#wars waged and blood spilt

[kingkatsuki]

One more and then I’ll stop but like seriously imagine this hulking brute of a man preparing to mount his dragon to return home to his Kingdom after successfully pillaging another village. The loot strapped to the sides of the dragons as he stands victorious, covered head to toe in a sheen of drying blood that for the most part isn’t his.

And as he’s preparing to leave he notices something moving in the foliage out of the corner of his eye. Immediately reaching for his axe as he holds it up high, ready to strike— when he sees a small bunny rabbit struggling beneath a wicker basket. The poor animal looks injured, its paw a deep crimson that rivals his eyes and his first thought is to put it out of its misery and take it home as part of the feast.

But then he thinks of you, and the way you tremble in front of him much like the little rabbit in front of him now. Sliding his axe back into his belt as he crouches down to pick up the struggling animal, caging it in large palms as he holds it uncharacteristicly gently to his chest. Walking back to his dragon as his men call out to him.

“That’s barely a snack for a dragon, King.” Sero calls out, grinning from ear to ear as Bakugou shoots him a glare.

“Do you want me to put it with the rest of the food?” Kirishima offers as he reaches out to take the bunny by the ears.

“No,” Bakugou mutters gruffly, opening a sachel at the side of his beast as he places the rabbit gently inside. His men raise their brows but know better than to say anything as they take off, returning back home before nightfall.

The Kingdom is in celebration as the team return, gathering the spoils as a feast is prepared for tonight. And Bakugou decides to clean himself up before seeking you out, worried that if he found you covered in the blood of his enemies you’d never talk to him again. It was much like he looked the first time he found you; and he’ll remember that terrified look for the rest of his days.

Changing into fresh cloth and furs as he makes his way towards your room, and even though he’s trying to be respectful he still doesn’t knock. Stepping inside to see you curled up by a fire with a book that you quickly put down when you notice him, the tension in your body doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou who tries to be less intimidating. A difficult feat for a man who’s waged wars on nations, and spilt more blood than the rivers that flow outside the Kingdom.

He’s silent as he crouches, setting his sachel down in front of him as he opens it. Rough hands reach in to take out the quivering bunny rabbit, which you stare at with wide eyes.

“It reminded me of you.” He rasps, holding the animal out to you as you crawl over to him from your position in front of the fire. Gentle hands taking the rabbit from him as you hold him against your chest, soft fingers stroking at its fur.

“You’re not going to cook him after, are you?”

And Bakugou can’t help but smile at your question, it’s the first time you’ve seen him do so and it softens the strong frown lines against his face. His eyes rounder, fierce gaze less intense as he moves to sit on the floor beside you with thick thighs outstretched.

“He looked like he needed someone to look after him.”

[yanderes-galore]

Hi! Could I get prompts 7 and 10 from your list with Rhaenyra Targaryen?

Sure! Here's a short of Rhaenyra with an obsession she used to be close, only for them to join The Greens.

Yandere Rhaenyra Targaryen Prompts 7 + 10

"All this blood? It's all for you! Everything I do is all for you!"

"I've given myself all to you! Yet you call me a monster!"

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Mature themes, Angst, Violence, Medieval marriage practices (Viserys/Alicent), Targcest (Rhaenyra/Daemon), Manipulation, Kidnapping, Dubious bedding mention/implication, Murder mentioned, Forced kiss, Forced relationship.

Young love is such a fickle thing, isn't it?

When Rhaenyra was young she was exploratory with relationships. She's had some guilty temptations deep within her chambers. However... nothing compared to her first real love.

You were part of a House sworn to the Targaryens, sworn to her father, the king. When your father came to do business with the council, you were often left in the Red Keep. That's when Rhaenyra met you... often speaking with you and Alicent as you sat in the royal garden.

You've always been pleasant company to Rhaenyra. Your presence around the Red Keep due to your father's work was something she often looked forward to. It was to the point she often abandoned her books to search for you.

As you both grew up, feelings naturally grew. You stick by the young princess as her life slowly crumbles apart... forced to watch as her best friend marries her father. However... who didn't leave her...

Was you.

Such dedication during your visits sparked something in Rhaenyra. When you two got older, even when she was married to Laenor, you two often met. Rhaenyra never hid her feelings from you. She was always open with you.

Unfortunately she had to hide such a... relationship with you from prying eyes. Rhaenyra, as an adult, was already considered promiscuous by many. But you had truly captured her heart since you were young.

The unfortunate thing is the fact you wanted nothing to do with her once the Dance started.

Your father, a man Rhaenyra still has a grudge with even with him dead, told you to stay away from her. Your loyalty naturally stayed with her father, then soon Aegon II. Loyal to the crown...

You finally abandon her...

A thought she can't deal with, even as war wages on around her.

Rhaenyra never understood why you chose King's Landing over her. Were you tempted by the role of being on Aegon's council just like your father? She could've given you that and so much more.

Rhaenyra gave you everything she had. Even when married to Laenor and Daemon, she kept coming back to you. She risked her reputation for you because she loved you.

Did you really think she'd sit back and let you go?

Rhaenyra never thought The Greens deserved you. She'll never understand how you could've chosen someone else other than her. You two were lovers... not Alicent. Not Aegon.

You've always been hers.

Rhaenyra originally planned to let you go. She wanted to forget you... you're with The Greens now. Unfortunately, late at night, she can't get you out of her head....

It was only a matter of time before Rhaenyra ordered your capture. She never revealed her true intentions, she simply said capturing someone from the council could provide info on The Greens. Plus, you'd be more receptive as you merely knew each other.

Your connection was so much deeper than that.

To Rhaenyra, it didn't matter how much blood was spilt to drag you to Dragonstone. She herself would've taken Syrax to demand you be handed over, yet Jacaerys convinced her otherwise. King's Landing shouldn't be your home... Dragonstone should.

Rhaenyra ordered you to be treated with care when taking you in. Not a hair on your head should be harmed. Anyone else, their blood can stain the streets.

You hadn't thought much of your previous lover until Meleys crashed Aegon's coronation. The dragon's rider, Rhaenys, had meant the visit as a threat... yet she also came with another purpose. Rhaenyra had very specific orders...

Which lead to you being kidnapped atop the Red Queen, dragged back to Rhaenyra like some insolent child.

Anyone who attempted to stop the dragon was quickly burned or made into dragon feed, Aegon's coronation ending in a smoldering fire. The thought made you sick. People were injured... People died...

All because Rhaenyra wanted you.

It was your fault, wasn't it?

Rhaenyra wanted a warm greeting when you arrived. Part of her wanted you to crawl back into her arms like she missed. But the queen knows better.

A cold glare was what she really expected... even after she gave you your own chambers close to hers.

She tries her best to be patient with you. You'll need some time to readjust. Although... She's getting tired of intercepting letters you keep sending to The Greens.

Any little spies you keep trying to inform are often slaughtered, their heads brought to her for proof thanks to Daemon.

The bloodshed Rhaenyra does for you is supposedly out of love... but you obviously don't view it that way.

"How much blood have you spilled, Rhaenyra?" You coldly ask the queen when she enters your chambers to check on you.

"This is war, my love. Blood is going to be spilled." Rhaenyra answers back, watching you quietly as you sit at the desk she provided.

"You've killed innocents, Rhaenyra." You frown, glancing at your captor. "You killed people because you don't trust them, all because I was around them-"

"You want to know why I spilled their blood, don't you?" Rhaenyra cuts you off, stepping closer. "I did it because of you."

You go to protest, only for Rhaenyra to stand in front of you. She cups your cheek, looking at you fondly. It's a familiar feeling... but you no longer have feelings for the queen.

"All this blood? It's all for you! Everything I do is all for you!" Rhaenyra confesses. "You left me all those years ago to join The Greens... you broke my heart, love. Naturally... I had to take back what was mine one way or another."

"You're a monster." You cry, terrified of the woman in front of you as you bat her hand away. The queen pauses momentarily, watching you with a dark gaze.. To think you once found it pleasant to bed her....

"A monster?" Rhaenyra scoffs, amused yet hurt. "I've given myself all to you! Yet you call me a monster!"

You want to fight her more but she grabs your chin, pinning you to the desk you were sitting in front of. You gasp, fear in your eyes as Rhaenyra glares down at you. A fury like no other burning in her gaze....

"If anything I'm a dragon, dear..." Rhaenyra purrs, holding your face with both hands. "A dragon who wants nothing more than to take what she wants... what she deserves...."

You want to show more defiance, to show how much you despise what she's become... but Rhaenyra is quick to silence you. The queen has been patient enough, quickly pressing her lips to yours. The kiss stuns you... all while Rhaenyra groans at the familiarity.

She's missed this.

Expertly Rhaenyra leads you away from your desk, herding you like a sheep as she lightly pushes you on your bed. You may hesitate, you may even curse and fight her... but she knows you'll break eventually. She knows you love her still...

She just needs to show you what The Greens can never give you...

That you've always been hers since the start.

[aphidclan-clangen]

The AphidClan Code

1. Unless the clan is given reason to defend itself, all outsiders and other clans are to be treated with respect and dignity. Those who seek shelter and mercy in truth shall never be denied. Fight if you must, but unnecessary blood shall not be spilt in AphidClan’s name. Remember we are all brethren of this land and victims of the same fate.

2. Healers are allowed free passage across border lines only to care for those in need and must care for any cat who is ill or injured without discrimination, bias, or borders. Your clanmates must always come first when given the choice, but no one in need is to be denied care.

3. Respect the lands and rights of other colonies. Do not hunt, steal, or trespass where you do not belong.

4. The deputy will become clan leader if the previous leader has died, retired, or been exiled.

5. Within only severe reason and circumstance, any cat may be exiled for cruel or criminal behavior, or if the clan’s leadership deems it fit. All exile decisions must be decided in majority council vote between the leader, the deputy, and the healer (or healers). If needed, the leader—or any other cats of leadership—can be voted out of their own clan and exiled for cruel and criminal behavior.

6. Respect the dead. Bury those that have fallen and never hunt to waste.

7. A cat must have trained or be training at least one apprentice before they can be considered for the role of Deputy.

8. A kit must be at least six moons old to be apprenticed. All apprentices must have a mentor.

9. A clan must be led by a leader, a deputy, and at least one healer at all times. If the deputy has died, retired, or been exiled, then a new choice must be selected by the leader by six moons past. If the leader, deputy, and healer have all been removed, what remains of the clan will collectively vote on and select their successors.

10. If a war must be waged on a rival colony, then the leader, deputy, and the healer(s) must hold council on the decision. The majority vote will decide whether or not war is waged.

11. Do not approach the Metalden.

[talesofdiceanddespairpod]

The first campaign of Tales of Dice and Despair, a queer, roleplay-focused, hombrewed DnD 5e actual play podcast, will be premiering soon!

The premise:

Within the world of Raeryn, power is a constant struggle and a shifting turmoil. Most kingdom fail to thrive under the intense pressure of their allies and enemies crumbling around them. A feat many use to their advantage, time and time again, to take power and weasle their way into succession.

These power struggles include: the witches that rule the realm with their wide spread influence through the various kingdom, each kingdom having an advisor in a witch that answered to their Supreme, the ruffians of the northern seas, raiding and conquering far off lands, the kingdom hidden within great illusion and mystic in the barren deserts, and the old, withered throne built upon back bone of those that opposed them.

The only true form of influence and wealth of power is through the connections of figureheads. One misplaced rumor could wage war between two powerful empires. One individual disappearing could lead to speculations and unrest. One power could be toppled within a day with the right motivation.

It will be the party’s decision on who to support. Whether they aim to ban the witches from their influence in every court. Or support the Primeval Concord attempting to strike treaty bargains and focus on repairing relations. Or support the old withered throne of Culht, always wanting to be at the top, regardless what blood is spilt and which bones are taken. Or… they might support no one. They very well may desire to throw the world into utter chaos.

[celemee]

Happy Friday! Prompting: "writing found in your OC’s trash can" for whichever OC you'd like to write about ✨

Hello and thanks for the prompt! I'm going with Mahanon Lavellan, my evil Solavellan guy. Post-Trespasser. Adjacent to my old Starkhaven fic, A Love Long Lost. @dadrunkwriting

----

Josephine rushed into the Inquisitor's quarters, safe in the knowledge that the elf was outside and would remain so for a few more hours.

Out of everyone of the inner circle, she was the last person standing. One by one, each of them had gone their own ways — and she could hardly blame them. Her own letter of resignation sat neatly inside an envelope which she slipped to the Inquisitor's desk.

Effective immediately.

The elf's new plan at waging war against Starkhaven was the last straw. And for what? Petty revenge on Cullen for the death of his clan?

Oh, how the once mighty had fallen.

It hadn't been Cullen's fault, but every misfortune soon found its culprit in the Inquisitor's eyes, and the punishments were swift and brutal.

She'd done what she could in Starkhaven, but her advice fell onto deaf ears. She shook her head, drawing in a breath as her gaze travelled around the room. Taking in the mess of it. She'd given her all to help guide the Inquisitor, but absolute power had corrupted him absolutely. Given more time, it would find purchase in her — and soon she'd be on the wrong side of history.

Josephine sighed, ready to return to her packed up trunks and the servants who waited downstairs — but a paper peeking from the Inquisitor's rubbish bin caught her eye. She knelt and fished it out, unfolding it.

"Solas,

I find myself lost in thoughts of you. Years have rolled by so slowly since you left. The halls of our mighty fortress have emptied of people and purpose. I've cursed your name, spilt blood in my rage, and ached in my barren dreams. Waiting for something — anything — from you.

Why the long silence? A simple conversation through the Fade would have prevented some of the acts I've committed. A letter from you would have stayed my hand.

Solas. You lied to me. You never wanted to protect me. You feared me all this time, didn't you? That's why you left me alo--"

The letter cut off abruptly, as if the last word was too large to write.

Josephine rumpled the paper into a ball, brows drawing together. As always, the blame lied elsewhere — this time in Solas. What nonsense!

There was no rehabilitating this man.

Someone had to stop him.

Josephine flung the paper to the floor and rose, righting her dress. It might as well be her. With the Inquisitor's door closed behind her, the man was well and truly alone.

[darkwritingsnshit]

Things Change 4

Warnings: This will turn into a dark fic, not sure when but it’s coming. Please do not read if you’re under 18, or are uncomfortable with dark characters, kidnapping, noncon, asshole characters

Stomping boots, banging cups, plates, silverware, the noise became unbearable. The doors opened wide and another dozen warriors poured into the hall, doubling the noise and sense of urgency. Scared by the sudden din, you turned to see the other’s reaction. Odin was happily clapping along, Thor banging his hand on the table, voice shouting louder than anyone else. Loki clapped beside you, catching your eye with an amused look before you turned back to the unfolding festivities.

Several of the feast guests had paired off and begun fighting, the others yelling louder and throwing coins around. You watched with distaste as these grown men of Asgard fought themselves in their own halls, in the presence of the Allfather. The entire scene was deeply distasteful. There was nothing to do but watch, as eventually the scrimmages were won, and the men limped back to their seats. The relief you had thinking it was over was short lived. Two fully armed warriors began to face each other in combat in the middle of the room.

The scene before you was frightening, this was not the Asgard you grew up in, the place you loved and felt safe in, this was something much darker. The clashing was harsh on the stone and metal that made up the walls of the new throne room. The paintings, tapestries, colors and light that lit up the old throne room were gone, the bubbling of fountains and laughter of children was replaced with screaming men and the sounds of battle.

Food was knocked off the feast tables as the warriors fought in the circle they made. Men were yelling and screaming, there was little to do but sit back and try not to watch. A raucous cheer brought your eyes back to the fight, one man had gained the upper hand and had the other on his back at sword point. Glad that it would soon be over, you waited for the man to yield so they could leave. To your horror, he was given no chance to yield, the man quickly slit the other’s throat, spilling blood across the stone floor.

Your breath caught in your throat, such a sight had you reeling. The great hall was a place to break bread and come together as a family. For blood to be spilled on the floor was an affront. The spilt blood seemed only to encourage the guests. Loki’s hand on yours made you jump, but you squeezed it and closed your eyes against the slaughter. You waited until the noise died to open your eyes, focusing on Odin’s voice.

“Warriors, soldiers, the strength of Asgard!” Odin’s voice boomed through the hall. “And family,” he said in a lower tone, nodding to where you sat.

“You have proven yourselves both in my home and on the battlefields. At dawn we shall leave our glorious halls behind, to journey to Svartálfar, and destroy the evil, dwarves and elves who threaten to destroy our homes!” The cheers around you shook the stone hall and sent vibrations through the floors. You were bewildered by this declaration from Odin, from the reaction it garnered around the room.

Svartálfar had never been at war with Asgard, materials created by the dwarves and elves in the forges of their realm were highly prized, it was where Thor’s original hammer came from. You had been there before, with Odin, Frigga, Thor and Loki when you were a child as part of a delegation of peace. You were shown hospitality, kindness, a beautiful place to stay and some of the most delicious food you had ever experienced. You and your adopted family left in good spirits, with happiness from Odin, Frigga and those in charge of Svartálfar. To your knowledge there had been no aggression from the dwarves or elves, no attempt to destroy Asgardian homes. It didn’t make sense that Odin was waging war against them.

“What-” you were cut off when you turned to Loki for an explanation.

“Fill your bellies of food and mead, enjoy this night before our bloody but inevitable victory!” Odin stood, raising his drinking horn to the crowd. Thor leapt to his feet as well, mead spilling over the sides of his glass.

“TO ASGARD!!” He screamed in the hall, shaking his Warhammer above his head. The hall around you devolved into chaos, men cheering and yelling, mead being spilled, remnants of the feast thrown to the ground. The way these warriors behaved would never have been tolerated when you were last there, it was shocking to see such displays of aggression mixed with cheers and laughter.

You sat in silence sipping your mead, feeling deeply uncomfortable until at last Odin excused himself from the hall, meaning it was appropriate for you to do the same. Loki had disappeared into the crowd somewhere; Thor was in the middle of a war chant with men surrounding him when you slipped out of the feast hall unnoticed.

It felt like a new palace, everything you knew from your childhood was gone. You walked the halls you used to love, looking for the murals of your family, the tapestries depicting the history of the nine realms, the bright colors lighting up the walls, feeling more defeated with each step. At least you knew you could find solace in the library, turning the corner and pushing against the heavy door that held more books than you could ever hope to read in your long lifetime.

It felt like a punch in the chest, where were the books? Where were the tables and couches, the fireplace you had spent hours curled up in front of, deep into beautifully bound books? The only thing that kept you from thinking you were in the wrong room, was the pattern of the floor. It was unique to the library, Frigga had made sure the library would be a beautiful room of respite, a place that made reading and studying a pleasure to be in.

All the bookcases were gone, the chairs, couches, tables, rugs all removed. Instead, you found the walls lined with weapons, swords, shields, javelins, axes, hammers, anything that could hurt another being could be found somewhere in that room. Your attention was drawn to a soldier on the floor with a bucket of water, cleaning up something that looked to be blood staining one of the golden tiles.

“Not as elegant as it once was, father decided that training soldiers with weapons was more valuable than training them with books.” Loki’s voice was easy to hear now that there was nothing in the room to soften sounds.

“What happened?” you asked, heartbroken to see the absence of your favorite place in the palace. You turned away from the soldier wiping blood off the tiles.

“I told you, Odin put it to what he considers better use.” Loki said, crossing the room to take your hand.

“Where are the books?” you asked him, his pale skin brushing against yours.

“Somewhere safe, would you like to see?” You could hear the smirk in his voice before you looked, Loki always had some trick up his sleeve, so it didn’t surprise you that he had found them a hiding place. You nodded and let him pull you out of the old library and down the hall.

As you moved through the palace, every piece of art, or beauty seemed to be stripped away, dark colors and guards lined the halls.

“Where are the handmaidens?” you asked Loki. There had been a few palace guards sure, but usually the palace was filled with nobility, their handmaidens, children running and chasing each other. You saw only soldiers, and only your adopted family and the one frightened maid who helped in your bedchamber. Even the man in the library cleaning blood seemed to have taken on the role of a handmaiden, you had never seen a soldier clean a floor before.

Loki was watching you take in the new palace with amusement. He could feel how uncomfortable the changes made you, but change was the way of all the worlds.

“They were sent away to heal soldiers in battle.” He told you, as if it made sense. As if sending women and children to the battlefield in another realm was a good idea.

“And the children?” you asked, not ready to believe that Odin would put them at risk.

“They’ve been sent outside the city of Asgard, or they’ve been taken to training camps. Father says the best warriors are trained from a young age.”

“Children? Trained as warriors?” You stopped and pulled your hand from Loki’s. What was going on in Asgard, and how had you not heard of all these changes? You had spent the last fifty years in Vanaheimr but it was hardly an isolated realm, how had you not been told about a full fledged war taking such a toll on so many people in your old realm?

“Loki when did this happen?” You asked, disbelief in your voice. His eyes hardened, the spark of happiness was gone.

“After mother died.” He looked at you and waited for a response even though you had trouble finding words to express yourself.

“I was here when Frigga died Loki, there was no war when I left.” You told him

“But you left quite soon after, didn’t you?” His voice was cold, and induced guilt in the pit of your stomach.

“How did I not hear of this?” you demanded, “how is it that not once someone in Vanaheimr mentioned to me the first war of the realms since our parents were killed?” You didn’t like to think about your parents, you didn’t ever know them, but you had known that their deaths were an important part of why peace had been ensured in all the nine realms for centuries. Loki was very similar, he refused to accept Laufey as his father, he had buried the truth since he learned of it. But it was true, the death of such large figures in many realms is what brokered peace.

“Odin didn’t want to alarm you.” Was the answer Loki gave you.

“Alarm me?” you asked, “so he forbade anyone in any realm to notify me?” Odin was the same stubborn old man you had butted heads with as a child, but he was the Allfather.

Loki simply nodded. He continued to move down the hallway, motioning you to follow him. Even though you were confused and angry, you had nowhere else to turn. The stairs you eventually took led to an unfamiliar part of the castle, it used to be seldom used but sometimes you would hide in the empty rooms when someone was looking for you.

The room you came to was not empty like it used to be, when Loki opened the door, it was magnificent. The room itself was larger than the house you lived in Vanaheimr, but it was the beautiful bookcases and thousands of brightly colored tomes that drew your eye. The furniture that used to fill the library was situated in the room, the space big enough for everything to fit, even your favorite couch you and Loki would sit together and share books on. Instinctively you crossed the room and laid your hands on one of Frigga’s favorite books, the stories she used to read you, Thor and Loki before bed.

“Do you remember stories of the Nisse she used to tell us?” Loki had gravitated towards where you stood.

“Of course,” you laughed softly. “Never make promises to a Nisse or they’ll take your first born.” You held the book close to your heart when you turned to face him.

Loki was close enough you could feel the energy and magic coming off his body. It felt different than it used to, the magic was a different frequency, the energy darker. Even so, you felt safer with Loki close by than you had felt all day.

“Would you like to read with me?” Loki whispered, lips touching your ear. You nodded as he took the book of fairy tales from you and went to sit on the couch the two of you had spent many hours on in the old library.

You followed him, laying your head on his lap as you used to, while he opened the book and started to read bedtime stories from when you were children. Falling into a sense of comfort, the journey from Vanaheimr and being forced to take in so much change in the palace had caught up. Finally feeling that you were safe, you drifted to sleep on Loki’s lap, hearing the stories you used to fall asleep to as children.

[lunasilverwolfofthestars]

See you at Enders Gates

In Void and Abyss, They arose Creation and Destruction unbound Newborn Chaos battled Order to indispose To be the One Crowned As the sole Universal Force

One becomes Two And Two becomes Three Together they Ruled But Three found the Crows Who told Him the Truth Three, enraged left to expose As One and Two told a half-truths Of His origins

As Three fled, They discovered His Betrayal In anger for his Treachery, they cursed Him But unbeknownst to Them Three had ascended before they took Him So They created the Games instead To which He won and became the Sun

Blood to be spilt, war to be waged Bloodshed to feed the never ending Void The second Game, the Star emerged victorious Ever loyalty notorious The Third, the Moon arose bloodstained "Tilly death do us part." The Fourth game where Time was Chosen Mars, the Listener who betrayed, A fragment of a whole.

The Sun, The Star, The Moon, The Mars Paved the way for the Earth to rise

The cycle now broken, victory is at hand The Abyss beckons and shadows writhe The End is nigh upon this barren wasteland The Originators that sought sole sovereignty Met their punishment at scythes end

The portal beckons to Void and Abyss The darkness below never ending and deep Writhing shadows in eternal night Deep within the fallen dwarven keep

An emperor of Blood descends His Angel of Death watches from above The Goddess bears witness through Crows A ghostly blue sheep stands lonely below Their vibrant child dulled by Time Tormented by the Warmonger Cradled by an equally burnt child Watched by one ruled by Time Waiting by the sleeping prince The Captains child who brought torment Lies trapped inside unforgiving walls

The Sun, The Star, The Moon, The Mars Stood tall as the Gates shut, Eternal wardens to the Ones that sought Power They stand Guard at the End Awaiting their comrades to join their vigil

Until then, Till we meet again at Enders Gates

- my little love letter to the life series, not sure where I was going with it lol, got inspired by a fic (I don't remember oops). Date written: 29.12.2023

[tigriswolfwrites]

poem: Clytemnestra

prompt: Greek Mythology, Clytemnestra/Agamemnon, I don't love you/but I always will Written: August 14, 2023

Husband, mine king—lord of the land, of the house, of my body and the children I have birthed for you—Husband. Love is but a trick of the gods, a trap and a prison. From an egg laid by a queen and sired by the greatest I hatched, a sister and two brothers with me; as the eldest daughter of two kings and a queen, I knew always what my duty would be. Husband, have I not been a good wife? Three children I have carried and borne for you, healthy and strong and good, obedient, intelligent, and fair of face and form. Love, I learned as a child, is naught but a game played by gods. In your bed, I learned no different. But when the midwife placed my shrieking daughter in my arms before giving her to the nursemaid, I felt—I learned, watching our first child grow, that never before had I truly understood love as the poets tell of it. You, mine king, lord of all my world, I thought I might love you, for you did give me mine children: Iphigenia, the first child of my heart and my body, and then in turn Orestes and Electra. I thought all was well, Husband, until you told me what my sister had done, what you and your brother had planned. A war for a woman who chose her own path? Aye, I raged that she was mad, a traitor, a temptress who deserved naught but pain. Mine own sister, with whom I played as a child. The one thing Helen did with which I did not agree, Husband, was leaving behind her only child. I have dreamt of running from all the trappings of queenship but I would never abandon my daughters or son. You will wage a war to salve your wounded pride, will raze a kingdom to punish one foolish prince and the daughter of a god, sister to your own loyal and obedient wife. Husband, with you against my own family I would have stood. The family of my girlhood, my parents and sister and brothers. Against the world, with you I would have stood. Loyalty and love do not go hand in hand. Obedience and love do not go hand in hand. Indifference and obedience and loyalty—aye, together they might stand. I obeyed you, in your bed and on your throne, at your feet and by your side. Loyalty of a god’s daughter, that is no small thing. I am not blessed as Helen is, neither as beautiful nor brilliant. But I am loyal. Loyalty, mine husband, is no small thing. Love, as the poets tell, can shake mountains. Love and loyalty—you told me our firstborn would marry Achilles, would bring blessings to our house and name. You told me my dearest Iphigenia would become a queen, a celebration to begin a war, and that all must be hurried before the winds would turn. And so I brought our children to where you gathered the might of Greece, dowry following, and Iphigenia dressed in all the finery due a king’s daughter and future king’s wife. Husband. Against the world and the gods, I would have stood with you. The duty of a wife, the burden I accepted. You put a knife to my child’s throat and spilt her blood to assuage your pride and offer apologies to the goddess you alone offended. You bled my daughter dry. Your soldiers held me in place to watch the sacrifice of the child I carried and bore, the child who was the first person for whom I ever loved. The winds turned and away you sailed, my surviving children too young yet to understand. I could blame Helen, or the goddess you so offended. I could blame the priests or your brother or all the kings hungry for more land and slaves and riches. I could blame anyone in the world to save our marriage and myself, the sanctity of our union and our son and daughter’s birthright. I could blame the fates. We are but playthings to the mightiest, are we not? But I know to whom the blame is due.

[everythingheard]

For a moment, Peter has forgotten the complexities of who he is now. It's almost funny, how life as a teenage boy leaves him far more frustrated than that of a man ( a king ) back in Narnia. Here, no one knows of the wars he has waged, the blood he has spilt, the people he has led with the learned wisdom of decades; they can never know. How is Peter to act as though he's not a different person than he was when he clambered into the wardrobe after Lucy with Susan and Edmund in Professor Kirk's home? He can't, and there's a prideful part of him that won't.

Now, however, it feels as though such turmoil has faded for a time with the touch of his youngest sister's hand upon his arm. "Outside." Peter's grin widens, a hint of daring present in his blue eyes. "Come on." Easing open the back door ( a habit perfected since their return ), he leads them out into the night air; it's warm with the suggestion of summer, yet a hint of chill undercuts it with the reminder that autumn is rapidly approaching. "Quietly, alright?" His voice is a hushed whisper as they walk through the grass, the placement of his feet ingrained from hunting parties past.

They don't tread far before Peter halts and gestures with his free hand. "See? Over there." Amid the blinking glow of fireflies stands a deer with her fawn, so close that they could likely touch them both in a few steps. "I haven't seen any out here since we got back."

Returning to Finchley was bitter sweet after all the GRAND adventures at the professor's mansion, and in Narnia. The darkness of the kitchen provides her refuge. Whilst she can not speak of it, she yearns for yesterdays past where she could dance to Mr. Tumnus's songs with all the dryads, the fauns, centaurs, and dwarfs-- and the beavers. She grieved for the pleasantness of Cair, with all it's beautiful pillars and the sea, glistening against the horizon. She drags in a sigh, willing herself to forget a place she so dearly loved for this, the gloomy world of grey to which, she fully belonged. A world where she is only known as an unremarkable school girl with a terrible case of freckles.

Peter's voice brings a jubilance pouring into her countenance. Instinctively, the youngest Pevensie turns towards her eldest brother. Without flinching, her glass is pressed quietly to the counter. Her eyes become buoyant with intrigue. "What? What is it?" She hasn't seen him this enthused or energized since their return. Eagerly, her steps are quick to mirror his. "Where are we going?" She utters in the hushed undertone of her voice. Her hand outstretches, reaching for his sturdy arm.

[eenasbabysmom]

Fic ideas that keep me in a fog at inappropriate times throughout the day: Part 4

The twisted Soulmates AU-Zhancheng

*mostly inspired by qi-ling‘s chosen zhancheng quote “you are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand”. I’ve been a little obsessed with that imagery ever since*

The premise is simple: fated pairs are a rarity, but also considered a blemish. Like, the sign of a fated pair is a bad omen. The link doesn’t necessarily mean soulmates and love-they are literally fated to have their lives entwined, but it never works out okay. Throughout time, wars have been waged, blood spilt, families torn asunder because the push of fated pairs trying to come together, or worse, trying to force their way apart. When fated pairs are born to the gentry, it signifies an upcoming time of strife and death.

JC and LWJ are fated. LWJ is born first, and the Lan sect covers it up. The babe is born with a faded mark on his back, one that blooms into colour when he is nearly two-a purple snake with bloodied fangs wrapped around a wilting lotus bloom. Lan elders aren’t obtuse, they get the imagery and they’re pissed because their erstwhile sect leader, who once had so much promise, then ran off to marry a murderer, lock himself away from his responsibilities, and then spawned this ominous child who had the potential of destroying the very world they lived in.

JC is born in Lotus Pier with a fated mark in stark black lines that glow an iridescent blue when he is agitated. It is in the shape of a sword with an ornate hilt and broken blade. It is surrounded by dead and trampled flowers, that might be orchids (YZY knows they are, but she’ll never say it out loud.). JFM is horrified at the sight of it, and YZY mistakes his welling grief for their son as rejection-it is the final miscommunication in their tenuous marriage that sends her off to her own corner of LP with her ominous son cradled to her chest.

Neither sect lets out what’s happened. The children are told from a young age to never mention their marks, and from a slightly older age why they can’t. LWJ likely told younger than what was necessary, driving him further into the arms of his clan’s rules and disciplines as if they could hold back the oncoming storm of his fate. JC is told by his mother and father separately, both inadequate in their own way, and comes out of it with a bigger inferiority complex than before.

WWX is brought back to LP at age 7-YZY feeling threatened that JFM will actually try to replace her fated child with this one-the one who doesn’t have doom hanging over his head. JC also thinking this, but maybe also hoping for it a bit underneath it all. He wants his father’s approval and love, but he’s also afraid that he is poison and doom foretold and wants not to bring calamity down on his family. Fated children cannot be killed to avoid the dark times they portend-in fact, in history, murdering a fated child in their youth has led to more bloodshed as the one left behind rips everything apart to find its pair-whole countries burnt to ashes in the rage of not finding them.

How does it play out?

-LWJ discovers JC is his second half during the Waterborne Abyss arc (clothes get wet, JC gets agitated and before he can calm down, LWJ sees the glowing outline of Bichen’s hilt through Jiang gonzi’s white disciple robes). He retreats from the discovery completely, thinking to delay the catastrophe or avoid it all together (he knows he can’t, but he wants to hide behind his clan’s rules and also, he’s kind of more interested in WWX).

-the Wen come to Cloud Recesses and LWJ thinks he is to blame for ignoring JC. He goes to the Indoctrination and refuses to speak with WWX, trying to steel himself for a terrible conversation with JC, but being unable to have it due to Wen interference and WWX shenanigans.

-Tortoise of Slaughter arc happens. JC starting to suspect that these things are building up to the awful thing that his fated status foretold. Severe guilt pushing him to bring WWX back to LP. The Wen still coming, JC not blaming WWX but internalizing this as being the fault of what he is. JC running out to distract the Wens, trying to save WWX and also get the Wen to kill him because calamity always befalls those who kill a fated one before they meet their other and it always happens fast. JC thinks this will be the way he can avenge his parents and his sect. It almost works, but after WZL melts his core, the mark goes supernova and kills WZL, WLJ, and half of the Wen at LP. WC barely makes it out alive and when he realizes what JC is, he hightails it back to Qishan. The burns from the blast never heal and he dies of infection in Nightless City after warning his father about JC.

-WN arrives and drags an unconscious JC to safety. He doesn’t know about JC being fated, brings him back to WWX and WQ to heal. WWX tries to convince WQ to go the golden core transfer and she refuses once they discover JC’s mark. She says it would bring more calamity if they meddle with it. JC is definitely suicidal and tells WWX that everything happened because JC was born a curse.

-WWX discovers not Song Lan, but XXC and they go to BSSR for a core swap. BSSR can’t do it because JC’s mark is becoming too volatile after his core was melted. She tells them to leave JC with her abc they would try and figure out a way to stabilize him. She says it would be easier with the other half, but no one knows who it is. With the war on, there’s a good chance the other may die, which could make JC more unstable. BSSR theorizes he could do to the jianghu what he had done to the Wen at LP, killing millions.

-WWX reluctantly goes to join the SSC as the leader of the Jiang forces; he recovers some disciples not at the LP during the massacre and recruits others. He meets up with LWJ in Qinghe and their thing intensifies. LWJ constantly back and forth, wanting to be close to WWX and also being afraid to be. Asks WWX about JC and gets no real answer. WWX only says Jiang zongzhu would join them shortly.

-JC arrives eventually. His mark has evolved, gotten bigger and more detailed. It covers his entire back and chest, crawling up his neck and over the left side of his face. It is undeniable what it is. He cannot cultivate, but uses Zidian and Sandu through the power of the mark. The lines go Bichen blue and infuse power into the spiritual weapons. Good news is that he’s good at killing. Bad news is that using it too much causes him to supernova like before, taking out everything around him in a one mile radius. He cannot lead armies, but he can be deployed as a weapon on the battlefield. The Wen know who and what he is and no one wants to risk killing a fated one. It allows for JC to rip through their ranks and explode whenever. But each time he does it takes a toll. He nearly dies on the field weekly and nothing his siblings say will get him to stop. Halfway through the war, he named WWX the new Jiang sect leader because he will never cultivate again.

-LWJ gets pulled into the squabbling between Yunmeng siblings despite himself. He is also concerned about JC and feels guilty about hiding their connection. One particularly bloody day, JC disobeys orders and flies off to fight deep in the Wen lines. He is nearly taken hostage, but manages to supernova exponentially more powerfully than ever before. The problem is once it’s done, he can’t stop lighting up and exploding. LWJ grabs him and pulls him from the battlefield. They end up in a secluded area, both sides looking for them, LWJ reveals that he is JC’s other half and is stumped when JC replies that he knows. Bichen is recognizable, JC explains, and the other imagery of his mark isn’t exactly subtle. LWJ angrily demanding to know why JC didn’t tell him that he knew and JC calling him a hypocrite.

-“These aren’t the calling cards of an epic love story. I never wanted to meet you, never wanted a confrontation about it. They mean nothing except you and I are destined to ruin each other and everyone around us. Who would go looking for that?”

-LWJ refuses the excuse, even though he’s grown up thinking the same. He grabs JC and transfers qi, which ends up stabilizing JC enough that he stops supernova-exploding. Gets a bit smug about it, like ‘see? We’re not just made to hurt one another’ and JC responding with ‘oh, just go fuck my brother and pretend like this stupid confession didn’t happen’. LWJ realizing that it’s not that JC doesn’t expect to outlive the war, but that he doesn’t want to. Acknowledging the link between them makes emotions and thoughts muddled. LWJ never wanted anything from his fated pair, but now he is slowly becoming desperate to keep JC alive and well.

-LWJ is in love with WWX, becoming slowly, darkly consumed by JC, and JC is ready to shuffle off this mortal coil as soon as he can get close enough to supernova inside the Nightless City and take WRH out at the same time. WWX is in love with LWJ, obsessed with JC as he ever is, and not sure what to do when he finds out about the fated pair.

-JYL cannot make enough soup to fix any of this, but she is gamely trying. JZX makes some sort of comment about JC and him being a fated one and she nearly upends a pot of hot soup over his head. In a series of strange outbursts later, JYL is somehow engaged to NHS and using his brains to do something about what the anti-JC grumblings among the Jin disciples and other minor sects will mean.

-JGY still kills WRH, but JC still goes into supernova to bring down the Sun Palace, killing almost the entirety of the remaining members of the Wen clan. It is a scene of unbelievable carnage. The SSC is over and now questions are starting about what to do with JC- who has proven himself unhinged and catastrophic. JGS asks if the other sects are meant to look the other way while YMJ has such a weapon in their grasp- a weapon that can only lead to tyranny.

-“He’s not a weapon; he’s our brother.”

-JC makes things worse by peacing out and leaving without telling anyone. YMJ has an alliance with Qinghe Nie that gives them support because NMJ wholeheartedly supports the inclination to bomb the Wen Sect. Also, his little brother has decided that he’s in love with JYL and might cry if the engagement is broken off. The sworn brotherhood never happens- the jianghu is divided into two camps: Nie and Jiang combined against Lanling Jin and a number of minor sects, with Gusu Lan declaring neutrality.

-WWX reluctantly returns to LP as sect leader. JYL and LWJ accompany him and start to help him rebuild. LWJ loves WWX fiercely, but the itch to find JC and be near him gets stronger and stronger. He confesses to WWX eventually, who wavers between indignation for JC because LWJ didn’t stand beside his fated one and sadness that this means there is no path for him and LWJ. Fated pairs don’t always fall in love, but they always end up together because the alternative is disaster.

-JC wanders through LP one day almost two years later. JYL is married to NHS and they split their time between LP and Unclean Realm. They have one child, Nie Ling, and another is on the way. The second will be a Jiang abc the next sect heir, as WWX insists his successor be if the Jiang line. LWJ is still there and furious and delighted that JC is back. JC’s hair is streaked through with grey and white. His skin is youthful and clear, but the mark has changed from black lines to ugly red scars. Only the original mark remains in black lines, lighting blue in his agitation. He ignores his siblings’ anger, kisses his nephew, and makes vivid threats to his brother in law to ensure his devotion to JYL. LWJ he ignores entirely, making the other fairly seethe.

-two months JC stays, often huddled up in some corner with his sister or brother. He plays with A-Ling, scares NHS, and dances out of LWJ’s reach. Eventually he says he has to go, and that LWJ should go too. He points out that the rainy season has been getting worse and worse since LWJ arrived and there were some whispers about a plague in the outskirts of Yunmeng. Fated ones cause catastrophes wherever they go, but more so when they are without their other.

-“you don’t have to come with me, but you can’t stay here. Yunmeng probably wouldn’t survive.”

-tearful parting between Wangxian. JC has already fucked off days before-he does not care where LWJ goes, but he doesn’t want him in LP. LWJ is desolate at leaving WWX, but also infuriated that JC cares so little about him and what he is meant to do. Leads to a vicious hunting down of JC and some pretty rough sex in the outer rims of Qishan. They claw and fuck and come together-and the volcano before Nightless City erupts almost at the same time. They do not see it, but they hear it and feel the tremors.

-JC laughs, darkly, and goads LWJ into another round.

[blueburds]

Whumptober altprompt #12

Carried to Safety

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic

Characters: Khem Val | Original Character

Rating: G

Word Count: 193

The remnants of the battle waged behind them. Khem Val felt the heat of the flames against his back, and in his arm was the barely-conscious A’lea. Decades ago, he’d made an oath to her father: that he would continue to protect and serve his legacy so long as he lived. He had no intention of breaking that promise now.

          Which was why, today, he recognized when a battle had been lost, that fortune refused to favor them. They’d barely escaped with their skin. That alone should be a victory.

          A’lea was stubborn, just as her father, and still young to let pride affect her decisions. If nothing else, perhaps this would serve as a lesson. A hard, bloody lesson.

          The ground shook as an explosion set off behind them, further adding to the ongoing destruction. Khem Val pressed onward, climbing up a hill and toward their ship, keeping A’lea nestled securely in his arm. “Do not take this failure lightly, little one,” he spoke in Dashadi. “The blood spilt today is not on your hands—but if nothing is taken away from this, then their lives will have been lost for nothing.”

[deliriousbug]

What if megatron (LostLight? Or whichever you think this will fit best for) finds his lover in the middle of a fight and whilst s/o is winning, they’re still beaten allll the way up, YOU CAN SEE THEIR GODDAMN SPARK but s/o just ain’t stopping, it’s like a god damn gladiator fight

I went with Prime for this one cuz he's like so fucking unhinged and this got kinda dark sooo. Set early on in the war, when they're still fighting on Cybertron. I know you said 'find' but my brain immediately went here. I hope that's okay :)

Rated T for Violence

gender neutral s/o

The suns were only just beginning their ascent from the horizon and already there was energon spilt on the new day. This battlefield was fresh, a new arena posing new challenges in the trek to conquer Cybertron once and for all. On this day, the Decepticons fought for control of one of the Autobots’ main energon supply lines into Iacon. Megatron had expected a fight and the Autobots did not disappoint. Every strong Decepticon player was on the field, battling hordes of enemies and it was glorious. Megatron breathed it all in, savoring the dewy scent of brewing storms. He dodged a blow to his side but Optimus followed it with a swipe at his legs and knocked him off kilter. Megatron quickly righted himself and as the two danced around each other, looking for an opening, he caught sight of his beloved.

They were on the opposite side of the battlefield and deeper into enemy territory than any other Decepticon. Stuck in a gorge, they were disadvantaged with the low ground but as Megatron watched they crushed a mech’s spark in their servo, energon splattering their arm, and used the warm corpse to shield themself from a round of blaster shots. They spun, still wielding the dead mech, and let loose a spray of bullets in a perfect arch, cutting down the Autobots on top of the gorge.

As he traded blow for blow with Optimus, Megatron continued to catch precious glimpses of the battle his lover waged. They were on equal footing with the Autobots now, but had lost their blasters and resorted to the short, sturdy dual blades hidden in their wrists. Typically, they preferred to save the blades for a less cluttered battlefield, but they worked wonders with any weapon at their disposal. Completely surrounded, they jab into their opponents, slicing through layers of armor and sensitive mesh and coloring their blades with Autobot blood. Blaster shots were fired and they couldn’t turn fast enough. Their armor was thick and took the brunt of the damage and they lunged through the mass of mechs with even more fervor.

Megatron loved to watch them, their movements so fluid and every bit as lethal as intoxicating. They were like a gladiator, so in their element that every single thing they did was just right, natural, and Megatron saw the appeal of spectating now. Watching them take a knife to the ribs was terrifying but watching them get their gruesome revenge made the terror worth it. It was a play on adrenaline and Megatron was already so damn full of it that he felt borderline euphoric. There was power in mowing down the weak and soaking the dirt with their blood. Power in controlling life itself.

When he next caught sight of his partner, they were on their back with a mech straddling them. He could see their fangs as they snarled and bit down on the mech’s arm. They launched to their feet and stabbed into his shoulder, twisting the blade, ruining the delicate mechanisms there, then cutting straight up. The mech’s arm fell to the ground but he didn’t get a chance to scream before they lodged a blade through his gaping mouth, through his brain module, and out the back of his helm.

Megatron knew Optimus was speaking, but he could care less for the Prime’s nonsense when he had another fight to split his attention with. Someone landed an uppercut on his lover and their head snapped back with the force of it. In the moment it took for them to recover, a sword was buried in their shoulder, a near miss from their helm. They dropped to their knees and rolled to the side, slicing through knees and thighs alike. With the sword they ripped from their shoulder and one powerful swing, they decapitated both mechs. They were wounded in too many places to count, just as Megatron was, but both fought on undeterred.

This would surely be a Decepticon win, considering how thin the Autobot ranks were becoming. But Megatron did not see where the newest of his lover’s foes had come from, only the white streak snapping in the air. The femme’s whip crackled with electricity as it struck their chassis. If it had hit anywhere else, Megatron was certain it wouldn’t have pierced, but the armor in the center of their chassis was already severely weakened by a corroded blaster wound.

The resulting wound made him stumble and suddenly Optimus was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and reigning devastating blows. Megatron growled profanities and caught Optimus’ fist before it could land again. He turned his helm just enough to see his partner. They were surrounded again and this time he was about to abandon his fight with Optimus and run to them. But they cut down the femme with the whip and spun out of the way of another Autobot’s running attack and Megatron saw it.

Their spark.

The center of their chassis had been cracked and a chunk of the armor was missing completely, exposing the bottom of their spark. It flared with the intensity of their soul, a brilliant cerulean light that shone on the faces of their enemies, casting the undeserving bots in pure beauty. They were so vulnerable and yet so unfaltering that Megatron felt inspired.

Not long after, Optimus called for retreat and Megatron laughed as he watched his rival go. He turned to head for his darling and —by Primus— was he glad he did. If he hadn’t he would have missed seeing them strip a femme’s spine from her fucking body, slick with energon and other, stranger fluids. As the body crumpled and collapsed at their pedes, they tossed the limp spine to the ground: ever the victor. Megatron’s engine revved and every last ounce of his remaining adrenaline and charge became directed towards them.

And then they noticed him and smiled, their lips split and their nose broken, trailing energon into their mouth and down their chin, but they didn’t try to hide their exposed spark or staunch the bleeding of any other wounds. Megatron burst with something akin to pride and when he reached them he grabbed them by the back of the neck and smashed their mouths together. It was hot and violent and Megatron could feel their spark against his chassis and he never felt happier.

[mysticstarlightduck]

I'm glad you liked the question, @oh-no-another-idea! Thanks for turning it around, I'll try to answer it! (:

I am a huge fan of worldbuilding, so most of my WIPs are very high fantasy settings, lmao. I've mentioned the pantheon of gods from The Last Wrath and Tales of Wilted Flowers in a few other posts, so in this one, I'll cover the pantheon of Celestials from Realms of Loss - which happens to be a huge part of the story, because some of the MCs are half-deities and the plot vastly revolves around the return of a dead god (who is actually a demigod ascended into Godhood, but details, details...)

In Helvastte, the main continent of that WIP, the actual Old Gods are dead, having perished in a dreadful battle centuries prior, which ravaged the lands and caused the appearance of a terrible curse. So, the main deities who rule over and are worshipped in Helvastte are the Celestials, who were born of the remnant strings of magic from Ichor, the blood of the Gods, after the fall of the first pantheon.

Celestials are immortal and incredibly powerful beings, but not nearly as powerful as the Old Gods. For example, Celestials cannot create or destroy worlds, which the Old Gods could easily do, nor change the Tides of Fate, which didn't affect the Old Gods. They also aren't immune to the Forgotten Curse, because - much like them - it was created out of the Ichor spilt by the Old Gods in their battle.

But what can Celestials do in Helvastte? They hold incredible power over specific domains, such as the Storms, Chaos, or Marriage to name a few - and so, because of this, there are many demigods, some more or less powerful than others depending on their Domain. They are also magical entities and have a lot - and I mean a lot - of sway over the decisions and wars waged by the human kingdoms sworn to them. They can be patrons of some specific orders of Casters, and often sire half-deities, known as Divine Heralds, who are the magical elite of the realms - the most powerful kinds of mortals.

For example of a half-deity in the actual story, Kassien Vann was a highly trained Divine Herald of the elite royal guard, son of the Celestial of Storms, Moyrah, and a human man.

There are two rival Celestial Courts in Helvastte, which favor specific human kingdoms in their neverending war to decide who will rule what remains of the continent, as conquests are paramount for survival in a land ravaged by a curse even the Celestials aren't immune to. Some Celestials aren't a part of the Courts and are often called the Unseen.

Happy WBW, Cass!

In the world of your WIP, is there a main pantheon of deities/gods that is worshipped? Are they actual celestial beings that exist or are they figments of the people's imagination? If they exist, do they have anything to do with the magic that exists in that world?

Hello, pal, thanks for the ask! <3 Man you've managed to hit me right in the chink of my armor! As a writer who is low on world building, I don't think a single one of my WIPs has any sort of new or imaginative religions/gods. 😭

This is still a terrific question though--may I turn it around and ask YOU the same? 💛

[flugsvamp88]

blood museum

(11/12/22)

if you look to your right you will see the first drop of blood spilt in the name of God a little further on your the left is the blood shed in the name of equality and honour around the corner here is our main attraction our grand tank⠀⠀7.5 million litres of the finest collected from the grandest of waged wars the blood museum is founded by millions to reconcile the bloodshed over the centuries whatever stupid reason humanity needed however the disease of corruption was spread

c.m

[merctrovert]

solivagant | xiaoven shorts

genre: fanfiction, short story, angst, hurt/comfort, xiaoven, this was even sad for me to write so enjoy reading...

— solivagant

     (adj) wandering alone 

The Lone Yaksha

A blood stained figure limped across the ruins of a battlefield, the scent of copper still lingering thick. It followed him wherever he went, like a ghost. His weapon dragged on behind him, like a chain he could not break.

Wounded but not hurt enough to stop, he continued down his aimless, wandering path, searching for something; he did not know what.

Silently. Even the crows that feasted on the fallen were not startled by him. He walked as if he were a ghost, he may as well have just been a corpse.

What was his name? Where was he going? He no longer knew. There was an idea of someplace a long time ago. Now, his mind was empty, only consumed by his demons.

His hands had become clotted and thick, coated with layers of crimson. Scars littered his body; not once did he tend to the wounds. Once, he considered it a waste since he would only gain some more the next day. But now, each speck on his skin was like a mark that counted how many he had slain. Another chain that tied him down.

And so his solemn journey continued. Never speaking, never stepping off his path. Through every storm and heatwave, as his skin was scorched, as his demons corrupted his mind when dusk came. He did not falter.

Until that one night.

The moon was red, as crimson as the blood he had spilt. And his demons were rising from the ground, lost souls, wandering ghouls. And they set their eyes on the one that had destroyed them. And they tormented.

Don't you want to be free? They cruelly whispered into his ears. Don't you want to stop? Give up, oh great Yaksha. Oh, conqueror of demons, yet you are the greatest demon of us all. There is no place to return to. No place no more.

And they cried and moaned into his ears, No one is waiting. No one is waiting for you. They are all gone.

They were all gone.

The great Yaksha, the Conqueror and Purger of Demons stumbled. His feet, sore and bleeding, bruised and calloused trembled. He fisted his hand and forced himself to continue, but the demons that tormented his mind were not wrong.

They were not wrong.

How tired he was. How free he wished to be. And how no one would be waiting for him, which was why he never looked back and how no one would be waiting for him as he continued on ahead.

This was his punishment and he accepted it. But oh how it hurt.

Lost in his thoughts, the figure stilled and his demons laughed and whispered, tempted his ear with promises of sweet things.

We have always been waiting for you. We are all you have. Come with us. You will never be alone. You will suffer no more.

It was lies. He grunted, gritting his teeth, his head throbbing with the memories of a thousand ghouls that surrounded him as they forced their own cruel deaths, projecting it into his mind. It was lies they spoke but he wanted to believe.

Come with us, O Vigilant Yaksha. There is a place. We are waiting.

And he closed his eyes. His heart, wavering, his mind throbbing and burning. He succumbed.

The dark consumed him and the souls of lifeless demons hungrily swarmed into his body, fighting with each other for possession, to take a bite out of the heart and soul of the one that had slain them.

And he who had forgotten his name, who had been wandering too far for too long, sat emptily, staring up at a starless sky as his demons corrupted him.

Freedom. He closed his eyes. Perhaps suffering the wrath of demons would show him, just a glimpse, of that mercy he could never have.

From afar, a gentle breeze washed over the torn land. And with the wind was carried the faint, broken fragments of the melody of a distant flute.

The distant melody the corrupting yaksha found himself opening his eyes to, his heart swaying with its sorrowful, lonely hums. The demons of his mind and soul were washed away with each note and suddenly, it was all that consumed him.

The haunting gentle melody he was so afraid to startle, as though it were a butterfly resting in his palm.

Rising slowly, the lone yaksha turned, off his path. And headed towards the direction of the melody, following the moon that had returned to its pearl like appearance. And with every step he took, the darkness that festered away at his heart dissipated upon hearing each note ring clearer, until finally, he stood behind a figure resting high up on a lonely rock, overlooking the vast and endless web of rivers.

He stood himself, on a similar jagged form, with the reflections of the moon on water separating him from the one that created the melody.

How long had he been walking, senseless, that he had forgotten what it was to feel?

The music he heard, breaking the silence of the night and the loudness of his mind like a water drop, made him fall to his knees, his weapon clattering onto the rocks.

For the first time, in the Yaksha's mind, it was quiet.

And the melody soothed over him, a gentle caress. It waited, it coaxed until he let go.

Something dropped into the water below, sending ripples stretching across the entire surface of the water and he saw his own contorted reflection.

A single tear.

That was what it was. It was all he could manage, all he could let go of. Centuries, decades, years of torment and suffering he had endured that escaped him in the form of a single tear.

"Xiao." A word breathed like wind, so light, he could have swore it did not happen at all had it not been for the figure that stood on air in front of him now.

Xiao. A word. No, not any word. His name.

He looked up, as broken and as lost, staring into the glowing eyes of the young figure in front of him.

His hand was outstretched, empty, waiting to be held.

But where would you take me, Xiao wanted to ask.

But at that moment none of it mattered. At that moment, he was not a demon or a Yaksha, not a being that was fighting an invisible war waging within with himself, at the corruption that tore at his heart with every life he slayed.

He was just Xiao. A wandering boy, who knew nothing of a home and what it meant, who had never tasted freedom or smiled upon such.

But as took the hand that was stretched in front of him, the angel that had saved him smiled for he would teach him all those things.

Barbatos, the Free yet Lonely God

There was freedom in being alone. But there was also loneliness that came with being free.

Barbatos knew that the most.

Once he had loved and cherished and once he was much more of a boy than he was. When arrows fell from the sky, like cruel shooting stars that pierced his closest friend's chest... that was Barbatos's first experience with loneliness.

Never before had he had to face such an empty, quiet feeling.

And so he picked up a flute and a lyre who's strings strummed only for him, to fill the strange void he still did not understand, within his heart.

And with a joyous smile, he would be as fleeting as the wind. Why? 

For the God was afraid. Afraid that if he lingered for a second too long, glanced around a moment too much, he would feel the same waves of sorrow that crushed his heart just as they did when he held the body of the boy he no longer had.

And so, Barbatos's second lesson was to grieve before they had even gone. That way, it would not hurt as much when they did.

Each night of the passing of his dear friend, for centuries, would the god rest himself on a small, lone island of stone that jutted from the rivers and he would play the melody that came from his heart, to speak the things he could not say.

A hauntingly sorrowful, yet delicate and light song that was carried away with the wind. Barbatos only hoped his friend, wherever he was now, would hear it.

The night the moon turned vermillion, Barbatos sat on the edge of the rock, legs dangling below. And with routine, lifted his flute worn with time to his lips, closed his eyes and began playing. This night, unlike others, was particularly sorrowful.

His body was never his, but a walking memory and a constant reminder that even though he was a god, the dead could not come back to life.

Each tremor his heart shook with, he played another note. The melody was tentative, hesitant, as if the creator was afraid to reveal too much in case it all came flooding out.

And even though he was the god of freedom, he felt constrained by his own heart.

There was an empty thud from behind him and his eyes opened gently, the stars beginning to appear in the sky, scattered across. So many, yet they were all so far away and alone.

Barbados turned, silent and cast his eyes upon the shadowed figure that had fallen to his knees, the water below him rippling.

Blood marred his arms and clothes, a body that had seen too much, been through more than it should have been.

Are you alone too?

He wanted to ask, but it would have been too cruel of a question.

Of course he was. Not a light stayed by his side and even the night sky above where he sat, was starless.

"Xiao." That was his name. The Rex Lapis had told him once; conqueror of demons, the last and final Yaksha. He looked so alone. Barbatos’s heart throbbed and in the bloodied figure in front of him, saw himself. 

Gently, Barbatos outstretched his hand, watching as the yaksha looked up, eyes widening.

His face was strewn with blood, his hair tinted with crimson.

He stared at the hand, lost and afraid.

Remember, Barbatos's own heart chimed, Grieve. Remember, it chimed, the loneliness.

But when the trembling, blood stained hand slipped into his smooth, pale ones, his heart fell quiet, like the waters and the stars that witnessed their meeting; their beginning.

Where are we going? The question was evident in the troubled eyes of the kneeling figure in front of him and the god smiled, holding the hand tighter, bringing him closer.

Home. He replied. Home together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

authors notes: now cry >:) I hope you enjoyed reading just as much as I enjoyed writing it. my heart also hurts. 

art credits: u/Nyxogan on reddit, tysm 

thank you for reading <3

[sanccharine]

dynasty | ty

royalty au

pairing: queen!tzuyu x gender neutral reader

genre: angst

word count: 0.4k

warnings: brief mentions of blood, war, and colonization

summary: soon to become the ruler of your kingdom, you begin to question your legacy and your future. 

song rec: dynasty by rina sawayama, hence the title

a/n: finally writing AND posting for my bias woop woop! i wrote this for @ficscafe’s first drabble event and admin @masterninjacow​ thanks for beta-reading! this is lowkey inspired by my boi, zuko lol. also @reluvy​ thank you so much for sending your ask ;-;

The elaborate crown of liquid gold and rubies as red as the blood you’ve spilt weighed down on your head. 

For years, you’ve watched your father accomplish what your great-grandfather put in motion. Your belligerent father waged war against neighbouring kingdoms, infiltrated and conquered great nations, and seized power for himself. While your mother stood tall at his side; cold, calculating, and conniving as she charmed her way through her disputes with honeyed words and lavish gifts.

Unfortunately, you were just as filthy as them; tainted and drowning in their wrongdoings with scars equally revolting. 

On this difficult night, your mind was a strange combination of numbing silence, and what followed, a ruinous storm. Your thoughts twisted around fervently as you stayed rooted in a daze; the weight of your choices only burying you deeper into the ground. 

Amongst the swirling darkness that were your thoughts, Princess– Queen Tzuyu’s words shone like a beacon. Powerful and direct, just the way she had admonished you in righteous frustration. 

“I will not make the mistakes my parents made! I will not be your father’s pawn! I am breaking this chain of violence. That is my choice, my dynasty,” she’d declared, nose in the air with a determined gaze. “What choice will you make, Y/N?” 

What your bloodline had spent centuries on, meticulously and delicately constructed, shattered like glass. Absolutely, irrevocably unmendable. Many years of comradeship, built on the blood and bones of innocent souls, demolished with just a few words. 

Tzuyu, as soon as she was pronounced Queen, decided to abolish the allyship with your kingdom, leaving chaos in her wake. Across the nation, devastation reigned as more kingdoms began to leave – some at the borders, ready for battle, and others to never spill blood again. 

However, the common people suffered the most; especially your people. The kingdom that once boasted its militia, filled with aggressive and ambitious folk, was now withering away right alongside your bed-ridden father.

Standing on the balcony of your throne room, you looked down at your enormous kingdom as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Lights began to flicker on as people began heading home, exhausted and terrified of the climate you’d put your nation in. Depressing images of the protests and riots came to mind, the fear of destruction and death knocking at their door.

How will you mend the centuries of mistakes? How will you reverse the trauma and devastation your ancestors spread like a blight? How will you repent for their crimes, as well as yours? 

What choice will you make? 

any feedback is much appreciated.