ cazador KILL URSELF!!!!!

Astarion’s animosity to the guardian is so fascinating to me but i love the idea. Do NOT steal his mommy!!! Rude!!!

Love astarion in halsin’s shirt I’m a big proponent of Let Astarion Wear Long Shirt. Lets him be cozy but also a bit of privacy which is important for him, imo

Halsin fight. H. He’s so. I’m. Oh baby

YOU MAKE ME HOLY ahhhhh. Ugh. Star praying for the gods to bless him with no reply and then in turn blessing someone with no demand….

Honestly the entire monastery w astarion is so… it’s almost mocking. Why was he not worth any light until now?

Excited to see Raphael as always peekin in at the end and I can’t WAIT for him and astarion!!!!

HEY BABEYYYYY

Class is in session!!!!!

Astarion’s animosity makes sense to me bc he’s had so many mfs try and manipulate him and like. Yeah he wants power but the real mistake of the guardian was absolutely choosing Astraea as a visage - worst option

The mere thot of Star in just a big tunic of Halsin’s drives me feral I - I can’t

AND YES YES YES U GET IT THEIR LOVE IS JUST- their love IS the divinity it’s going to change the fuckin world!!!! Period!!!!!

Oh darling he was worth the light! He was entrenched in shadows too deep for Lathander to reach, shadows not even Shar would touch (they were demon-born, as it said in the chapter) and in DnD the gods aren’t truly supposed to interfere with mortal happenings even when it comes to their chosen. Lathander,,,,, has already broken that rule.

All shall be revealed I promise 💕

THE BUDDY COP MOVIE CHAPTER IS UPON US!!!!! I’m so excited lmao their dynamic takes me the fuck out

As always such a joy seeing a comment from you my dear ilu 3000 💕💕💕

[fyodcrs]

Leaves of Impermanence

Fyodor/Dazai (explicit) Dazai leaned against the rail, gazing dreamily down at the water below them. “Shall we jump?” he asked, his tone still cheerful. “It’s a beautiful night for it.” “Isn’t it?” Fyodor smiled, not looking at him. “And what if I only wanted you to jump, Dazai?” “Then just say the word, and I’ll jump.” - Dazai and Fyodor take a little stroll.

[Read on AO3 here]

A chill wind stirred the leaves beneath their feet into a papery whisper. The colors of autumn blazed in the sunset light, the trees alive in vivid shades of fire to herald the change of seasons, the sky painted in vibrant pastel hues to herald the fall of night. A time of impermanence, of the in-between, when nothing was quite certain. Alone on the bridge, they were like lonely spirits crossing from this world into the next.

“Didn’t I tell you this was a perfect time for a stroll?” Dazai said cheerfully, slipping an arm around Fyodor’s slender waist.

“No, actually, you didn’t,” Fyodor replied, with a touch of fond exasperation. “You just dragged me out here, right in the middle of our chess game. Because you were about to lose, no doubt.”

“I was definitely not about to lose.” He definitely had been, but that was quite irrelevant to his admittedly sudden decision to go out for a walk.

Fyodor paused, drawing Dazai to a halt beside him. He turned to look out across the river, his expression serene but thoughtful. Tonight was going to be a cold one, and he was all bundled up in a winter coat and the new scarf Sigma had bought him. His arms were crossed over his chest, braced against the wind. Catching even a slight chill could make him sick.

Dazai leaned against the rail, gazing dreamily down at the water below them. “Shall we jump?” he asked, his tone still cheerful. “It’s a beautiful night for it.”

“Isn’t it?” Fyodor smiled, not looking at him. “And what if I only wanted you to jump, Dazai?”

“Then just say the word, and I’ll jump.”

Fyodor laughed. As if in response, the wind picked up, and leaves rattled across the bridge as if laughing with him.

“You don’t believe me?” Dazai demanded. Once not so long ago, one might have looked into this young man’s eyes and thought of endless dark pits into which no light could reach. Now those same eyes danced with their own wild light. “One word from you, and I’ll throw myself down headfirst.”

“If only I could believe it’d be that easy to rid myself of you,” Fyodor scoffed, half-teasing. “You weren’t willing to drown for me once, when it would have benefited me. Why should I ask you to drown for me now when I have nothing to gain from it? And why should I believe that this time it would be true?”

“We’re playing a different game now,” Dazai said, lowering his voice just slightly as the wind raised its own. “A different game, with different stakes. If it would win me your love, I would give my life at once, and gladly.”

Fyodor shook his head. Something like sadness crossed his visage. “Knowing how little value you place on your own life, that only tells me you place as little value on my love.”

He turned, but stopped and looked back, his hair blowing into his face. He smiled, and if Dazai’s eyes blazed with the dying rays of the sun and the raging colors of autumn, Fyodor’s violet eyes were as cold and dark as the encroaching night and the coming winter. “But one day I will speak that word, Dazai, if only to see how far you will go.”

He walked away. Dazai followed him down to the walkway above the riverbank, into the shadow of a cluster of trees. When Fyodor turned back to him, Dazai kissed him deeply and lingeringly, pushing him backward until he had the other man pressed against the trunk of a tree. Fyodor’s lips were cold, and so were his hands, but soon they were warm, and a light flush crept into his pale cheeks. Dazai untied his scarf to expose the white, smooth skin of his neck, and Fyodor sighed and tilted his head back when Dazai pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“You have no idea,” Dazai whispered in his ear, “how far I will go.”

Fyodor laughed again, low and a little breathless, and the sound dissolved into a gasp when Dazai worked open the button and zipper of his pants and slipped a hand inside.

“How detestable you are, Dazai,” he murmured. “All your grand and empty words—ah.” He moaned as Dazai began to stroke him, slowly, firmly, his cock hardening under Dazai’s touch, and for all that the temperature around them was steadily dropping, the contact of their skin was red hot.

“Whose are the grand and empty words?” Dazai challenged, panting as delicate, clever fingers freed his own aching cock and wrapped around him. “Just yesterday you told me my death would be the greatest gift I could give you. Now you say you’d have nothing to gain from it.”

“And yesterday you said we could both learn to live. Now you practically beg me to demand of you to throw yourself into the river.”

Fyodor twisted his wrist, rubbing his thumb over the slit of Dazai’s cock, and Dazai shuddered, hips jerking into the touch. He nipped at the flesh between Fyodor’s neck and collarbone just to get the same reaction from him.

“We’re both liars, Dazai.”

Dazai traced with his mouth a well-known path up to capture him in a kiss that grew headier and sloppier as they both quickened their pace, moving in effortless rhythm with one another.

“Yes,” Dazai murmured, in between heavy breaths, “we’re both liars. But not in this.”

Fyodor came quietly as he always did, and Dazai greedily swallowed down the soft sounds he made, until Dazai buried his face into Fyodor’s shoulder as he spilled into Fyodor’s hand with a curse.

Fyodor sagged against the tree, and Dazai went with him, wrapping an arm around his middle to keep him close. He raised his dirtied hand and pressed his fingers to Fyodor’s lips. Fyodor opened for them, half-lidded violet eyes locked on Dazai’s as he sucked them clean. And, before Dazai could formulate the thought to reciprocate, he raised his own hand to his mouth and did the same. Dazai watched him, enraptured, desire a sweet burn beneath his skin that never seemed to go away.

“Do you know,” he said, “I already love you more than is possible, and somehow, I love you even more every day. Do you understand what a torment that is? But it was you who said that there is no suffering without salvation. I know now I only want to die with you.”

Above them, the red-orange canopy of the trees shivered, and several leaves were torn from their branches. Fyodor turned his gaze upwards and caught one as it spiraled elegantly down toward them. It fluttered in his hands, as if trying to escape his clutches.

“Lives are like autumn leaves,” he said, studying the leaf he had captured. Dazai’s eyes never left his face. “Fleeting, fading—and soon lost.” He opened his hands, and the wind swept the leaf away into the spreading gloom, in the direction of the river. Dazai could imagine it landing on the surface of the water, forming gentle ripples. “But there is beauty in them—even in their final moments, they burn with color, bright and blazing. Wasn’t it you who told me my world could be a little more beautiful?”

“Is it now?” Dazai asked softly.

Fyodor looked back at him. His hands cradled Dazai’s face as lightly as they had held the wayward leaf. “Is yours, Dazai?”

Dazai closed his eyes and leaned in to press his forehead against Fyodor’s. He did not answer.

Fyodor would give the word, eventually, and they both knew it. It was only a matter of time. And when it happened, they both would stand firm. Dazai was content to wait.

For now, they simply stood there, sharing breath and space, as around them slowly descended the autumn dusk.

[lorianbladeoflothric]

This was meant to be a short warm up that I didn't post, but now I have 1200 words about Mary specifically.

----

Mary was exhausted by the time she reached the cathedral. Her feet dragged, leaden, up the hill as the servants of rot hailed her arrival. They parted for her as she marched forward, yet crowded at her sides, chittering, whispering, reaching for her with troublingly human hands. 

She stopped in front of the crumbling remains of the altar; looked up at the ruined visage of the goddess who broke the world. That was her grandmother, she supposed.

Kneeling down, Mary realized that she had never prayed before. The Sellians were staunchly against the gods, and Gowry had never taught her or her sisters how. She looked over her shoulder at the fanatical insects surrounding her. “Um. A little space please?” Instantly they moved as one, leaving a two foot gap around her. At least now she could breathe easier. 

She turned back to the altar and clasped her hands as she’d seen the servants do many times. Yet, they would also raise two their arms, palms skyward, and make gestures with their many smaller hands that she had never studied closely. Which was the prayer? How could she ensure her mother heard her if she only had two hands? Maybe if she spoke out loud?

“Ma—Lady Malenia— or, um, would you prefer Mother? O-or Goddess?” Stop it Mary, she chided herself, this isn’t the important part! “Whatever I may call you, I beg you to hear me. Amy has taken ill, and we fear she may leave us. Her fever hasn’t broken in days, and though we have ventured as far as Liurnia to gather them, there are no herbs that will help. Please, my Lady, o great goddess, please help your quiet, most gentle daughter. Our little flower.”

She took a shaking breath through clenched teeth. Her hands held a white-knuckle grip on each other as she struggled to keep from crying.  “Little flower” was a nickname she’d gotten when they were young, back before they were ousted from Sellia. It was just four of them then— and only three that the townspeople knew of— “Gowry’s little flowers” they called them, and Amy was so shy back then that it was the only name many of them knew her by. 

How ironic that, even if she lived, their little flower would never bloom. None of them would. Only Millicent. Only Millicent was strong enough. Only Millicent was chosen.

The tears building in her eyes dried up. Anger burned in her chest like a hot coal. Her voice cracked as she demanded “Why? Why is it only her? Tell me! What kind of mother favors one of her children over the other? What kind of mother leaves four of her daughters to die?” Malenia was silent. The servants chittered madly, understanding nothing she said but so so happy one of their goddesses was among them. In that moment, she felt a strange kinship with them. The insects were born of her mother in the same way she was, and they too were spurned by their creator. Yet here they were, and here she was, begging to be heard. 

“We only want to serve you, you know. To become the Valkyries that will stand by your side...Please, Malenia, how can I become worthy? What must I do so that I won’t have to watch my little sisters wither away?” What did she need to do to be loved as Millicent was?

She folded her hands in her lap and sat silently, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. A change in the wind? A voice in her head? A golden light shining down from the heavens? For Malenia to just walk through the door sixteen years late with a plate of pastries?

It was going to get dark soon. 

Under the crumbling stone eyes of her grandmother, Mary got to her feet. Her kindred watched, but did not follow her as she left. Her legs were still sore from the journey here...at least the way back was mostly downhill.

Smoke billowed from the chimney of the tiny, cozy shack the six of them called home. Mary walked faster as she got close, eager for nothing more than to curl up in bed. A red-haired girl— which really narrowed down who it could be— burst out of the door as soon as Mary got to the road.

“Mary! Marymarymary!” That was Millicent’s voice. 

She froze, certain that the worst had come to pass. She wanted to run away, until her legs gave out, until their mother’s blessed rot claimed her as well. Alas, she was the oldest, and they needed her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she held her arms out to catch her little sister in a hug. 

Instead, Millicent grabbed one of her outstretched hands and started to pull her towards the house. “Um, Millie?” Mary stumbled after her. 

“Come on, Amy’s awake! She’s feeling better!”

“She is?” Mary could have cried. 

“Uh-huh!” She stopped with one hand on the door, “But first, don’t freak out about her eyes, okay?”

Her heart sank. “What’s wrong with them?”

Millicent shrunk back, leaving her to wonder what sort of altercation happened while she wasn’t there to stop it. “She’s blind...and Gowry got her to calm down, but she’s not taking it well.”

That was all she needed to hear. Mary nearly knocked her sister over as she rushed inside and towards the bedroom. True to her word, Amy was indeed awake, sitting up in bed and sulking quietly. She picked up her head as Mary entered. “Who’s there?” Once the same brilliant gold as the rest of them, her eyes were now pale and clouded. 

“It’s me.” 

“Mary?” she asked again, her voice so small and so scared that it brought tears to her eyes. 

Slowly and steadily, so she wouldn’t startle her, Mary went over to the bed. “Yes, Mary. I’m here.” She climbed up next to Amy and pulled her into a hug, running a hand over her tangled hair. Amy buried her face in her shoulder and sobbed wordlessly. “I’m here...It’s okay...You’re okay...” Gowry had always provided for them, but when any of the sisters was upset, it was Mary they turned to. 

She held her long after she’d finally calmed down, heaving sobs fading to soft hiccups. “...Mary?” Amy looked up.

“Yes, little flower?” she thumbed a lingering tear off of her scarred cheek.

“When I woke up, you were gone, and the others had no idea where you went or when you’d be back....Where were you?”

“I was...” she hesitated, maybe it was stupid to go so far and pray to someone who may very well not know she existed, or maybe it was what woke Amy up in the first place. “I was praying to Lady Malenia. Like, uh, like the...bugs...do.”

Before Amy could say anything, Maureen’s voice came from the doorway. “You were gone for half the day to hang out with the fucking bugs!? We were worried!” Amy jumped at the sudden sound.

Mary sighed, “I wasn’t ‘hanging out’ I was— ugh! Whatever, what do you want, Maureen?”

She held up a steaming bowl of stew. “I’m bringing Amy her dinner. You need to get some before it’s gone though. No dinner in bed for you.” She brought it over and gingerly handed it to Amy, sticking her tongue out at Mary.

“Fiiiiine.” Mary got up and stretched before following her second-in-command out. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm. “Yeah?”

“Did mother ever answer you?”

Mary took her hand and squeezed it. “I'm not sure.”

[tooktalks]

fire seems to follow him no matter where he goes.  it exists first in his body; a fiery passion to be something else,  something better than his humble beginnings.  it manifests as his ever-changing visage, names so uniquely un-his. 

earth feels the same and yet so different under his feet as he stumbles across a doorway to somewhere different. they feel that push too; it forces them forwards, pushing innovation and creativity beyond the bounds of  the known world.  he watches in  amazement at what they are able to do when presented a  minutiae of problems. 

water droplets across his face as the city rises through the layer of clouds always crowning their mountaintop city. he loves standing on the many balconies of the city,  feeling the rumbling under often-bare feet, and a silk robe tied loosely around his body.  he is a nobody here;  he has only a name to make for himself. he wonders sometimes what it would be like to stick his hand out of the city limits and feel the 

air.  it seems to escape his lungs when he sees her for the first time.  she holds a book and does not buy it.  he commits its name to memory. they hardly fit the same circles and deep down, he makes it his mission to meet her as an equal.  she steals his breath every time she graces a room with her presence. he yearns, in a way he has not yearned since his feet first reminded him of his need to travel. she is everything. she is 

fire.  it is what drives her through her studies, an ever-burning desire to prove herself. her mind, her abilities, arcane or otherwise.  fire burns in the ring of city while its top soars; she dreams of joining the clouds one day, atop the city. it burns deep in her heart as she commits each name of those who wronged  her, doubted her, to memory. she will soon prove them wrong.  she will never forget them. 

earth finds its way between her toes as she dances, barefoot, in the garden of the home they share.  her wardrobe is an amalgamation of the earthy tones she prefers and the brighter colors he prefers,  shirts and robes stolen from his side when she gets lazy  —or when she wants his attention— and they are most often dirtied from  gathering dust on the floor as the newly wed leave them  to be picked up eventually. 

water, salty,  flows freely, carving canyons on her cheeks as she mourns truly, deeply.

air barely fills her lungs each day; she doesn’t raise from their bed at first and then their house grows  dark and quiet in her absence. 

fire- hot burns his fingers in the new place. he calls it a new place but it is familiar to him. he calls his office home only for the space  it allows him to give her.  perhaps she doesn’t need space but he has run out of ideas. he is not of this world, with their endless creativity and inspiration. he misses the smell of 

earth under their feet.  the last time they landed was the day they had wed; it had rained. she could remember the smell, the taste,  the laugh lines on his face when she chose to let it rain still.  she grits her teeth and stays underground.  it takes her two weeks to realize he’s left their home.  her home.  she goes to his office with

ice  in her voice and in her eyes as she demands answers.  he speaks softly, gently, as though she will break if he tells her the truth.  her heart freezes over and shatters into a thousand pieces when she sees the couch he has slept on in the office, the wrinkles on his collar, the exhaustion in his whole body.  she can’t handle to lose another person, not on terms not her own. she leaves the

air between them tense and unfinished. unfulfilled. they both throw themselves into work. he climbs the ranks until he is the face of the city.  she climbs the ranks under she is so far hidden that few will know her name but all will know her work.  they attend parties and barely speak to one another.  but she knows. he knows too.  the

fire of their love has never died.  her grief is not a bonfire, all-consuming.  his frustration is not a tidal wave, extinguishing.  they come together again and again despite themselves.  they cannot help but love, even to the bitter end.

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

Ah, the return of the bingo notes. It had been a while. Picking up the ash-hewn paper in calloused hands, Evan felt himself smirk to match the wide grimace of his mask.

It had been too quiet as of late, at least by the Fog's standards, with the weather warming and those suspiciously skull-shaped snowballs melting back from whence they came. It made sense she'd cook up some new, twisted form of entertainment thematically tied with the changing seasons in the world just out of reach.

Would this make this— March? No, February. He was sure of that. The fog of memories, half muddled by time and Her Influence, was a brutal storm to navigate at the best of times; however, this knowledge fell beyond his grasp despite that.

Before, Evan had never paid much attention to the holidays, let alone observe them. Life gave no pause, even in the face of festivities. No, the Mines waited for no man, the demand for iron unyielding. There was no time, no energy, even had he wanted to stop and pay heed to the bright facsimiles of love and hearts in the candle-lit window sills beyond the estate. It was a frivolous expense, one he could not afford.

The urge to crumple the paper was strong at that moment— crush the weakness— silence the corner of his heart that hissed in bitterness. Still, Evan fought it; he could afford it; he wanted to afford it. Curiosity nipped at him.

Let's see. The Pyramid Head? That was a turn he hadn't expected. Here, his mind had thought it was another of the survivors, shooting their shot into the void. Yet the Red God, and more than one bingo? His eyebrows raised beneath the bone visage, his smirk of amusement dropping into something conflicted, interested?

Breaking the silence, Evan grunted simply a 'Huh,' he would keep this in mind.

[republicsecurity]

Monastic Rescuers

Nestled amidst the bustling precincts of the Rescue Corps are sanctuaries of contemplation and devotion—monasteries inhabited by monks who embrace the dual calling of religious dedication and life-saving service. These devoted individuals embody a centuries-old legacy, harking back to the ascetic practices of the Carmelites and other ancient orders.

A Glimpse into the Unseen: Guided Tours of Monastic Life

For the curious and the spiritually inclined, guided tours of these monasteries offer a window into the lives of these modern-day monks. Immerse yourself in the atmosphere of devotion, witness ancient rituals that have endured through the ages, and gain insight into the unique balance they strike between contemplation and action.

As you traverse the hallowed halls of these monastic retreats, you'll discover a profound harmony between sacred tradition and modern necessity. The monastic rescuers, veiled in humility and guided by their unwavering faith, stand as a testament to the enduring union of service and spirituality within the heart of the Rescue Corps.

Vows of Virtue: Poverty, Obedience, and Service

In a world marked by rapid change, these modern-day monks have chosen to follow the sacred vows of their spiritual forebears: poverty, obedience, and service. Bound by their sacred oaths, they seamlessly transition between the tranquil solace of the monastery and the demanding rigors of rescue operations.

Heralds of Silence: The Helmets of Humility

A practice both emblematic and enigmatic, the monks who serve within the Rescue Corps often observe the vow of silence and solitude—a profound commitment to introspection and inner peace. When interfacing with the public these dedicated souls choose to shroud themselves in anonymity, donning helmets that obscure their faces. This humble gesture serves as a powerful reminder of their devotion, as they seek to channel the essence of their service and honor the sanctity of silence.

The Chapel of Respite: Reflection and Reverence

Discover the inner sanctum of the monastic retreat—the Chapel of Respite. Ornate carvings and intricate stained glass windows create an ambiance of reverence, inviting visitors to partake in moments of quiet prayer or simply marvel at the exquisite craftsmanship. Join the monks in their daily prayers and experience the spiritual connection that infuses every corner of this sacred space.

Welcome to the Spiritual Haven: A Guided Tour by a Resilient Monk

Greetings, seekers of wisdom and insight. I am Brother AL0RN, a humble servant of the divine path within the Rescue Corps' monastic order. As we embark on this journey through our hallowed halls, I invite you to open your hearts to the serenity and dedication that define our way of life.

Follow me to the Scriptorium, where the ancient art of transcription flourishes. Through the vocoder, my words may sound distant, but my commitment to preserving knowledge and enlightenment remains resolute. Bear witness to the meticulous craftsmanship that has safeguarded wisdom for generations.

As we traverse the Gallery of Service, reflect on the unity of purpose that binds our monastic family. My obscured visage is a testament to our dedication to humility and service, reminding us that it is our actions, not appearances, that define our calling.

In the Hall of Unity, where silence yields to shared introspection, I invite you to pose your questions. The vocoder may cloak my voice, yet I am here to illuminate the harmonious convergence of devotion and duty that defines our existence.

Remember, dear guests, that the veil that separates us is symbolic of the sacrifices we make in our unwavering commitment to our path.

[spilled-soup]

im gonna post all of the rain world iterator OCs i came up with over the past week; this'll have all of them in one image, but they'll also have their own separate posts

recently ive started coming up with my own local group for rain world because iterator names are fun to come up with, so here are the ones i have so far! keep in mind that these characters are still a work in progress, so names, descriptions, and designs may change when i come up with something better (also fyi i made my own simple iterator character base to make the designing process a bit easier)

shown in this hastily thrown together image are: Claws Through The Horizon (he/him)

Glimpse of Somber Fields (she/her)

Suspected Transgression (he/him)

Visage of Three Points (they/them)

Prosthetic Conviction (he/they)

character descriptions below

Claws Through The Horizon is the youngest iterator in the local group, and is optimistic towards finding the solution to the Great Problem. He is obsessed with creating purposed organisms to the degree that the area around his can is full of various different species he has created and let loose. His can is located close to the ocean, so many of these creatures are aquatic or semi-aquatic.

Glimpse of Somber Fields is the oldest of the group, and makes sure her neighbors do not forget her seniority privileges. She is prone to abusing her authority over the other iterators, and loves to use forced broadcasts to ensure her demands are met. She also tries to keep other iterators in check, often clashing with Claws Through The Horizon and Visage of Three Points. Despite her rude behavior and actions, she does care for the members of her group.

Suspected Transgression is calculating and resourceful, and befriended his local scavenger population. In exchange for conducting rudimentary maintenance and other missions, he lets the scavengers live in the city on his back. After many cycles, he was integrated into the scavengers' culture as a benevolent authority figure, and is treated with a high level of respect. The scavengers even went so far as to decorate his puppet with paint, pearls, and a modified vulture mask. In his interactions with other iterators he can be quite abrasive, but the second he believes a fellow iterator is in trouble, he is very quick to offer help.

Visage of Three Points is an older iterator, and is quite nihilistic regarding the Ancients and the Great Problem, stating on numerous occasions that the iterators were "cursed" with an impossible task. This has led them to get into many heated arguments with the zealous Glimpse of Somber Fields and the eager-to-please Prosthetic Conviction. Their can is located in a humid, swampy biome, which has caused many areas of their superstructure to rust, including their puppet.

Prosthetic Conviction is a younger iterator with a nervous disposition. He holds the Ancients and their ways of life in high regard, and rushes to defend them whenever someone speaks ill of them. He admires Glimpse of Somber Fields and looks up to her. Their eyes are cracked, due to an incident involving his chamber being invaded by a rather ornery and disrespectful slugcat with a rock. Now he is quick to assess whether a new visitor is a threat or not.

if anyone wants the iterator base i made, feel free to ask!

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Diminuendo

Elijah Mikaelson x OFC (referenced)

Warnings: descriptions of violence and death

Word count: 621

A/N: This is a short drabble inspired by Diminuendo by Lawless and part of larger fic I'm slowly fleshing out. Thanks for reading!

Summary: Even an immortal has his limits. When love is once again ripped from Elijah and he's forced to face the man behind the Red Door, he'll discover that there is music in the horror.

The rush of his breathing cut through the permeating silence in jagged, arrhythmic waves that seemed utterly incongruous to a musician’s psyche. There was an aspect of meticulousness to music; a devoted rigidity. And therein had always laid the appeal, the magnetic draw of symmetry, of balance. Each note had its place within a larger, more demanding structure. It could not come half second too late nor early lest the entire piece careen into utter chaos, give itself over to dissonance.

And so dissonant was the cadence of his breathing that his trembling fingers found themselves tapping against the side of his leg, absently urging him back on beat and back into control. He inhaled slowly through his nose, vaguely aware of the acrid smell of burning flesh intermingled with blood before he released it all back into the room.

The first thing he noticed as he blinked the world back into focus was the blood, deep and dark. It left its claret signature beneath his shoes and across the concrete. It served as an uneven paint for the walls and a macabre shroud for the bodies. And there were many, he noted with a detached curiosity.

Why were there so many?

Hazy recollection stirred somewhere in his subconscious, beyond the threshold of a red door that had been flung recklessly open.

He tipped his head from one side to the other, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck.

In another life, he would have felt the heavy tendrils of guilt seeping into his gut right about now. The disheveled, disgraceful state of his suit would have made the ruined fabric burn against his skin.

And his hands...his hands unrecognizable beneath the blood would have sent him into a spiral of shame.

But he could not seem to find the will to care. Curiously, he could not seem to draw up any sort of emotion at all. Rage satiated, he was left only with profound emptiness. Emptiness and that gnawing, distant ache in his chest that no amount of bloodshed nor vengeance had yet been able to eradicate completely.

The sound of approaching footfall behind echoed: the sharp, even staccato of heels on cement masking his unsteady breath. The rhythm changed, steady at first and then a faltering stuttering percussion, before coming to a complete halt.

He turned to face the intruder. A pair of blue eyes surveyed the room, wide first with confusion and then with the horror of realization. She made a tentative step towards forward. Her mouth opened for a moment and then closed, lips trembling all the while. He cocked his head slightly to the side, eyes glossy and distant.

“Elijah.” Rebekah managed a hoarse whisper. “What have you done?”

The tremulous, breathy intrusion of her voice sparked the ember of a memory. Images coming back to him in flashes.

A young woman with eyes like warm coffee peering at him over her book with a shy smile.

Then it shattered and twisted.

Starless eyes gaze blankly up at him, coldly empty and the color of grave soil.

His jaw twitched and he was vaguely aware of the pregnant pause. His sister was waiting for him to speak, to explain away the actions revenge had wrought and his hands had carried out. But the abject horror in his sister’s glassy eyes nor his own grisled visage reflected monstrously back in them could truly reach him. All he could feel was grim satisfaction and the temporary balm it provided.

A life for a life.

Death to pay for death.

The heart pounding crescendo flourishing to a fever pitch of screams, ebbing away into the diminuendo of the final, tragic notes, and then, finally silence.

Nothing else mattered now.

[sigmadolos]

Dazai’s forced baptism of Sigma! Now in color in theaters near you!

[jardaddy-a]

@crxstallium​​ delivered a letter !  (  Porcelain cup rests on the nest made by dainty hands,  amaranthine dwells in the liquid inside the object as glossy tiers do not rush into the conversation till a gaze dyed in curiosity lifts up.    ❛❛    Is it hard  ?   ❜❜    Here,  mistress of mysteries cradled by the zephyr.  Where oneself has found some place to stay on the endless journey across the skies,  subtle echoes ring in the vast meadow inside the ribcage.    ❛❛   To know this many shades,  to convive,  to share the shame breathing air  ...  ❜❜    Intriguing.  Huntress,  asassin,  murderer  …  too many names for some puppet that has regained its own strings.  It looks like the curse bestowed upon her makes the traces of her soul more visible to prying eyes  —  and she,  a woman who carries springtime,  can’t help but wonder.  What if such luck were to happen to me ?    ❛❛   Do you love them  ?  The people under your care.  ❜❜  // from crys to chrys ! ( heh ) )  ┊💐 CHRYSANTHEMUM ┊INBOX CALL ! 

         ˗ˏˋ💐❀┊ ( * THE GRACEFUL CHRYSANTHEMUM ) ━  PRISMATIC HUES FLICKERED WITH HONEST AFFECTION FROM THE INQUIRY , she places her cup down with a light     tink      atop the ceramic saucer .     THE BACK of an ivory hand rests beneath her chin as blush roses blossomed upon florid features ,  the flaxen maiden smiles , ❝ such a task is not difficult if it is something you genuinely desire .       so yes ,   i love them .      my flowers .       they are not just my people . . .  they are my family , my home . ❞ UNMASKED DEVOTION resounds in clarity within her voice , blooming visage visibly softened in a motherly fashion .     HER ADORATION beyond the confines of a mere divine kinship .  ❝ our bond is a testament of time and trust .    we have given each other pieces of ourselves , reveal facets we do not share to others , our union is not formed by blood but by soul .      overtime we all feel as though as we’ve become one , like a solved puzzle .      although each piece differs from another . . . but when we are combined ,  we form one complete image . ❞

         ˗ˏˋ💐❀┊ ( * CHRYSANTHEMUM ) ━ LIKE CLOCKWORK , all thirteen domains play a role , a function , one cannot exist without the other .      THIS IS THE PARADISE SHE     &&.     HER SISTERS ESTABLISHED ;  a garden of lost souls , an orchestra of assorted symphonies , but blended perfectly in one magnum opus .   ❝ not all of them are kind or good in nature .     some have killed , some have lost their innocence , and some remain with hope and love in their hearts amidst all adversaries .      but from deep within . . . they all wanted the same thing . . .   they wanted to be saved  ,  they wanted change in this fragmented world .     and i wished for that as well .    t hey knew well that they would no longer live normal lives . . . so instead , they resort to make sure that the future generation will not suffer as much as them . ❞  ALL OF THEM , A BAND OF REBELS , against an Elder God’s twisted demand for perfection .     A GROUP of abhorred children    &&.    their band of broken angels , all desiring for their kind to rise once more from the ashes . 

         ˗ˏˋ💐❀┊ ( * CHRYSANTHEMUM ) ━ ❝ excuse my sentiments , crys . ❞ BASHFUL LAUGHTER is soon muted by pressed lips .   ❝ but i could write lines of poetry for each flower in my garden .      they’re all imperfect . . . but such imperfections make them the most beautiful in my eyes .  ❞

[resolutepath]

❛   forgive me, for all the things i did. but mostly the things i didn’t do.  ❜  (vautrin for neuvi bc I demand the pain)

Today in Fontaine it pours. The deluge was not forecasted, yet here, as the one with the capacity to change as much shares the same space as a man thought long gone, there is little else that can be done. Forgive me... he asks, and all that can be done is allow lids to descend over eyes, masking the wealth of turbulence within, the storm of emotion felt at such a juncture.

He does not need to ask what the things he did not do are. They both know that between them lies a barren landscape, one that was once blooming with new growth, that held prospects of something alive and thriving, now left shrivelled and decayed. Back then, there was no name for it, not for one such as he who had proclaimed distance above all else yet allowed this man to defy that, but it was there, whispering at the fringes. Until everything changed, until the day Carole's life was stolen by the hatred perpetuated and justice was fractured into the personal and the independent.

"Do you need it? My forgiveness...?" He asks because he must know, yet even those very words feel heavy on his tongue, another sentence he offers unwillingly when it comes to this man. A swallow follows and finally he lets lids open and turns his head to view the returned companion at his side. There are many thoughts in his head and words in his throat, but there they remain lodged, clogging his airway, adding pressure to his chest as he cannot release them. There is something small within him that has awakened from where it hides in answer to Vautrin and it trembles.

"If anything, then it is I who ought ask if you can bear to give me the same. It is of no illusion that the actions taken were ones that forced you into a place where..." you met your end, does not really hold up any longer. You became something more than yourself. You rotted until something claimed you. Whatever way he turns it in his mind there is little favourable he can offer that might ease the burden of his sentencing of all that Vautrin must have endured after Carole that he did little to help with.

"I make no excuses for what was done. Only ask you understand it." He already does. It does not escape the Hydro Sovereign that his once closest knew exactly what he was doing, and had played his part of the sacrificial piece in order to secure the faith for the future of Fontaine. Two friends who gave up everything, two stories that had not reached their conclusion bought to a swift, abrupt ending.

Still he knows he casts avoidance on the latter half of the sentiment, a place that - should he linger on it - makes a penitent expression creep onto his visage, encourages him to turn his gaze away for shame. For that space that was once theirs alone is now gone and yet in its place he alone has found another. Has begun to cultivate space once more as though he has forgotten all that was.

The rain drives harder, the pitter patter upon the pavements less steady pulse and now fierce rhythm as he pulls his gaze away and turns back to the world beyond. Perhaps it had been foolish to indulge in anything. There are some things that are meant to be beyond his reach.

"Forgive me. I have matters of the court that cannot wait any longer... when matters calm, perhaps we can meet again." There will be no more calm for the sole sovereign of this nation, but Vautrin does not need to know that. "Be safe, Vautrin."

[zydrateacademy]

A Heist in the Making

Some weeks ago, Dibbe had conscripted a branch of the Thieves Guild to raid a home belonging to an absent lord by the name of Bernard Auberon. Having sequestered himself to Summerset to wine and dine the world, his house was ripe for Dibbe’s best scout to report what might lie within. It revealed a vault, one the Khajiit could not penetrate, but was otherwise able to inform her of other potential earnings from within.

Once Dibbe brought the Iliac Bay branch of the Thieves Guild, the vault hosted a dark revelation. An entire Dagonite shrine, full of corpses sacrificed to the lord of change. Indeed, during the thieves incursion, several daedra were summoned within to take the souls to Oblivion, intercepted by said thieves. Mercifully nobody died, and when the branch reconvened to safer pastures, it was universally agreed upon that the Lord be reported to the local authorities.

The Lord did not have a chance to defend himself, being arrested the very minute he made port. He was quickly hauled off to prison, and though the Lord of course made a variety of demands ranging from representation to trial by combat, some were either denied or postponed for an indeterminate amount of time. So he rots in prison.

Dibbe had different plans for this fallen lord. Unbeknownst to the Iliac branch of thieves, she’d been planning a specific heist that she quickly surmised most would disapprove of. Entering a realm that almost everyone would prefer to avoid, but there’s a certain Prince that has something precious of hers. Discovering a Dagonite presented an interesting opportunity.

Grifting as a pale scale is difficult enough on its own, but with the right set of armor, a confident stature, and most importantly the properly forged papers, even an Argonian can find her way in most places. She made sure to command that she be left alone, though one guard had to be outside the chamber door, just in yelling distance in the event there was a complication with her meeting.

The Lord had only been in prison for a short time, but a growing stubble upon his middle-aged face began to grow. He was naturally not treated very well given the discoveries beneath his estate. Naturally his weight loss also had become obvious. He gave Dibbe a once-over, more confused at her being an Argonian than her armor and stature. He spoke first.

“What do you want, Argonian?”

Dibbe replied in her characteristic smarm; “Oh friend, it is you that might have something I want. I’ll make this brief; You won’t last long here. I need to find myself in possession of a fresh, unattuned sigil stone.”

The lord looked upon her with some confusion, taking a moment to drink in her visage once more. He was very clearly trying to discern her allegiance or intent, but such a polished-armored, white-scaled Argonian… There were too many incongruent elements involved that he couldn’t quite place her.

“Everything was taken from me, there’s nothing left in my cellar.” “I’m not asking what’s in your cellar now. You were a well traveled noble. One smuggler to another, there’s always more than one stash.” He narrowed his eyes, Dibbe having given him an inopportune clue. “So a thief, is it? This is your…” He gestured vaguely to her, his wrist-bound chains clanked together as he did. “What, disguise? Persona? I have half a mind to deduce you were involved in the breaking in of my house.”

Dibbe admits, “Oh, but I was. That’s why I know more than just the surface-level investigation brought against you.”

“And why in the fuck would I want to help the one who put me here?”

Dibbe holds up a finger, “Because the one that put you here can also get you out.”

This gave the lord pause. He weighed his options. His resources may be drained but in his mind, he still had his loyalties. Perhaps a pocket of a Dagonite cult would still bring him in. Maybe his name could still mean something. Dibbe remained silent, seeing the thoughts churn from behind his eyes. She knew he wanted to be free, that he wanted out. And he looked upon her confident grin, himself knowing that she was not bluffing about getting him out.

“Say I know where to find such a thing. How would this trade work?”

Dibbe specifies, “I can’t get you out this second, it will be a couple of days. I expect the information the second you are freed and safe. Not before, not after. Literally outside whatever escape hatch we find ourselves outside of. After that, you go your own way.”

She grins a toothy grin, her maw vaguely intimidating to the man in lower-lighted conditions. To wit, he wouldn’t be able to discern any fangs from the usual shark-like set of teeth that her kind usually have to begin with. She soon adds;

“And if I don’t find what I’m looking for, remember that I still have some of your books. I know where all the holes you hid in still are. I have connections with mages, and I can find myself in many places very quickly. Lying to me will not be great for your lifespan, and a few Dagon cultist buddies won’t deter or scare me.”

He could tell this was not an idle threat. Her armor was custom made, this was no mere disguise. This Argonian was connected and wealthy, and he weighed the risks. To him, it might be easier to make sure she found what she was looking for rather than compound his problems further. One problem at a time, he was more certainly thinking.

“Fine,” he accepted the deal. “I know where you can retrieve an unspoiled sigil stone.”

Dibbe claps her hands, “Just the words I wanted to hear! I will return in a couple of days. I already have a small crew scouting this place, picking out its weaknesses.” She began to make her way out.

Bernard just waved his hands towards her in surrender. His options were slim to begin with, and here came a lifeline.

Dibbe was true to her word, but with complications. She actually had to arrange for him to be transferred to a less secure prison, which was not easy. It required a veiled threat to one Warden and a bribe to another. It took several extra days but Dibbe was able to keep Bernard informed of said complications, never demanding the intel before her part of the deal was kept.

Eventually she was able to arrange a prisoner transfer, where in a mocked bandit raid took place, scattered the guards in a nonlethal manner and sequestered the lord in a cave. Finally free, he wrote down on a piece of parchment and silently handed it to her. She gave it a look, nodded, and tossed the piece of parchment into a campfire, to his approval.

“We part ways then, thief.”

“Come now, Lord. Aren’t we friends by now?” Dibbe asked, chuckling.

He simply scoffed. They had some idle banter before he was fed and clothed, and then made his way into the wilderness. Dibbe waved him off, a big grin on her face.

After an hour or so, two of her associates crawled into the refuge. An orange-tinted Khajiit, clothed in dark leathers. Her scout, Sajadar. A longtime friend, and Dibbe’s most trusted infiltrator. The second, to contrast Dib’s own white scales, was Sleeps-Under-Skies, a tar-scaled Shadowscale, a survivalist and dressed in very little to accentuate that fact.

Sleeps spoke first, “And now?”

Dibbe casually packed up her things, nonchalantly stating, “Follow him for a week, then send him to the void.”

[nghialtrn]

WEEK 8: Digital Citizenship and Software Literacy: Instagram Filters

The Rise of Instagram Filter

The era of technology has opened up new avenues for the development of the media industry, bringing with it significant impacts on society. With 95 million photographs and videos uploaded every day and counting, social media has given us access to more data than ever before. According to Instagram's most recent data, this number is expected to climb (Stout 2019). Initially, social media platforms were not inherently bad. These platforms made it incredibly easy to discover new places, people, and things. However, these social media platforms, especially Instagram, have provided users with a vast array of live filters, allowing users to use them entirely for free.

As previously mentioned in Tumblr's previous blog posts, social media is where users tend to self-perceive that this is where the best versions of themselves appear. Using filters to make ourselves look our best is no longer reserved for professional photographers, but today, even those who know nothing about color correction or contrasts in photos can easily produce high-quality images. A 2017 study on 2 million Instagram accounts found that 18% of total Instagram photos used filters and 25% of Instagram posts with the hashtag #selfie used filters (Pettersson, S 2017).

They allow users to adjust photos by adding enhancements, brightness, saturation, etc., creating a digital world far removed from reality. The use of real-time face filters enhances the opportunity to express oneself through images (Javornik, A, et al. 2022). However, this influence does not stop at images; the concept of filters has penetrated our online lives, impacting how we shape our digital presence and even the information we encounter through social media streams. Instagram has leaped, drawing users; attention to their platform, surpassing other competing apps like Facebook or Twitter. The platform seems to prioritize users’ self-expression and self-promotion rather than developing and maintaining connections (Sheldon, P, et al. 2016). Instagram's concept gives users a sense of excitement as posts need to use at least one image, encouraging users to depict an idealized version of themselves online subtly, creating captivating images along with an enhanced experience to elevate their status and quality through images or videos.

Filter and the Shift in Digital Citizens' Perceptions

With the proliferation of filters, users tend to abuse and utilize those that suit them best. Filters have added excitement for users, allowing them to transform their faces into humorous visages, coupled with sound adjustments during voice recordings, sometimes entirely changing their voices. These filters, particularly the ones that transform users into cartoon characters, maybe amusing. The “Mermaid” or “Mickey” filters, which provide iconic red hair, princess eyes, headbands, seductive grins, and even simulate the mesmerizing voice of a mermaid when users talk, can sometimes make users feel lovely. Other filters change faces into more comical forms.

As social media platforms develop alongside a large number of daily users, the virtual space is maximized, allowing everyone access to updated information daily, whether relevant or not. Consequently, users have moved from simply using platforms to complicating matters by magnifying events. With the platforms' aim of constructing online virtual spaces, they intend for them to serve as repositories for memories at every milestone of life. The creation of new features to diversify usage for users enhances the experiential aspect to a new level. Though beneficial, there are unfortunate potential side effects of their use. As previously cited, users tend to post only the most perfect images on social media. Their perception has somewhat shifted from simply posting to preserve memories, to having more demands such as the need for the perfect version of an image, requiring adjustments in composition, color, and contrast, with images often needing filters to make faces more attractive. Some physical features, such as brighter eyes, smaller noses, and rosy cheeks, are notably accentuated by beauty filters on social media platforms. Others entirely transform facial appearances by smoothing out all pores, enlarging lips, and altering eye shapes. Every time users open an app, it feels like they discover a new filter that turns them into an entirely different person.

This has caused social media users to become excessively habituated to applying beauty filters to improve their looks and hide imperfections. This is especially true for people who use social media regularly, place high importance on appearances, or are more feminine in personality. The new truth regarding beauty standards in society has been made clear by beauty filters. Women are frequently under pressure from society's standards about certain physical attributes, which makes them think that they are unattractive if they don't have lovely lips, smooth skin, big eyes, a nice jawline, or high cheekbones. Users who use filters to change their looks in an attempt to project a socially acceptable version of themselves risk receiving negative feedback from other users. This highlights a crucial problem by showing how accustomed women have grown to be to filters and how the normalization of unachievable beauty standards for women has taken shape. In addition, users' body image problems are becoming more and more of a worry because of the negative consequences of comparing one's physical appearance to that of others.

Conclusion

The use of filters not only limits itself to enhancing photos but also opens up an entirely new digital world where users can express themselves creatively and uniquely. However, the impact of using filters extends beyond just images and permeates into how we understand digital presence and the information we receive through social media. While using filters on social media contributes to joy and creativity, the misuse and reliance on beauty filters have created a new concept of beauty standards in society and altered citizens' perceptions.

Reference list

Hong, S, Jahng, MR, Lee, N & Wise, KR 2020, ‘Do you filter who you are?: Excessive self-presentation, social cues, and user evaluations of Instagram selfies’, Computers in Human Behavior, vol. 104, p. 106159, viewed <https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0747563219303711>.

Javornik, A, Marder, B, Barhorst, JB, McLean, G, Rogers, Y, Marshall, P & Warlop, L 2022, ‘“What lies behind the filter?” Uncovering the motivations for using augmented reality (AR) face filters on social media and their effect on well-being’, Computers in Human Behavior, vol. 128, no. 107126, p. 107126, viewed <https://reader.elsevier.com/reader/sd/pii/S0747563221004490?token=C2FCB5A5DF589848E787953D5759B7990EBCED72E6360E2BDA180ED67E63FA10D50C03C6E45357DEA822281F2161C099&originRegion=eu-west-1&originCreation=20220107091932>.

Pettersson, S 2017, ‘Statistics: How Filters Are Used by Instagram’s Most Successful Users’, Kaptur, viewed <https://kaptur.co/statistics-how-filters-are-used-by-instagrams-most-successful-users/>.

Sheldon, P & Bryant, K 2016, ‘Instagram: Motives for Its Use and Relationship to Narcissism and Contextual Age’, Computers in Human Behavior, vol. 58, pp. 89–97, viewed <https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0747563215303307>.

[xasha777]

In a land where the sun scorched the earth and the rivers had long run dry, the villagers whispered of an ancient being, a sentinel of the sun, who walked at the twilight of the day. They called it the Solharvester, a creature with the visage of a grotesque sunflower, eyes dark as the void and a grin that spoke of unspeakable hunger.

Legend had it that the Solharvester was once a guardian created by the earth to care for the fields and flowers. It roamed the lands, ensuring that the balance of nature was maintained. But as time wore on and the humans grew in number and greed, they neglected the earth, poisoned the waters, and withered the plants. The guardian's purpose was tainted; it wilted not just in form but in spirit, morphing into a specter of vengeance. It became the very antithesis of the life it once cherished, thriving in a land bereft of vitality.

As the curse of desolation spread, the Solharvester began to harvest souls, not sustenance, carrying in its hands not seeds of growth but the remnants of life that once was – a halved watermelon, the last vestige of fertile grounds, now serving as a vessel for the souls it reaped.

On one fateful night, a villager named Elara, known for her indomitable spirit, decided to confront the creature. She refused to let her people live in fear of the twilight anymore. Armed with only a lantern and the hope of her people, Elara set out as the horizon bled with the colors of dusk.

She found the Solharvester standing amidst the remains of what was once a lush field, now a graveyard of sun-scorched flora. The creature’s unsettling gaze fell upon her, and the air thickened with a malevolent chill.

"Why do you haunt us?" Elara demanded, her voice a defiant melody against the silent death around them.

The Solharvester tilted its head, and in a voice that rustled like dying leaves, it spoke, "I am but a reflection of what you have sown. The life you took from the earth, I now take from you."

Elara's lantern flickered as she felt the creeping dread of the creature’s intent. "We can change. We can restore what was lost," she pleaded, hoping to awaken a remnant of the guardian it once was.

But the Solharvester only laughed, a sound like the crackling of a thousand flames, "It is too late. The balance is broken, the debt must be paid." And with those words, it reached out its gnarled hand, the watermelon glowing with an otherworldly light.

The next morning, Elara was found by the villagers, as still as the earth around her, a half-eaten watermelon by her side. The Solharvester was nowhere to be seen, but the message was clear; there was no redemption, no forgiveness for the trespasses of humanity.

From that day forward, the Solharvester continued its grim harvest, and no hero rose again to challenge it. The village fell to ruin, overtaken by the shadow of the once-guardian. And as the land remained barren, so too did the hearts of the people, until nothing but the echo of their despair remained, whispering with the winds through the hollow husks of a once vibrant world. The sunflower's grotesque grin stood eternal, a sentinel over a forgotten place that once teemed with life, now just a memory lost to the dust and the relentless passage of time.