#voracious diplomat

[chaoslinych]

come, let's sing the sailor song!!!!

yay another art plan is done (hoping to not lose all the other ones in my head)

at first i just wanted to make a post with only Zeefarer, and specifically tell a story about why a version of her as a sequencer is even scarier than ONE OF THE SCARIEST canon variants, and how did we even come to this

but another idea with this suddenly happened, and i love it so much too (i've had an idea of making references for fl/ss characters like i did for Kys, and i think that's when i'm gonna explain everything, THERE'S GONNA BE A LOT OF TEXT, AGAIN)

actually it's a silly trend that i've of course MISSED, but today i'm gonna talk about those two BECAUSE!!!! ABSOLUTELY SUDDENLY THIS PAIR TURNED OUT TO BE MORE INTERESTING THAN JUST A "HEEHEE I LOVE THOSE CHARACTERS, THEY'RE A COUPLE NOW"

at first it was actually like this, that's a normal situation for me

BUT HERE'S AT LEAST TWO SITUATIONS THAT MAKE THEM AWESOME

(I have to cut posts so often, I LOVE WRITING LETTERS SO MUCH)

if you've played through icarian cup, you know that the main thing about Zeefarer is her neverending lexicon of zailor speech, which is not just a fun detail, but also a part of her drama as a character, because the only one who understands her and is her only actual friend (and a translator) is a boot from Polythreme, but here's a thing, SHE LOSES IT TOO (by her own will) AFTER THE RACE (in our variant) as well as her crew, which could at least half understand her, and which probably ended up becoming sequencers

that's already a situation

BUT WE ALSO HAVE DIPLOMAT

who doesn't keep diplomatic notes in principle, either because of their boundless cunning, or because of their excellent memory, honestly I think both

AND LITERALLY, when they talk with Zeefarer, they could memorize her speech expressions and sooner or later start to understand her without any help

THIS IS VERY CUTE

i especially can imagine a situation in which the Zeefarer notices this herself, specifically when Diplomat translates her words for another person, just like the helpful boot in the ES (would be nice to draw this too but i'm not promising this)

AND HERE'S A SECOND SITUATION, that happens somewhere in the middle of the first one

as you could guess, in our variant the Zeefarer "wins" but manages to get saved, it's a spoiler, so i'm just gonna tell that despite being saved and the fact that the winner gets to their senses, is actually going through a sort of an adaptation (which is still a headcanon but takes root in many reasons, such as the fact that when he's saved, the Excursionist mentions that his dreams haven't went back to normal) and it's impossible to save them from becoming at least a normal sequencer

and i've already told that the Zeefarer is already in a situation, and that adds more to it, because even if the person can resist it, it's inevitable, and the more they resist the worse is their mental state and this makes it easier for a person to just break and get back to the machine (in our thoughts, you need to at least just get back to the geode)

unfortunately, it's not very easy to break Zeefarer despite the first half of her situation, and she could extend this until something really bad would happen

but thankfully there's a Diplomat who is an informant of the new sequence, they are clearly not allowed to know the true purpose of icarian cup, but here it's obvious that the one who disappears becomes a sequencer (BUT THERE'S A NUANCE, YEAH)

but anyway, we also have the Commodore, who's VERY good at reading people, and definitely knows how does the machine and the sequencers work, so he could understand that the Zeefarer's adaptation would be difficult, and to make sure that everything goes nicely (this is a new sequencer after all, and a useful one), it wouldn't hurt to send somebody to help her (and especially if it's a person who is not a sequencer, i think)

i don't have any ideas of how this dialogue would go, but definitely not that easily due to the Zeefarer's personality and her mental state, but in the end very effective

and despite this whole scary way, we actually come to a happy end, yay

(oh and she also gets her crew back then, not the ship from the race tho, which is kind of funny)

and thanks to Rinja for the help with translation, as usual, yay

[khey-s]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: The Dark-Spectacled Admiral/The Voracious Diplomat Characters: The Voracious Diplomat (Fallen London), The Dark-Spectacled Admiral (Fallen London) Additional Tags: The Liberation of Night Summary:

The lights go out.

[whencyclopedia]

Benjamin Franklin

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) was an American printer, writer, scientist, inventor, and diplomat, often regarded as a Founding Father of the United States. He rose to prominence as editor of The Pennsylvania Gazette and author of Poor Richard's Almanack before winning scientific renown for experiments with electricity. He also played a major role in the American Revolution (1765-1789).

Apprenticeship in Boston

Benjamin Franklin was born on 17 January 1706, in the house his parents leased on Milk Street in Boston, Massachusetts. He was, as noted in his autobiography, the "youngest Son of the youngest Son for five Generations back" (46). His father, Josiah Franklin, had emigrated to Boston partially because his older brothers received all the family inheritance in England. Josiah was a well-respected chandler with 17 children across two marriages; Ben was his tenth son and fifteenth child, born to his second wife, Abiah Folger. Ben learned to read at an early age and his father sent him to Boston Latin School, with the intention that he one day join the clergy. But after two years, Josiah was forced to pull Ben out of school due to lack of money. Instead, Josiah arranged for twelve-year-old Ben to be apprenticed to his elder brother James, a printer.

Ben quickly showed an aptitude for the printing trade and, in his free time, read voraciously and refined his writing skills. In 1721, James Franklin founded The New-England Courant, only the third newspaper to appear in Boston. When James invited readers to contribute to the paper, 16-year-old Ben took the opportunity. In 1722, he penned 14 satirical essays under the pseudonym 'Silence Dogood,' presented as a middle-aged widow. As Dogood, Franklin satirized Massachusetts society: he mocked the haughtiness of Harvard College students, questioned the purpose of women's hoop petticoats, and suggested changes to funeral eulogies. Dogood's irreverence soon made her essays the talk of the town, and Franklin listened with pleasure as James and his friends tried to guess the writer's identity. When James was briefly arrested for publishing material critical of the colonial governor, Ben took over the paper, using Dogood to advocate for free speech.

Young Ben Franklin at the Printing Press

Charles E. Mills (Public Domain)

James was released from jail a month later on the condition that he not print or publish work in The New-England Courant. To circumvent this, he publicly stepped aside as publisher and let Ben run the paper, although James intended to keep managing things behind the scenes. To support the ruse, James publicly released Ben from the terms of his apprenticeship, although he had him sign a secret agreement in which he promised to fulfill the terms of his original indenture. Subsequently, the brothers often quarreled over the direction of the paper, and James became jealous upon discovering Ben was the author behind Silence Dogood, while Ben believed himself to be James' intellectual superior. In 1723, Ben left home and fled to New York City; although this broke the terms of the secret agreement, he was confident that James would not go to the authorities for fear of revealing his own duplicity. Franklin briefly stayed in New York but, after failing to find work, he moved on to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Continue reading...

[clocktowerechos]

Factions of the Tyranid Swarms of the Brightest Night AU

"... One would be forgiven for being lulled into a false sense of hope that such foes are merely mindless, ravenous beasts. As the idea they may be something more organized and coordinated is too terrifying to consider..." ~ Unknown Ordo Xenos Inquisitor after first contact report with the Tyranids.

The all-consuming Hive Fleets have made landfall far earlier and with much greater force than in canon. They are not merely vanguards or scouting tendrils, but a vast migration of the Hive Mind's many limbs to sate its voracious apatite. Nobody foresaw their arrival, not the Eldar Farseers, not the Alliance Augurs, not Chaos Prophets, not the Necron and their esoteric, celestial calculus. The Hive Fleets arrived and since then, every angle of the Milky Way has become a vector for their entrance.

It was the Tau who first discovered the division of Swarms within Hive Fleets. Prior to joining the Alliance, they had worked with a team of Eldar on an entirely separate diplomatic research mission before accidently discovering the psycho-pheromonal signals that identify the types of Swarms. From it, scholars across the Alliance have theorized that the Tyranids have formed a super organism-like empire, scouring worlds and "farming" biomass to aid in their endless hunger. It is believed that at the conclusion of their feasting, when the last mortal has been consumed, they will devour their "empire" before moving on to the next, leaving only an empty galaxy and dead space.

Hive Fleets have been identified to possess specialized swarms, each fulfilling a singular role.

Devouring Swarms

They are the frontline of the Hive Mind, insatiable and voracious, they blot out stars with their mass and shower worlds with spores and combat forms. They are what the Tyranids are in canon.

Harvesting Swarms

What might be considered the "civilian economy" of the Tyranids, instead of simply devouring everything in a system, will instead strip all but one planet of life and biomass before dumping it on a singular planet, seeding it with abundant life. They "harvest" at regular intervals, but always leave enough for life to regrow, however twisted or terrified they are.

Survivors rescued from these Harvest or Swarm Worlds are forever scarred with horrific memories of their worlds being converted into bio-mechanical and organic factory farms. Where they were herded by a primordial energy like microbial cattle, and where the sound of chittering teeth and rending claws was always in the back of their minds.

Sprawling Swarms

Fulfilling a sort of logistical or transport role, Sprawling Swarms serve to carry biomass from Harvesting Swarms to Devouring Swarms, ensuring a plentiful stockpile of biomass for new monsters to be birthed from. Since their discovery, it has become a priority for many factions to target these swarms in the hopes of slowing the advance of Devouring Swarms, leading to Sprawling Swarms having the most formidable voidborn organisms of any swarm.

So critical are these Swarm fleets that any naval captain who provide evidence of its destruction can be guaranteed a promotion. And any penitent renegade who provides Alliance authorities with similar proof may be granted forgiveness and redemption should they be willing to join the Imperium and its allies.

Genestealer Cults & Genebloods

The infiltrating vanguard of the Hive Fleets are either formed from Genestealer Patriarchs who gestate in pools of Devouring Swarms, or from the broken individuals on Swarm Worlds. Their minds shattered and twisted by the Hive Mind's suffocating power, they believe the Tyranids to be messengers of a divine truth or star-born saviors. Given over to the profane worship of the Hive Mind, they sometimes form a "clergy" on Swarm Worlds that preach ascension into the light as the Harvesting Swarms come to reap their bounties.

No matter their origin, both Patriarchs and "Ascensionists" are delivered to unvigilant worlds to form cults and secret societies. Sowing the seeds of chaos and unrest with plans generations in the making before plunging the world into anarchy at the eve of the Hive Fleet's arrival. Yet, some manage to break free from the suffocating psychic will of the Hive Mind. Many go mad from the realization of what they are or what they have done, seeing their monstrous kin and children for what they truly are, and remove themselves entirely. However, some may seek to exact vengeance upon the Hive Mind, becoming Unbound Genebloods. Prized for their innate understanding of the Tyranid Hive Mind and ability to detect lurking organisms that stalk the shadows, they are often recruited by the Inquisition to root out their kin.

Just as pyskers must constantly ward off the daemonic whispers in their minds, Genebloods must constantly stave off the predations of the Hive Mind that seeks to enslave them again.

[brightaxe]

kinktober day 3 : domination & submission. volotramp's bg3 kinktober prompts. ship : rosalind redwright x enver gortash. rating : explicit. words : 1312.

“Open.” Rosalind sucked in a sharp breath as the head of Gortash’s cane rapped against her unarmored knee. Her foot slid outward on reflex, the sole of her boot catching against a wrinkle in the rug stretched out beneath them both. She yanked the offending limb back and spread her legs as instructed, her fingers curling around her seat’s smooth wooden edge. In her eyes, there was not so much as a flicker of stubbornness; there was only honey, warmed by the fire and drowning in the endless black of her pupils. 

Gortash stepped between her thighs. His broad figure cut away at the radiant light of the carefully tended fireplace, cloaking her in shadow. Still, there was enough light for her to peer up at him and see the parts of his face she’d committed to memory long ago – his long nose down to its rounded tip, his dark and densely lashed eyes, the rounded curve of his chin. 

Her lips parted.

She wanted to kiss him, but that was not part of this game.

“Have a thought, do you?” Gortash asked. He tossed his cane upwards, catching it closer to its hooked, filigreed head. The gold was cool against her jaw, but only for a moment. Its surface warmed against her flushed skin. “We discussed the parameters of this meeting of ours hours ago, hero.”

The way he wielded that word against her like a knife made some greedy thing inside of her throb.

“Give yourself to me,” he repeated. His voice couldn’t have been farther from a seductive purr. Instead, his words were precise and tenderly laid, utterly diplomatic. He spoke to her as one would speak to a particularly voracious merchant – a familiar tone that sent a tingle down the curved length of her spine. “And in return, I will give you some measure of relief.”

Rosalind nodded, her gaze falling to where he stood between her legs. A lock of ginger hair loosed itself from her bun only to brush her forehead like the calming thumb of a lover.

She understood. He knew that she understood.

“Good.” This time, Gortash purred like a kitten. “Look at me, Ros.”

Gripping at the edge of her chair, she did as she was told. She leaned her jaw against the head of his cane and peered up at him to find a pair of hungry eyes staring down at her. The rounded curve of his jaw tightened as he set his teeth together, just as his chest rose and fell as he fought to keep his own composure as he looked at her. She saw him falter, felt the head of his cane press more sharply against her cheek. It forced one of her eyes shut.

“Pretty thing,” Gortash exhaled, slowly picking himself back up, slowly piecing himself back together. Watching his laces tighten was intoxicating. Rosalind felt her blood thicken in her veins. “Use your hands to unlace your trousers.”

The fire on the far side of the room felt as if it stood right beside her, flames licking at her knuckles as they bled of color under the grip she held on the seat of her chair. Too warm. She was too warm. Her thighs shifted, knees eager to press inwards on each other to protect her vulnerable center, but with Gortash standing between them, such a thing was impossible.

He laughed. The sound made her stomach bottom out.

“That isn’t what I said.”

He was right. It hadn’t been his instruction. What had been? How had she already lost the plot? No –

Rosalind’s hands lifted from the edge of her seat. The shape had bitten into the cup of her palm, leaving reddened skin behind. Blood rushed down into her trembling fingertips as she brought both hands up to her waist. He told her to unlace her trousers. That was easily done.

She leaned her head down to look at the meticulously tied bow, but all she caught was a glimpse before the head of his cane pushed against her chin, forcing her head back up in the direction of his face. “No peeking,” he murmured to her, a damning grin smearing across his full lips as she shifted fitfully on the chair. He knew her fingers were stumbling. 

Her brows pinched sharply together. She couldn’t unlace the bow; she couldn’t find the origin of the knot, not without looking at it.

“Tell me, Ros,” Gortash continued. As he spoke, the intricately molded head of his cane rubbed up and down the underside of her chin, down the length of her throat, then back again. “If I help, I will make things more difficult for you. Are you willing?”

She tried again. Failed again.

Rosalind looked at him, her eyes narrowed.

“Speak,” he allowed.

She swallowed hard and grimaced, nudging the cane away before responding with an eager, “Yes.”

“Hold my cane.” Again, she did as she was commanded. The body of his can was warm where he’d held it, as if his hands were burning as hot as her own. He did not linger upon the moment before he reached down with both hands, his knee leaning on the chair between her thighs as he curled over her. The laces fell apart beneath agile fingers.  “How embarrassing for you to require assistance with such a simple task.” The breath that left her shook on her parted lips. He was close – near enough for her to smell the musk and black cherry and clove of his perfume, near enough for her to smell the wine he’d fruitlessly offered her, near enough for her to smell the oil on the gloves he’d tucked into his jacket pocket when she arrived. He was near enough to kiss.

“Thank you,” Rosalind whispered, “for your help.”

Surprise gleamed in his dark eyes. Even still, even after so many years of smiles and thank yous, they shocked him into silence for a moment that stretched on painfully long. He did not know what to do with her. She did not know what to do with him. Other than this.

His hand curled around the one she used to hold onto his cane. The grip he used was an uncomfortable one, but she made no attempt to wriggle free. Rosalind simply stared up at him, their noses nearly touching, wanting nothing more than to bridge the gap between them and feel the pressure of his mouth against hers, if only for a moment. Such a flagrant streak of disobedience would require punishment.

Gortash slipped his cane from her grip and cast it aside, chuckling when Rosalind jumped at the clatter it made against the floor. And then his hand was on her – not the cane, not her laces, but her.

There was hardly enough room for him between the stiff fabric of her trousers and the soft flesh beneath, but still, he forced his way in, shoving past her underwear and diving sharply downward. His fingers deftly split her lips before finding the bud between them. 

How many times had he touched her in such a way? How many times had he used his callused fingertips to toy with her until he brought her off? Each time was slightly different. Each time was perfect.

Suddenly, the word difficult blazed through her mind.

Rosalind sucked in a startled gasp as Gortash pinched her clit sharply between his middle and forefinger.

Pain was not pain any longer, not to her. Her thighs shook.

He leaned forward. The width of his body pushed her flush to the tall back of her chair. Nose buried deep into her hair, she heard him take in a deep breath, smelling her, swallowing down the surge of arousal that threatened to wring the wind from his lungs. 

“You will try harder to heed me next time.”  “Yes,” Rosalind exhaled. “Yes.”

[lorei-writes]

Lost Nightingale

Full artwork by @wordycheeseblob can be found below the story.

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther) Romance / Comfort / Political Intrigue (hinted) ~2.4k

A story that got out of hand. I can't thank Saki @wordycheeseblob enough for the wonderful gift she's prepared <3 So... I just finished this as efficiently as I could. I can only hope my care shows.

Author's Notes: The fall of Amber did not mean the fall of its nobility. However, the ongoing serfdom proved to be a fertile ground for discontent. An Obsidian-backed uprising of Amberian peasantry occurred, leading to near complete annihilation of the former Amberian noble houses. Being of both Amberian and peasant origins, Viva and Esther face backlash from the Rhodolitian royal court.

Additionally, Lady Lavigne is briefly brought up -- she's a character previously introduced in Roots of Deception.

Content Warnings: none

Esther watched as Chevalier stood by the desk, shoulders tense and frame rigid. He was the weary sort of stern, gaze gliding over the documents delivered in his absence as his brow bravely resisted furrowing. The information, however, must have been like a spring shower to a dirt road – for the ground to split was inevitable, very much as it was impossible for Esther to stay there and merely watch. She approached him, the soldier, the knight, the commander, the diplomat, the prince… The man smothered underneath all those layers of titles, stunned by her undoing the clasps of his cloak and taking its weight onto herself.

The ballroom buzzed, idle gossip and the talk of daring ventures both swarming low above the heads of lords and ladies in attendance. A thousand candles kept the golden chandelier aglow, each flame burning twice – once, over the wick, and then voraciously through its resplendent reflection. Molten wax flowed down their sides, few stray drops tainting the marble floor. Heels plinked like glass. The crowd split as conversations prematurely met their end, noble hands latching onto equally noble arms to be escorted away.

One thing, however, remained unchanged.

“Your appeal has been rejected. If that is all you had to say, clear out.” Chevalier’s voice shattered any frozen hope still present in the inquiring stares, the last of ice being crushed to none under the weight of his words. His eyes turned chilling, frost advanced to claim any grounds for objections before they had as much as managed to sprout. Wayward snowdrops still flourished under the nourishment of youthful ignorance, however. The nobleman suppressed a shudder, his fist clenched.

“Your Highness, excuse my impertinence, but I implore you reconsider the —”

“The decision is definite.”

The man withered at once, the initial flush over his cheeks fading rapidly on behalf of a ghastly white, promptly progressing into bloodlessness. Caught unprepared in an imaginary blizzard, he stood, lips trembling helplessly, icy fear of his own creation shackling him to the floor. Chevalier turned his face away, a whisper of a sigh nestling in his throat.

Voices began to die down, hushed themselves and huddled closer to the walls. Violins, cellos, flutes, clarinets, oboes, and any other instruments that felt courageous enough – at first quietly, politely, they merely swept the floor with their sound, slowly growing more brazen with each released note. Another type of excitement entered the air. A woman approached Chevalier, the troubled smile on her face easing some of his frost.

“Are you done now?” he asked, faintest traces of weariness lingering in the crease between his brows.

Esther nodded. “Thank you for waiting for me… And may that be the son of count de la Roche?”

“I — Yes, my l-lady,” the nobleman stuttered, and stuttered only harder once Chevalier put his arm around her waist. Esther let her gaze drift from her fiance, to the stunned nobleman… to one of the ladies stationed by the wall, whose gaze seemed to pierce her. Whatever she could observe over the face half-hidden behind a folding fan, Esther didn’t dwell on it much. She clasped her hands.

“I think I may owe you an apology, Sir.” With practised honeyed sweetness, Esther enveloped the scene in the warmest of her smiles, thwarting the blizzard to announce a spring thaw. “I’m afraid I’m not as competent as my fiance or any of his brothers. I hope the list of missing documents I’ve prepared did not cause any confusion? I’m certain the petition will be reconsidered once those are submitted, although I cannot speak to the result of that.”

“F-fiance? I was unaware.”

Esther clung to the composure hinging on the upturned corners of her mouth. “Yes. We got officially engaged five months ago.”

“I see. M-my congratulations, Your Highness —”

Chevalier’s grip at her waist tightened, the nobleman and the noblewoman fading away as she searched his face for the answers. Her eyes widened as they often did, eternally awestruck with the most mundane of mysteries hidden in any of his mannerisms, studiously examining the surface of his indifference. Esther watched him, and in turn, he watched over her; Chevalier measured any wrinkles in her features, took in the shade of her complexion, made it a point to pay attention to the state of the whites of her eyes…

Esther leaned into her love’s warmth, some of her worries getting tangled in the periwinkle tulle flowing down the length of her legs. She let them go, however, one steady breath interlaced with one barbed murmur at a time. The music grew louder, although never loud enough for the buzz to be snuffed out. The dance began.

***

A thousand flames shrunk to one, a stud of a wick submerged in tallow sitting proudly in the cresset. Thin light licked along the walls, its feathery tongues just barely swiping the winding staircase, lacquered wood of the old bannister sighing heavily under the faintest touch. Impatient footfall rushed ahead, climbed its way up to the very ceiling in a whispered orchestra of ricochets.

“Mind your step. The servants’ passages are rarely maintained past the base point of usability.”

“Thank —”

Chevalier caught Esther by the waist, her foot slipping as if on command. The flame trembled on behalf of her smile, a weary sigh crawling out of her lungs. “I’m sorry.”

“Just be more careful.”

“You know this is not what I’m sorry about.”

“Do I.” Chevalier’s voice echoed up the staircase. The carrier of light, he had Esther walk in front of himself, her hand clutching the bannister as she stepped just at the edge of darkness. It was fine, however; it was not the climb that bothered her.

… wench…

Have you heard of the uprising in Obsidian?

They say peasants slaughtered their own nobility… From Amber… a single golden coin a head…

She’s got to like the smell of blood.

… so that’s what we have for a Queen?

I bet they can’t even read, not to mention write…

… perhaps the king has other uses for her…

That twin? Do you think they switch them sometimes? Surely, they wouldn’t mind.

… That beast, probably no other would touch him.

The walls buzzed, each brick a hive saturated with syrup brewed on waspish remarks. Esther stared ahead, lifted her skirts, disregarded the throbbing in her feet and pressed onwards, scolding herself all the while. She knew things wouldn’t be easy. So… Why?

Why?

The mouth of the staircase spilled into a – narrowly avoiding a title of narrow – corridor, crisp evening air seeping inside through the small windows, a thin coat of rust coating the iron hinges on the frames. The space smelled of musty disuse, moist stench of mould wafting from the old wallpaper. Chevalier scrunched up his nose. Their fingers interlaced, he pulled on Esther’s hand, although to no effect; Esther stood anchored, those mellow eyes of hers widening yet once again, cautious of the oval imprints in the thick layer of velvety dust padding the sills. She ran her fingers through it.

“Esther.”

“Aside from the anti-monarchy faction…” She shook her head, a single wayward curl falling over her forehead. “Do you think they’re connected to Lady Lavigne?”

Chevalier did not reply. The flame painted his face in shadows; hardly brighter than dark starshine sieved in through dirt-covered windows, what little was there of its lustre sinking at the bottom of his eyes. Esther stared at him, intensely enough to evaporate any doubts or uncertainty.

“De la Roche outlines many particulars regarding Lavigne’s imprisonment that shouldn’t be known to the public eye. His petition is likely to be written off as an act of philanthropy, however, it is highly dubious he has no agenda of his own,” Chevalier recounted. He pulled on her hand again and they resumed walking, the floor creaking as they did.

“That would explain Gilbert’s visit.”

“He certainly isn’t here to hear about the working conditions of his spies.” With a scornful snort, Chevalier turned the old bronze knob, the door giving in to reveal the furthest corner of the residential wing of the palace. Esther breathed the clear air with relief, the old passage – purposefully left unattended, as she surmised – closing behind them as if it had been but a nightmare to begin with.

All that remained was, in comparison, just a short walk, just a few carpeted staircases and safe brightly lit corridors, a few moments she would later be hardly able to recall. For Esther, it happened in less than a snap of fingers; one second his warmth was there, clinging to her skin, and then it ceased, disappeared. It slipped away. The knob turned again and with it, they revisited the dark, their very own bedroom appearing rather desolate when devoid of light. Something scratched the wall. Chevalier marched onwards.

“Bambi,” he called. The shuffling stopped on behalf of a content whimper, a newly alight candle enveloping the beast in its glow. The dog wagged his tail before lying his head down again, the bedding underneath him having moved from its original place by the bed up to the very door. Esther crouched down to tug at his ears.

“Sorry, Bambi. We can’t have you bite any nobles now, even if they are mean,” she whispered and offered him some pets, more whimpers following… But her eyes were elsewhere.

Esther watched as Chevalier stood by the desk, shoulders tense and frame rigid. He was the weary sort of stern, gaze gliding over the documents delivered in his absence as his brow bravely resisted furrowing. The information, however, must have been like a spring shower to a dirt road – for the ground to split was inevitable, very much as it was impossible for Esther to stay there and merely watch. She approached him, the soldier, the knight, the commander, the diplomat, the prince… The man smothered underneath all those layers of titles, stunned by her undoing the clasps of his cloak and taking its weight onto herself.

“That’s been enough work for today,” Esther wished in a whisper, eyes cast down. Almost apologetically, her palm pressed against his heart. “Let it go until morning.”

His fingers hooked below her chin. Chevalier forced her to look at him.

“Will you?”

Something flickered over her face, tied her lips shut and had her avert her gaze. Esther stared at the collar of his shirt, at his neck, his Adam’s apple, dared to venture up to the corner of his jaw. But no further. Chevalier let his hand fall by his side.

“Will you help me out of my dress?” Esther asked.

Metal clinked against the wood as the candleholder came to rest atop the vanity. “Then sit.”

“It’d be more comfortable if —”

“Do not think I have not realised that your feet hurt.”

The mirror seemed to have harnessed the flame, diffused glow softly enveloping their reflections. Esther sat, her back straight and hands folded in her lap, face unusually – although openly – troubled. She sneaked a glimpse at herself, or whoever was wearing that disguise. Gloves fell on the table in front of her, goosebumps raising over her skin as decisive hands swept her hair aside. Blonde locks tumbled over her shoulder, rough fingers brushing against the nape of her neck, spilling lightning down the length of her spine… and so he began working on the lacing at her back, dexterous hands pulling and tugging at the silken ribbon, the complexities of various knots falling apart. Esther plucked the decorative pins out of her half updo, wayward curls rushing into her face. The jewels and precious metals she had worn returned to their casket. And he had done nothing to upset her. He had done nothing to betray her trust. He had not even said a word she could doubt… Chevalier merely dragged the fabric down, yanked at it so hard Esther could almost hear the seams groan. She looked up.

Esther could not resist the mirror anymore, and into the mirror she did fall, to be completely captured by her lover’s gaze. His thumb stroked her cheek, powder falling off to reveal faint freckles. Chevalier did not seem to want anything more, his touch fading too soon yet again, cold rushing in as if winter itself sharpened its icy teeth to sink them into her flesh and —

“Would you help me out of my corset too?”

Chevalier nodded. Slowly, like a tiger stalking his prey, he leaned down further. His breath spilled over her skin, so hot it melted away any frost. Esther sucked the air in sharply. He merely watched, the laces needing little prompting.

“If there’s something you want to say, say it,” Chevalier demanded from over her shoulder and her lips pursed in response. Esther stared as he smoothed her hair down with a gentle sort of awkwardness, usually reserved for terrified animals.

“I —” she hesitated. He just watched. As still as a statue, his eyes never once moved away from her reflection. Esther searched for the right words, articulated them as if tasting each for poison, “If… If people did not approach you with fear… would you still choose me, even knowing what trouble it would cause?”

Chevalier seized her by the chin, just short of causing her pain. He forced her to look at him, at him in the flesh and bones, and blood that had turned cold to then boil in his veins, rampant bewilderment leaving behind only scorched thoughts. His lips remained firmly sealed, yet… his grip loosened, apologetically. Esther put her hand over his.

“That’s a pointless hypothetical.” You know the answer.

“Is it?” She brought his hand away from her face, absent-mindedly tracing the lines over his palm with her thumb, soothing his callouses. She did not dare look away, did not dare weigh her words lightly and let go of the flicker moving over his face, the slither of truth she so needed for herself. “I can’t read minds the way you do, Chevalier.”

Esther did not shy from him, but he could not bear being seen. Certainty interlaced with hesitation, all his talents, his strength, knowledge and accomplishments fading away at one meagre question. Chevalier leaned down, touched his forehead to hers so that her eyes would close and his heart could pretend it was not exposed.

“Your fearlessness is not what makes you precious to me.”

Esther held back her breath.

“I do not require for your presence to be favourable to the state. To keep you by my side is just my selfish wish.”

She put her arms around his neck – and he hoisted her up, out of her gown and the riches, bared down just to the thin linen chemise and her freckled face. She was the trill of nightingales, the hard thudding of her heart chirping him a promise, assuring him that she’d stay.

“And you too are my beloved,” Esther whispered against his lips before claiming them as hers, the foreign lilt being replaced by another kind of melody.

--

--

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[viric-dreams]

Trying to sleep whilst simultaneously letting some potential lore scenes for future writing/art run in the back of my mind produces some truly unsettling results.

Under no circumstances would Roberts be court martialed for treason. Officer Beverley seems to understand this, but his logic is entirely backwards. Framed by the glow of the fireplace, Beverley leans back against the sole chair in his spartan lodgings and explains what he’s so sure is going to happen. If Roberts does not comply he intends to go to the London admiralty, to let them in on his missing time, the new player making waves in Anarchist circles, the lies at the foundation of his very existence. He seems to think that the Dark-Spectacled Admiral has the power to land him in political scandal.

His letters will never reach the Admiral. Roberts knows this with the same certainty that he knows the Dawn Machine burns in the Southwest. Beverley’s contact is the Voracious Diplomat. He’s trying to be cagey about it, but Roberts has seen the letterhead, shoved quickly into a drawer whenever they need the space on the desk to work. And the Diplomat would never let such a tidbit go to the Admiral, not when it’s worth so much more on Grand Geode.

Roberts was there for the Luminous Plot of ‘69. In fact, he had been the one to ensure that its perpetrators would never find a way to return from the slow boat, no trial, sham or otherwise. As he and the Commodore stood against the gunwhale and watched their cement-laden bodies sink into the Zee, the Commodore turned to him.

“You wouldn’t betray me, would you, Elias?”

The expression on his face is clouded, as if already playing through and wounded by the possibility in his mind. It feels like being thrown into ice water.

“Of course not, sir!”

The very idea is appalling. Surely the Commodore doesn’t truly believe it’s in the realm of the possible—not when the very idea makes his skin prickle. He’s the Commodore’s man, through and through, dedicated to both him and the Work.

The Commodore smiles, his golden eyes suddenly kind.

“That's what I thought. You wouldn’t do such a thing,” his hand reaches out to pat his shoulder, “Not from my most loyal midshipman.”

He can’t help but flush at the praise. Hopefully, the deck’s dim lighting covers it. But it hardly matters, for the Commodore turns away, gazing into the waves where they’d thrown the traitors not minutes ago. Roberts thinks the conversation is at its end when the Commodore starts again, eyes never leaving that fixed point on the Zee’s surface.

“If you did betray me, of course, I wouldn’t kill and feed you to the dawn flukes. That would be too easy of an end. Instead, I’d weld you into our smallest zub and ship you to Anthe. Who knows,” he shrugs, “you might just even have enough supplies to make it.”

He can’t breathe, his lungs are frozen in his chest. The image is all too real—trapped in that metal coffin, hardly able to move. Through the icy panic, all he can feel is the frantic hammering of his heart and the sharp twinge of the muscle of his left thigh, where the scarred skin puckers above it. The Commodore wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Right? He has to take a breath. He needs to respond. It’s been too long. His silence might be taken for suspicious.

“There’s no need for that, I assure you.” The words come out whole, though his voice is frailer than he’d like. The Commodore is studying him now. Roberts isn’t sure whether or not he can meet his gaze, what the Commodore might see on his face. After a moment the Commodore nods.

“I didn’t think so. But you never know.” With that, his mouth slides into a grin, demeanour changing like night and day. “We’d best get back soon. There’s work to be done back on base. I’ll alert the navigator.”

Roberts sees the hand coming soon enough to not flinch when it lands on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring shake, before the Commodore is off, already descending the ladder.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, chasing the claustrophobic phantasm from his mind. The Commodore is right—there’s work to be done.

Truth be told, he’s not entirely paying attention to the details of Beverley’s demands. He doesn’t have to, when he already knows he’ll agree to whatever he says. It’s clear as dawnlight what he must do. The Officer seems almost surprised by how easily Roberts acquiesces, but that surprise soon turns to barely-concealed delight as the scientific possibilities unfold before him. He’s already turned away from Roberts and back to the schematics, searching for a pen to record the newest thoughts.

It’s truly a shame, Roberts thinks, hand reaching behind him for the fireplace poker, to have to lose such a promising engineer. But treachery is something that the New Sequence cannot tolerate.

Beverley doesn’t even see it coming until the instant he brings the iron poker down across his skull.

[tarrenterror25]

Title: Please hold... Pairing: Ulysses Klaue x F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: Klaue is not opposed to mixing business with pleasure.

Tags: oral (f!receiving), fingering, exhibitionism/semi-public(?), slight overstimulation

Notes: Self indulgent piece! Just something smutty and fun that's been on the brain. Wrote this really quick.

Read on AO3

In the sweltering hull of the Churchill, Klaue's got you on his desk in the small room he treats as a sort of office. The bits and baubles of his trades, the keyboard, the computer monitor have been pushed aside to make room for your ass. Rough hands caress you while your moans distract him from the incessant ringing of the phone next to you.

Klaue has your bare legs thrown over his shoulders while he sits in his chair, his face buried between your thighs as his strong calloused hands cup your ass to press your cunt closer to his face. His tongue laps at your folds and deliciously flicks your clit, and he growls when he feels your juices hit his tongue.

"Fuck, baby....taste so good," he groans before diving back for more.

Thank goodness no one can really see into the office from the glass panes that make up the other half of the wall. Or...at least you hope. You're certain that, despite the bulkhead door being closed, you're certain that someone could hear you down the hall, but it's the last thing on your mind.

You've lost track of how many times he's made you come. Each orgasm coming quicker than the last with how sensitive your cunt is. Your hands grip his hair and you throw your head back with a loud whine as your hips thrust voraciously into his face. "Just like that! R-Right there!" you beg.

Your eyelids flutter and your jaw falls slack as your legs contract around his shoulders and back to hold him to you. Your hands slip way from his hair and fall back behind you to brace yourself on the desk.

One of your hands accidentally knocks the the phone receiver out of the cradle and over the speaker of the phone you hear a man shouting at Klaue, angry for making him wait.

You gasp and a hand flies to cover your mouth and your other hand grabs Klaue by his dark curls. You try to pull his face away from you, but he's still going, his mouth sucking vigorously on your clit.

God.

He's insatiable and you love it.

But at the moment you aren't sure you want some foreign diplomat to hear you orgasm.

"K-Klaue!" you loudly whisper, giving his curls another frantic tug.

He just grunts in response. Then his blue eyes look up to make contact with your eyes and he trails his tongue from the bottom of your cunt to the top, never looking away.

Oh, fuck.

His gaze is still so dark and hungry as he looks at you.

Then his eyes slowly close as he lets out an appreciative moan. His grip on you tightens and he slowly peppers kiss to the inside of your thigh, his beard tickling you and making you squirm.

He looks back up at you with a stern expression and maneuvers your legs off his shoulders.

"Don't move," he commands.

He turns his attention to the phone and takes a breath to compose himself. Klaue leans in towards the phone and speaks to the caller.

You're not really focused on what he's saying, but how he's saying it. He's got that authoritative tone he takes on when he does business.

Klaue is a disheveled rugged mess right now; his chest is still heaving with each of his shallow breaths. He runs a tattooed hand through his hair and every so often his eyes dart towards you. He makes eye contact with you then his gaze flicks down to your still exposed pussy like he's making sure it doesn't go anywhere.

He's going over some numbers with the caller and sounds like he's trying to hurry the conversation.

You bite your lip and let your hand playfully creep towards your center.

His brow quirks up.

Your hand moves closer and closer to where you ache for him.

A little more frantically his gaze flits between your eyes and your hand while he speaks on the phone, like you're torturing him by having all the fun to yourself.

You watch one of his hands come to adjust his trousers, his cock clearly straining desperately against the fabric.

"Now, now, general," Klaue says into the speaker. "That's not what was agreed upon and you know that."

His other hand moves yours aside before you can touch yourself. He takes it upon himself to continue pleasuring you with his fingers. His eyes close when he feels how wet you still are and his lip curls into a snarl as he mouths a curse.

"It's no problem of mine if you didn't understand the terms that were laid out," he snaps at the voice coming from the speaker.

You sigh as his fingers delve between your folds and rub your slowly. He looks up at you and brings a finger to his lips in a "shh" gesture before sliding two fingers into your soaking cunt.

He moves his fingers in and out of you at a slow pace, reaching deep inside you up to his third knuckle. You feel his rings press up against you, the gold threatening to also stretch you open and slip inside with his fingers. His head drifts from the phone over to your dripping sex taking his fingers with ease. He's not paying attention to what the man on the line is saying anymore. His free hand comes to rest on your waist and he kisses your bare thigh, his fingers curling inside you now to hit the soft spot that makes you whimper.

"...need to taste you again, baby," he says softly in between his kisses.

You shiver as his lips worship your skin. The person on the phone is still ranting. "In a minute," you say, your voice low and husky with desire. "Probably should finish up your phone call."

He grins up at you and removes his fingers. "I wasn't asking," he whispers.

He turns his attention to the phone and quips, "Oh, well good luck finding someone else to arm your security detail then, assuming the Avengers left anyone else."

As he speaks he throws your legs back over his shoulders making you gasp. You never knew he could multitask like this.

He dives back between your legs, his tongue entering you, his nose pressing right against your clit in just the right way. Your legs wrap tightly around him again, your thighs squeezing the sides of his head.

You looked down at his face trapped between your thighs and watch as he deeply inhales your scent through his nose, his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head as a growl rumbles forth from his throat. It vibrates through your flesh and you can feel it hit your cunt.

The other person on the line is furious now, their tirade loudly echoing off the walls along with your stifled whines.

Klaue is ravenous for you. His tongue finds your sensitive nub again and relentlessly flicks it. There's only so much you can do to contain your moans. his face moves just a hairs breadth in the right direction and a jolt of pleasure courses through you, taking you further into the throes of pleasure as he hits the spot.

"O-Ohh, FUCK," you moan involuntarily. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth and you start to cry out behind your palms.

"Klaue!!" the person on the phone shouts. "Are you even listening?? Klaue!!"

Klaue starts to sit up to address the caller, but one of your hands comes down to tangle in his curls and keep him in his place. He moans appreciatively, approving of your gesture.

You're so close to the edge that you can taste it. The pleasure builds deep in your core, the pressure becoming too much to hold back.

"Klaue!!" The caller shouts.

One of Klaue's hands lets go of you to blindly fumble around the desk until it reaches the phone and hits the hook switch to end the call.

His mouth never leaving your sex, he sits up a bit and abruptly uses both hands to pray your legs apart at the knee to fully expose you to him. The sudden motion makes your hands come back behind you to brace yourself on the desk.

His tongue hits your most sensitive spot and your legs start to shake in his grasp. It's too much and you need to let go. You're crying out loudly now, not really caring who might hear either out in the hall or down below. You're almost on the verge of tears it feels so good.

Your body convulses as you come hard with a high pitched mewl, your walls fluttering and your juices soaking his face.

He laps up your essence then slowly raises his head with a grin as your limbs go slack. His beard glistens with your arousal.

You're panting heavily, but also return the smile, a hand coming up to lovingly push back his hair as you sit up and adjust yourself on the desk.

He stands and leans in close to you and kisses you deeply, his tongue immediately finding its way into your mouth and allowing you to taste yourself. He pulls away, hands resting on the edge of his desk as he looks at you with a smug grin, his golden teeth catching the light.

"Suppose that's one way I can start taking business calls."

He winks.

[hetalia-club]

Alright I'm ready to start showing off my Hetalia GOT CK3 mod set up.

Going to start off with: The Tyrell Family

Their goal: Take the seven Kingdoms with fire and blood, but with style. The Tyrell family have the best dragons in the game, they jut got really lucky. and as to not cheat I didn't nuke their stats any I felt it wasn't fair to nerf them, they just got the luck of the roll. Like if they die no one is re-taming these dragons they will just have to go wild no way they will be caught again. All Dragons were given garden inspired names.

First off for our dynasty head/ playing character we have France, AKA King Francis Tyrell, first of his name, King of the Mander & High Lord of High Garden.

King Francis is a: Diligent, Trusting, Lustful, Diplomat. Who is Chivalrous, fashionable, Loyal, Beautiful and of course a dragon rider. He is married to Queen Lady Teora Hightower. He is a Reachman and follows teh Faith of teh Seven, has with the father as his Patron cosuing on Law and Order.

His Dragon is a red and black dragon named Roseheart. Roseheart is an Imperious, voracious, calculating and feral dragon. It does not like taking commands and is very mean. Will kill people who wander too close to it and is happy to go into war. But he/she get along very well with Francis.

Next up: Ser Prince Lovino II Tyrell (Romano) Ser Lovino is: Stubborn and Gregarious. He is gallant, a rough terrain expert, a Knight, a twin (with Itay), Handsome, a trained fighter, a tourney knight and of course a Dragon rider. He is a Reachman and follows the Faith of the Seven and is heir to High Garden and the Kingdom. He is best friends with Alfred Lannister and is currently living at Casterly Rock as the ward to Ludwig Lannister.

His Dragon is name Orchidshadow and is a pitch black dragon with bright purple wings and blue eyes. Orchidshadow is a magnificent dragon known for its beauty, aggressive, defiant, Imperious. Orchidshadow is bad tempered but a trained dragon none the less it will take a command but not without some push back. Because his dragon is so beautiful and feared Lovino receives a monthly bonus to his renown. (This is a male dragon)

Next up: Prince Feliciano Tyrell (Italy) Prince Feliciano is a : Gregarious, Cowardly, Trusting and Forgiving. He is a Scholar, an Open Terrain expert, fashioned, a twin, handsome, a fighter, a squire, a tourney knight and a Dragon rider. Feliciano is a Reachman and follows teh Faith of the Seven.

The largest and most vicious dragon house Tyrell is a light pink dragonwith white wings and pale blue eyes ridden by Feliciano named Thornbloom. Thronbloom is a Titanic Lavithian, Impulsive, Accepting, Aggressive and is a Wild Dragon. This Dragon does not like anyone but Feliciano, if it goes wild it WILL stay that way. He will not go in the dragon pits but spends a lot of time with Feliciano who he is very protective over. He will eat you if you upset Feliciano. He goes into battle with Feliciano happily keeping him safe in the air while he burns everyone on the ground. On my three start ups I've done I was killed by this dragon twice once on the ground and the second time it bit my dragon in half in a sky battel. A great secret weapon for house Tyrell. (This is a male dragon) on my third go I have decided to just not fuck with house Tyrell yet… idk what I’ll do about them but they are the biggest challenge and it’s these two right here. The reason I say it can’t go in the pit is because in the first play thought it killed France when he went in there and the second it killed all of Romanos kids who were in there for other reasons.

Next up: Prince Romeo Tyrell (Seborga) Prince Romeo is Trusting and Forgiving. He is a Fashionable, Handsome, a trained fighter and a dragon rider. Romeno is a Reachman and follows The Faith of the Seven.

Ashbloom; a Dusky Purple and pale green dragon is the dragon ridden by Romeno Tyrell. Ashbloom is a younger dragon but is an asset in battle. Cooperative, Supporting, Friendly and Voracious yet is feral. Though only ten Romeo is not afraid to fly along side his brothers into war on teh back of his small yet fearsome dragon. (This is a male dragon)

Next: Prince Ser Roderich Tyrell (Austria) Prince Roderich: An Arrogant and Temperate Diplomat. He is Chivalrous, Fashionable, beautiful, a Trained fighter, a Knight, A war Logician and a Dragon Rider. He is married to Lady Tesha Tarly, is a Reachman and follows the Faith of the Seven.

Breaking the tradition of naming Dragons after Garden themes Prince Roderich rides Requiem: A Pale purple and white dragon. Requiem is Accepting, Voracious and socialized. He likes being ridden and he likes being around other people and Dragons. (I don't know the gender of this dragon)

Lastly: Lady Laura Tyrell (Belgium) Lady Laura is: Charming, Honest, Gregarious and a Dragon Rider. She's a Reachman and follows the Faith of the Seven.

Laura is too young to have a dragon but is set to train Ivy dancer: a Green and lime dragon located in the pits of High Garden. Being Born in the pits Ivydancer is the most well behaved and socialized dragon owned by the Tyrells. She is young yet she is Friendly, Accepting and is a Nobel dragon meaning She will take any command even fly straight into certain death if her rider commands it. (This is a female dragon and laid eggs in one of my play throughs)

The three claimable dragons placed into the pits: Petalwing (Dusty Pink and Black): Blood Thirsty, Cooperative, Supporting and Trained. Lilacfyre (Lilac and Gold): Reserved, Aggressive, Imperious, Trained and Spindly Vineclaw (Olive Green and Orange): Friendly, Supporting, Defiant and Fearl

[ridhearts]

The Shadowlands have haunted the continent for years. The shadows encroach upon more and more territory each month, slowly eating away at the natural magic and resources. Creatures birthed from its incorporeal form run within its clouded cover, darting between magic sources and eating voraciously. A deep chasm and large mountain range were supposed to keep the threat at bay, but the careless actions of a king now gone have rendered one particular kingdom near defenseless. Between a gap in the mountain range with a path leading right into the blotted chasm and general instability after a severe social upheaval, this kingdom is essentially the entire continent’s last defense before the monsters take over. Unfortunately, what was once a bright union has been divided. The oncoming blot has put portions of countries at risk of becoming uninhabitable, diplomatic relations have fallen apart, resources have been strained, and some countries are virtually isolated - politically and geographically. 

Pyroxene has all but cut off relations with other countries, focusing on protecting its northwestern border from shadowed devastation. The Coral Coast has seen a massive increase in difficulty trading, with only one country allowing access to the continent’s goods and the Shadowlands’ influence slowly driving their year-long winters to harsher extremes. The Queendom of Roses places strict regulations and high tariffs on all passing economic activity, granted authority to do so and the economic stronghold by maintaining the strongest relations with neighboring countries, The Coral Coast, and even the far-off land ruled by Che’nya. The Scalding Sands has outgrown its domestic market and needs to stimulate the technological advancements of the nations to spread the limited fresh water and improve foreign trade. The Sunset Savanna has fallen behind on social progress, using expensive galas to promote international relations rather than focusing on strengthening its independent improvement. Nobody has seen or heard from anybody in Briar Valley or the Isle of Woe, but at least rumors managed to escape the Isle.

Your country is small and holds little renown or political influence. Perhaps this is because many countries, former allies, began to shy away once civil unrest turned into a revolution. The former king had spent too little effort on protecting the people from the spreading shadows, instead diverting resources to protecting your resources and his life of luxury. After years of strife, the people finally overthrew the king - and, as your family played a major part in the uprising, it was decided by the people that you would take over in his place. It was supposed to be a reward, but the farmland was no longer as fertile as it once was, torn apart by blot and war; the people were mourning lost loved ones, lost homes, lost livelihoods; the countries you once would have depended on were no longer allies of yours; the blot was approaching day by day. There was no joy to be had in the tattered remains of a selfish king’s castle.

Your father, the leader of the rebellion and now the king, gave you an important task. While he guided the reconstruction of the kingdom and kept the Shadowlands at bay, you would act as a diplomat. Your country needed help to prevent social, economic and general collapse. As the future heir, it would be beneficial to make these connections in person. Thus, you were sent to befriend the current rulers and heirs of the neighboring kingdoms in the hopes of acquiring new alliances and resources to rebuild and defend your homeland. All you had to your country’s name were the crystal and magestone deposits the old king managed to salvage (about the only thing he did right), and your last shred of hope that the war hadn’t snuffed out. It might take a miracle, but regardless, you set off on a quest to save your country, the continent, the world, from complete Overblot.

Your Kingdom + General Information

When I say "royalty AU," I am kind of operating with a European royalty vibe. 1st - I know that "European royalty" is a vague term and encompasses MANY different cultures. I'm thinking the fairytale vibe of a Disney movie (ha) or just a generic kingdom, yknow? Secondly, for characters like Kalim and Leona, I'll lean on what canon already gives us for their kingdoms. I just want to address that I will be relying on what comes naturally to me so it won't be 1:1 with reality! I am going for that general fairytale princess vibe for this whole AU. I'm sure you get what I mean <3

You get to name your kingdom! This is because, when I came up with his AU, I made the kingdom name based off of my last name, which I don’t want to expose. So feel free to create your own name for it! (also just realizing that the name for me kind of sounds like a known bacterium…..so it’s better i keep it to myself LOL)

Also, the reader is implied to have both parents and some siblings, though most of the time they won’t do much more than make a few appearances. Some assumptions I’m making for my sake: your father was sort of the head of the rebellion and is taking over as the king, your mother plays a bit more of a background role and is a little sickly (it’s not specified, nor is she meant to be deathly ill - unless i need drama later lol), and your (younger) siblings are not taking this quite as seriously as you. If you have older siblings, you can pretend they were either already married and settled in life and were simply granted some noble status, or they passed on becoming the heir and since your family has gone a non-traditional route, what’s one more disturbance?

You have also participated in the rebellion. Whether you were mainly a soldier or only fought occasionally and spent most of your time strategizing, rationing, providing medical aid or what have you, you know a little bit about fighting and a lot about war. You still have much training to do, as you wouldn’t do well against another country’s more stable forces, but you can hold your own in a scuffle.

Your kingdom may not hold much political power but you still have a very valuable export that can be used as a convincing bargaining chip…….access to the most magestones in the entire continent. In fact, your kingdom mainly provides other countries with precious jewels and gemstones, plus most of the magestones in circulation. The naturally occuring magic in the area mostly goes to your land, upholding the border between it and the Shadowlands, which means less people in your country are mages than others. 

Also this is a fantasy world all of your mining practices are SAFE

Due to the fact that your country relies heavily on mining (and the fact that generally you live in a very rocky nation), I imagine the country’s official color to be gray/silver. However! It’s not as dreary as it sounds! Any dresses or suits you may wear can be more silvery instead of gray, and I do imagine that there will be more color brought in eventually ;)

I have a little map of how I originally imagined the world (subject to change but I’ll doodle a new one if I change it) and will explain a little bit of the effect their location has on the country if it’s important in the respective housewarden's section. (trust the image ok it’ll make sense. hopefully)

Also there are more waterways and geographical features and such!! I just marked major ones to get a feel. Idk how geography works I’m American

For now, my focus is on the housewardens. I do intend to explain the other characters eventually, but it will take time!

Ok i think that’s it! Now, onward to the story!

[chaoslinych]

there are too many plans but I needed to draw this until it lost all relevance

because the situation is interesting

I REALLY DON'T KNOW HOW DO I DO THIS BUT I CAN REALLY FEEL THE STUFF ABOUT THE SEQUENCERS OR ANYTHING RELATED TO THEM BEFOREHAND

???

this has really happened in one day, and before that I was just looking

and thinking

AND NOW SHE'S A PART OF A GROUP OF OUR FAVS YAYYY

and literally after this (but I still haven't fully understood the situation and a more plausible reason as to why she has an eyepatch) I've got a dream where the Diplomat had a glowing eye and she dazzled the Admiral with it

I really think he has very sensitive eyes or something like that

I don't know what to feel about their ship (+ I already chose old man yaoi) but their dynamic is FUCKING AWESOME

and we have a joke that the machine induces autism (I LOVE THIS PHRASE, UNIRONICALLY LOVE THE THOUGHTS ABOUT IT, maybe someday I'll make a compilation)

and a joke that the Admiral has dawnburnt 0 (thank you bug in the stag and the shark)

and if the machine induces autism, then the admiral has ASPERGERS

I

really love our jokes about fl/ss, AND ITS JUST A SMALL PART OF IT EHEHE

AND ALSO ABOUT HIM

I HATE HIM

not like actually, but because I don't understand him, absolutely

and our hcs don't make this easier

so yes

as a sequencer

he's my chew toy

(this is literally a picture of me)

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Reunion, pt. 1 (Reunion and Loss)

(A/N: This came about while I was listening to Eldest at work because fuck yeah work-encouraged headphones! I had written a reunion for Glenwing and Arya in MIC years ago, and now it just didn’t feel right. So this happened.

It’s been almost a year since I really wrote anything for MIC that I found presentable and that I wrote so…voraciously? Iunno. I think in the interim my writing style may have changed. We’ll see how y’all like it. Everyone is a bit…softer? There’s definitely more crying than anyone has done in MIC before.

Before we start, I also need to make a distinct warning. I’ve given more description of wounds this time. Not like…oozy stuff really. But MIC is about the war and its effects, physical and mental, on people. Glenwing had some pretty bad injuries in the ambush, and I wanted to highlight that he’s got his own demons and trauma from the experience. I’ve introduced the concept of ‘recall’ for elves, which was touched on in ‘Collateral’ but never fleshed out till now. Make your decision to read with that in mind. There’s more of it in the next part, but Glenwing’s moments are fairly rough in my opinion. 

The other half will be out when I figure out how to end it better than I did last night. Oh, and I can’t remember, but there might be more little hints and bits in this part that connect or refer to events seen or mentioned in other stories. Woo! Scavenger hunt! Cheers everyone, and welcome back to MIC!)

REUNION

The bustle of activity and near constant rush of people passed by in a blur. Arya let the crowd flow around her, sinking away from the main crush. She settled a few paces behind her mother where the Queen was conversing with Däthedr, silent and watchful as she always had been in these situations. 

She was glad that Saphira and Eragon took most, if not all, the attention away from her. After that whirlwind of political and personal business, Arya didn’t feel much like talking to anyone. Such situations always put her on edge, and after so long away the combat liaison was finding it increasingly difficult to hold her tongue and remain the polite and proper diplomat she pretended to be in the pines.

So instead of mingling, Arya settled into an ingrained At Ease stance and began watching the gathered elves. Well, not so much the elves. Brom was her main target. The man had been all but forgotten in the rush, just as he had planned, and he sat at a table nursing a tankard of faelnirv. Yes, an entire tankard. To himself. Because that would end well. As the hour went on Arya contemplated asking her mentor for his shortsword and rifle. There’d be hell to pay if Oromis had to come down early to corral his former student yet again.  

Oromis. Arya suppressed a wince; facing him was just as daunting as facing her mother. He wouldn’t have left the world unwatched while the queen wallowed in her self pity. He and Glaedr had to have know about Eragon, Saphira, Brom. Their madcap running around the Empire. Farthen Dûr.

And he would know about Arya. And Gil’ead. She hoped he hadn’t seen too much of that. 

For a split second Arya smelled wet concrete and tasted copper and iron. The lilting music and bubbly voices smothered down to a low drone, a buzz that dug into her ear as the suddenly harsh light flickered. 

Behind her back she felt her hands involuntarily snap into white knuckled fists, nails digging deep into her palms. Her wrists burned, fingers tingling with sharp pins and needles as the wet fire encircled the ruined skin and rusted steel bit in deep–

It took a breath, a blink. A shaking thumb subtly run over the dark swathe of scar tissue under the cuff of her combat jacket sleeve. Feeling the half rumpled and half silky repairs to her body. 

The world snapped back into focus in time for Arya to mumble a returned greeting as another elf brushed past. She bit her tongue for real this time. ‘Damn recall.’

The night dragged on, and while the rest of Ellesméra whirled and danced Arya could not help but feel rooted in place, stationary in both time and movement. It felt…wrong. She was no stranger to solitude, that was certain, but for some reason standing there, alone despite the sea of people, felt off. 

The hollow feeling in her chest intensified. Ellesméra felt leagues larger without them there.

Her bitter musings were interrupted by a violent yank on her arm. 

Everything in her body snapped taut as Arya whirled, letting the attacker’s motion turn her as she brought up both fists. The momentum carried her raising arm up to lock against the inner elbow of the man that was now grabbing at her shoulders, ready to throw him off and slam him in the jaw with her free palm. He had both shoulders now, fingers tightening, one hand impossibly hard and cold–

Golden eyes caught her movements, freezing her in place. The entire world dropped away.

Arya couldn’t breathe. The dead man held her at arms length, his brow furrowed and silver hair still settling around his face from where it had escaped his ponytail. His eyes, they had always seen past whatever she said and found what she meant to say, searched her face with the intensity of a hunting dragon. 

He had looked at her like that before, though not quite so intently. Every time she did something so remarkably stupid, like throw an artillery shell back over the trench wall, curl around a grenade to absorb its destruction into her wards, stuck her hand in a Broddring cannon, or, the worst offense of all, go without sleep in favor of double watch shifts and nights disappeared without a word beside their other companion. Always looking out for her. For them. 

The last time she had seen his face it was planted in the dirt, blood pooling and trickling towards open golden eyes as they stared unseeing into the darkness, before the swarm of Urgals had blocked her view.

And now he was looking at her, bright, alert, and with so much fear and disbelief and hope and who the hell knows what else because Glenwing of House Svanran, healer and medic and best friend and dead man walking, was holding her by the shoulders and trying just as desperately as she to figure out if the person in front of him was really, truly alive. 

“...Glen?” Arya half choked, the last air in her lungs used to voice her disbelief. She could barely hear it over the noise around them.

At her uttering of his name Glenwing suddenly seized her face in his hands and let out a cracked laugh. Tears spilled from his eyes as he half cried, half laughed, “Spirits, it is you!” 

And his arms were pulling her in and around her and hugging impossibly tight. 

Arya didn’t hesitate, hugging him back fiercely and holding on, unwilling to let go in case he too slipped away like the other memories. Something snapped inside her chest and in her throat as she let out a broken laugh of her own. “You’re alive! You’re alive!” 

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, relief flowing off of them like a waterfall with tears of joy and disbelief. They weren’t alone anymore. 

It must have been a full minute before the world around them became important again, and Arya reluctantly pulled back. “We should,” She broke off and wiped her eyes, cleared her throat before speaking again without the tremor in her voice. “We should probably go….” 

“Good call.” 

With a small gesture Arya caught her mother’s eye. When the queen inclined her head slightly the two reunited elves snapped their heels together and bowed, knocking their right knuckles to their left collarbones in acknowledgement before all but bolting to the edge of the crowded grove. Here, at least, it was quiet but for a low murmur of the gathered people and a soft thread of music through the trees. No one would be looking out to the forest, not with something as amazing as Eragon and Saphira at the center of attention. Here Arya and Glenwing would have a modicum of privacy to talk.

It was Arya’s turn to take Glen by the shoulders, and she shook her head with another chuckle past the lump in her throat. “You fucking bastard.” They shared a laugh again. “You absolute bastard. I saw you die. And I never thought….”

“You’re complaining about me?” Glenwing beamed, wiping away tears with his right hand. “All those times I told you not to go running off and get yourself killed, and then I figure that you’ve gone and finally done it.” 

“Hey, I was doing my job!”

“You always say that.” 

“I actually was this time!”

After a few moments of excited chatter, Arya felt cold seeping back into the warm relief that seeing Glenwing had brought. Already knowing the answer, she looked out to the dark pines that hid from the celebration’s light. The pommel of the sword at her hip bit into her palm, a small comfort for what she knew was about to come. “Hey, I uh…” She blinked, cleared her throat as best she could past the returning lump. “I take it…you’re my only surprise tonight, huh?” When Glen shifted uneasily, Arya felt a pang of regret at her phrasing and shot him a wan grin. “Not that you’re underappreciated or any–”

Glenwing’s jaw tightened, and for a moment Arya saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. His voice was steady, though, when he gently, grimly, replied, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. Didn’t say anything for a long, painful minute. “I couldn’t have ever asked for either of you to survive that. Couldn’t even think, imagine, hope, whatever.” Arya waved a hand vaguely, unable to put her feelings into words. “But, shit, Glen. We’ve done so much dangerous, wild–”

“Insane?” That grin was back, tinged with sadness but filled with a familiar wild undertone that everyone in their little fyrn breoal held. 

“Insane!” Arya added with a laugh. “Everything we’ve done and everything we shouldn’t have survived…. I’m just happy you made it out. That we made it out. And look! We did it, we found them!” She pointed towards Saphira’s glittering form in the midst of the crowd that felt so far away. “Let’s just…let’s celebrate that right now. Celebrate him. Shit, can you imagine the ruckus he’d make? We did it! We finally did it.” She couldn’t hide the tangle of elation and relief that broke through the pain. This is what they had all been fighting for, together, for decades. Fäolin would want them to have that, to feel the joy for him.

A commotion drew their attention. Elves were returning from the cookfires, arms laden with dishes and bowls and platters. The sight made both the medic and the combat liaison stiffen somewhat, knowing that their brief time to reacquaint themselves was drawing to a quick end. 

Arya let out a short huff and drew herself up, steeling herself for the rabble again. “Alright. Come on.” Glen grinned when she slapped his arm and seized his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks. “Have to make sure you’re not some hallucination. Let’s go drink. We’re here. We’re safe.” She slid her hands to his shoulders, began drawing them down his arms in preparation to drag him off to meet the biggest pair of silver linings in history. “We’re in one…”

She trailed off as her right hand slipped down his left arm and stopped short at the bicep. That…that wasn’t….

“Piece?” Words stuck in her throat at the sound of the wry tone in Glen’s voice. He thought he was hiding the ache under that twisted tilt of his lips as her eyes snapped up to his. “Yeah…about that.”

“...Glen, what–”

“Later. I promise.” Without waiting for her protests, Glen slid an arm around his lost commander's shoulders and began walking back to the tables. "Celebrate, right? Introduce me to these two first. Then we drink."

~~~

LOSS

The door creaked as it slid open, sticking at that same spot as it always had. Arya purposefully kept her eyes down as she closed it, avoiding looking towards her mother where she stood still half stunned outside. Just as she had told the queen, she really wasn’t ready to forgive her, not now. If she met her mother’s gaze there was bound to be a war between exploding at her in buried rage or breaking down after the many emotional hills and valleys of the day.

She made it two steps into the flat, pack already sliding off her arms, when she froze. 

Glen blinked at her from where he was lounging on the couch, just as surprised as she was. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. 

“I uh…” Arya tilted her head slightly. “Wow. Um. I forgot you were alive. And that you’d probably be here.”

The medic blinked again, bewildered, and burst out laughing. “You what?!” 

“It’s been a really, really long day!” Arya threw her pack at him, ignoring the yelp of protest, and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. 

Glen moved the bag to the floor as his lost commander disentangled herself from her rifle strap, feeling her eyes on him as he leaned back. He wouldn’t admit it, but he had forgotten that she likely would come back to the flat instead of her long disused room at Tialdarí Hall. He was drained from the night of food and music and emotion, and had trudged home and changed into sleep clothes as soon as he entered, completely oblivious to the possibility of intrusion. 

The loose tanktop, standard issue to Varden soldiers in warm climates, left the metal of his bionic prosthetic on full display, the plating glinting dully in the low werelight. 

They sat in silence for what had to be half an hour, recuperating. Glen made no move to cover the evidence of his missing limb. A niggling feeling in the back of his mind urged him to do so, whispering that she didn’t need guilt on top of everything else. He shushed it, reminded it that he knew that she wasn’t the reason he was down an arm. 

‘But does she know that?’

“...What happened?” Glen rolled his head to look over at Arya, her voice quiet and softer than he remembered she could be. He had tried to lock in the memories of them all together during happy times, wild times, not the times where they had to quietly ask each other if they could keep fighting. “I didn’t…didn’t see where you got hit. I thought it was the chest.”

Glenwing lifted his left arm, the servos drawing power from the precious gems embedded on the insides of the plates whirring almost imperceptibly in the silence. He turned the wrist, tilted the forearm, bent the elbow. Stared at it. “Almost. One went through the bone just above my elbow. Another one got me in the hip.” With two fingers he tapped where the second bullet had entered. “Balan threw me when he got hit and I got knocked out.” 

He inhaled through his nose and bit back a sigh. He could smell pinesmoke again, pungent and heavy. “I think…everything was over when I came around the first time. There was fire but the Urgals were gone. I was cognizant enough to realize I was bleeding out and used the bloodstopper spell to tie off the artery and veins in my arm but…” The fingers made a pleasing series of clicks as he curled them into a fist. “I passed out again. And it was a good bit before I was aware of anything after that.” 

The elves in Vandral, the closest outpost to the edge of Du Weldenvarden where the ambush had occurred, had filled him in as best they could. How they found him half crawling, half dragging himself along the forest floor on their morning patrol. Fäolin’s cold body tied to his own by belts looped across his chest and secured under the dead elf’s arms. The remains of his left arm at and below his now pulverized, shredded elbow hanging on by mutilated muscle. The unmoving fingers white and purple and dusky from lack of blood. The burns on his chest, forearms, knees, thighs, from dragging himself and his long dead brother-in-war and remaining best friend through ashes and embers during the night.

The way he begged them to save Fäolin. Begged them to find her. 

Waking up, his burns healed. His arm–

Pain at his metal wrist ricocheted up to his shoulder. Brought him back.

Glenwing forced the metallic fingers open. “I…I tried to save him.” He dropped both hands to rest limp in his lap, Rhunön’s masterpiece relaying his movements perfectly through metal and crystal. “He was gone before he even hit the ground.”

“I know.” When he looked over Arya was staring past him. “I saw it.” After a moment her eyes cleared, and locked back on him. “Your arm….”

“Bloodstopper worked a little too well, I’m afraid.” He forced a smile. He could still smell the burning pines, but it was fading. Instead it was slowly being replaced by the familiar scent of the worn leather additions on Arya’s combat jacket, gun oil, sharp pine sap and an undertone of gunpowder. It smelled like home, like the Varden, like Arya and Fäolin and decades of companionship and friends. It smelled like safety in their little group. “Rhunön built this for me, though. It works better than the old one!”

Arya shook her head, a touch of a grin on her lips. “I’m sure. She’s outdone herself.” 

“How about you?” Glen didn’t have to know her for over five decades to notice the way Arya changed at the question. Her arms pulled in, the rifle settled across her lap. “What happened to land you with Eragon, Saphira, and Brom of all people?”

Instead of answering him Arya yawned. That was real, he wouldn’t deny that, but she was all too eager to postpone whatever answers she had. “Tell you what,” She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck, massaging a kink out of the muscle that connected to her shoulder. “That’s a story for later. Right now I’m about to pass out on this couch if I don’t get to sleep for a few hours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Glen’s voice was lighthearted, but they both could hear the warning under the words. It was clear as day, a promise made decades ago. Don’t hide wounds from your fyrn breoal. Head, heart or body, commander, medic or sniper, the only way to stay alive and keep the others safe was to share. “I’m sure it’s a hell of a story.”

Arya waved at him over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall to the room she had shared with her mate. “Yeah. It’s a real doozy. Goodnight, Glen. You still alive bastard.”

“Goodnight, Arya. Resurrected prodigal wild child.”

She blew a raspberry at him as she closed the door.

Glenwing sat back on the couch, the grin fading. His eyes fell on her discarded pack, stripped of weapons and bedroll, sitting at his feet.

The lock on the strap still accepted his thumbprint. It took only a few moments to find what he sought, buried under a mess kit and a pair of socks stuffed in a worn knit beanie she had acquired nearly twenty years ago from a Surdan merchant. A thick file, stuffed with pictures haphazardly sticking out at odd angles, sticky notes and scratched out shorthand. A scattering of numbers and letters, followed by a bold ‘6’ indicated it was the sixth such file in the series, a collection of war wounds and physical exams and the occasional psych eval that never really counted due to the elvish mind being alien enough to circumvent any human or dwarf made test.

Glen pulled it out and brushed his fingers along the tabs till he found one marked a little over two months ago. He didn’t open it, just let his fingertips linger as he mulled over revealing the contents. 

No. 

She would tell him. 

He left the file on the coffee table. 

~~~~~~

(Post A/N: If there is anyone who saw things wrong with my representation of amputation and amputees, please message me. I tried to do thorough research, but I am not an amputee myself and don’t have the real life experience to know if I’m portraying it properly. I did my best to be respectful and as real as the setting allowed. I’m always up for learning and having my misconceptions corrected, and I’m continuing my research to make sure I’m giving it the proper respect and sensitivity.)

[strahdapologist]

so I read through your blog and you really don't like the fact that 5e Strahd is a biphobic stereotype. But you run campaigns and play him. Can I ask what changes you've made to his characterisation to make him less of a biphobic stereotype? I know you didn't do the dumb elf genocide thing with him of course

uhm so the first change i made was to his consorts because 5e is shitty towards women and to its other minimal queer rep in the adventure, so in my campaign they were remade to be actual members of his court. their exact responsibilities shifted depending on the ideas i had at the time, but in their latest incarnations ludmilla was in charge of external affairs such as communication with other realms and trade, volenta was in charge of internal affairs, anastrasya was in charge of gathering intelligence and all matters arcane, and escher was charged officially with arts and culture but he was also an active diplomat and spy for strahd. they all have royal titles (that correspond with old romanian nobility) and i made sure they all had their own little story trees of responsibilities to enact across barovia while the campaign was occurring.

i still wanted bisexual representation for strahd that was explicit, however, so a plotline was him and escher breaking up. however their romantic tryst was undertaken with an explicit understanding that strahd was still seeking tatyana, but that in spite of this search he still yearned for intimacy and closeness. escher agreed to these terms and was not taken by surprise when strahd ended things in light of tatyana being reincarnated, though he was still sad about it ending. as strahd's spy, though, he played up this heartbreak to appeal to any who may be against strahd (two members of the party) and tricked them into divulging their true intentions rather quickly. instead of having escher as a hopless gay longing for senpai strahd's love again he became a quietly dangerous character that no one noticed was spying on them lol

i also removed all instances of strahd seeking new consorts in the players. his romantic attention is focused solely on tatyana but in a respectful way that does not cross any lines and instead plays into old ideas of victorian-era courtship. tho he and our tatyana had pre-marital sex so his commitment to prudish courtship is well...... yeah lol

finally sasha was entirely removed. the idea of becoming "bored" of wives and throwing them to the crypts was misogynistic before he was bisexual, and 5th edition made this plot line worse by making strahd bisexual because it implies he is voraciously lustful and can never be sexually satisfied and that the fate of sasha may well be the fate of tatyana if they ever got married. now it's not just sexist, it's biphobic! thank u 5e <3

so yeah tl;dr i just play him as more of a forlorn romantic and gave all the consorts actual titles of duchess/viscount/marquess etc. ditched most of his romantic relationships as well. 5e's biphobia also remove the agency of other women and queer characters in their module so it was important to me not just to adjust strahd's characterization, but the characterization of those around him. through the campaign, it was hinted that ludmilla and volenta had romantic relationships of their own (volenta with gertruda, for example) and escher's crush on ismark turned into the party trying to set the two of them up on dates which is quite sweet. this gave also a lot more room to the tragedy of strahd's love for tatyana when it was inevitably, once again, taken away by forces of darkness

i also spoke to people who are bisexual and i myself read about biphobic tropes in media bc as a lesbian i would find myself icked out by contents of the module but not entirely aware of why or the history of it until context was added, so seeking outside input on what exactly was offensive and why was very helpful

anyway follow me i'm delicious

[kay-elle-cee]

Hi Kelsey : D

Which HP character do you identify with the most?

Which HP character is your favourite to read about?

Which HP character is your favourite to write about?

Who is your "most hated" character?

Which character do you dislike writing about?

Hi Athena! 👋🏼 Why are these questions harder than I expected?

1. I always used to identify with Hermione (which I feel like a lot of us probably did growing up?). Voracious reader, smarty pants, rule follower, etc. And you know what? I was going to say that I’m not sure it fits but I think it still does (I cannot stress enough that this does NOT include Cursed Child lol). Fiercely loyal to the people she cares about and willing to break the rules to help them and/or if the rules themselves are corrupt. Also you know along the way that girl got gifted kid burnout syndrome and I need that fic delivered to my inbox lol. (If we’re specifically talking about Marauders Era, James and I have a pretty striking similarity checklist).

2. I LOVE to read people’s different interpretations of Lily, who we perhaps, in canon, know the least about. No two Lilys are alike, and I love to see what everyone brings to her.

3. Listen, I love writing Lily, but James (though harder for me to get in his head) is SO MUCH FUN to write. Even when he’s Going Thru It™️ I feel like there’s just a sliver of humor and lightness and optimism there that none of the others really have, and I love it and him for it.

4. Listen, I could be diplomatic and say Umbridge, and yeah….she sucks. But if I’m being honest….I think we all know (Snape).

5. And that’s what makes 5 so hard…Snape and Lily are so entwined in canon I HAVE to write about him 😅 but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it!

These were fun! Thank you!

[ladyaislinn]

Interview by Jessica Shaw, Netflix Tudum

>> Rufus Sewell, THE DIPLOMAT FIRST LOOK VIDEO >> video II

I love the behind-the-scenes moments when the facade of diplomacy crumbles, like when Kate and Hal just want some snacks and bust into the prime minister’s pantry. Sewell: We ate so much.  Russell: Oh my god. Sewell: I’m a voracious eater and I grew up hating watching actors not eating their food. It would just piss me off. Also because I’m greedy, I was like, “Don’t waste a... What are you doing?” So I eat every take. Those houses, those grounds you filmed in the UK looked so insanely gorgeous. Sewell: It was a lovely summer. It’s really nice. As an English actor, if you really want to work in England, move to America. You come back to England and play Americans. That’s what I do now. Interview by Jessica Shaw, Netflix Tudum 2023

[troublebrewing-if]

Introducing Alistair/Alastriona

Al can be a man or a woman, depending on the player character's sexuality.

The heir, Al, voraciously consumes novels and histories, longing for an adventure of their own. When given the opportunity to defend their subjects against banditry, they leap at the opportunity.

Though they take their duties as heir seriously, they desire nothing more than to find a connection with someone who sees them as an equal. Too many see the crown and not the person wearing it. The first true friendship they ever formed was with Reese, the child of visiting diplomats. Al dreads the day their friends has to return to their homeland.

Growing up an only child, Al is well aware of their father's lack of heirs and his hunger for a dynasty. They heard the whispers -- whispers that were only spoken when the gossiping courtiers were unaware that Al was listening -- that it was God's punishment that the king should only have one child after spilling so much of his kin's blood. Since childhood, Al has been tormented by doubts over the righteousness of their father's rule, because of his coldness toward his wife and child, his cruelty toward all and his unending lust for war against their neighbors. After encountering the bandit, Sloan, they realized a terrible truth: their father is a villain.

Al is a born fencer, tall and lithe, moving with precise control, both on the battlefield and among their father's courtiers. A smattering of freckles adds interest to their otherwise smooth, amber skin. When they aren't training or riding, they wear their loosely-coiled coppery-red hair down. Their honey-brown eyes betray their heart too often, showing the vast compassion they have for others. Though they certainly have the wardrobe to match their status, they tend to prefer practical clothes, though still tasteful and finely tailored.

Al believes they have found their purpose in serving their people, something for which they are endlessly grateful.