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imaginesofeverykind · 10 months ago

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Witches Brew ~ Chapter 1

Warnings: HEAVY mentions of blood/gore, magic described as visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, gore themes, Aegon being the epitome of ‘omg i’ll do whatever except tell mum’, Body horror, 18+ Minors DNI

Tags: DnD-Esque style AU, Targaryens aren't royalty but they are Noblefolk, some things are purposefully vague :S :S

Chapter Song: Go Tell Aunt Rhody (RE7 soundtrack) - Michael A. Levine, Jordan Reyne

Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.

Word Count: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

Vicious rapping squanders the peace and quiet of a relatively silent part of the swamp. Moonlight splits off, cutting through the canopy of overgrowth that shields a peculiar abode entangled within the trunk of an elder tree. The crickets sing among the toads’ baritone croaks until they cease, abiding by the loud pounding on the wooden door that barely stays on its hinges, splintering from wood rot.

”Please!”

A guttural plea, desperation lingering atop the vowels. No one ever came to the decrepit hut unless they were on the brink, teetering the veil of life, quite literally on death's door. But death hardly answered, in its wake, oftentimes stood you; for those who braved the trek.

He had almost given up, muscles begging him for rest, for a modicum of reprieve from the toil it took just to arrive at the steps of a stranger's hut. The weight, the pain, it was enough to finally buckle his shaky grime covered knees, splinters embedded themselves into the palms of his hands the moment his hands hit the wood beneath him.

“I need —,” a whimper, is all that managed to escape his throat. His eyes flickered to the body beside him — not body, he wasn’t dead yet — to his brother laying beside him, laboured breaths that sucked through his barred teeth in discomfort.

Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!”

He nearly cowered when the door yanked open, yellow light spilling out into the dark bog from the hearth that roared inside. No one stood in the frame of the door, no one beckoned him inside the derelict home and despite this, he rose to his feet, scraping his newly acquired trousers. There was little energy left in him, just enough to drag the mauled body of his brother - one that inched closer to the afterlife - over the threshold of the hut.

”Sit.”

He spun on his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth when his eyes landed on you, who had appeared, simply materializing from nothing. It was only mere seconds until he was set on you again, a frantic torment that willed him near you, “Hag, you must help him!” Despite his weary disposition, he demanded help.

A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the Kings Road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.

”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid above all.

You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lordling. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.

But he silently obeys, with great effort hauling his brother up on the table and like you had before, appeared behind him as silently as the fog that began to seep through the crack beneath the door. He flinched away instantly, you fought back a sly smirk but your focus was on the man with long matted locks. The hair was a brilliant white, the same as his brothers, identical as the Lord of the closest settlement, but it was marred with the crimson syrup of blood.

You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than that of humans, they threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.

His eye was gone. That was a shame. You were fond of eyes as payment.

”Can you heal him?” The man beside you asked, voice small, almost childlike and feeble. ”Name your price, make him whole again and I’ll — I’ll give you whatever you want. Fix him.” His anguish raked through your ears and rattled against your mind like razor sharp teeth, your neck instinctively lolling from left to right as if to ward off the discomfort that followed.

”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.

“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.

You sigh, turning to face him properly for the first time since he arrived. Violet eyes. Magic touched his very heritage and yet his own kin sought to erase it, the irony was not lost on you. “He will be different.” You say as a warning, a politeness he certainly didn’t deserve yet you gave it anyway.

Anger overcame him, outstretching his hands and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.

The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.

“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.”

Animal. As if you were no longer good enough to be likened to a person, a human person capable of human things. ‘They fear what they cannot control,’ the voice is recalled into your mind, a vague memory of the past resurfacing as though it meant to reassure you.

Your lips twist into an awry smirk, and the second he blinks you have once again dissolved through his hands like an apparition. Reappearing by his brother's side, sliced hand outstretched to let your own blood drip tantalizingly slow over the unconscious man’s face.

In your other hand is a surprisingly ornate steel flask, an eyesore amongst the natural clutter. Whatever liquid you have delicately poured down the man’s throat is sanguine, syrupy thick like honey. You sense there is something not quite right mere seconds before the man begins to convulse violently, gasping for air that he cannot breathe.

”What have you done?!” Nostrils flared and ire rising, the able bodied one charged toward you like a boar gone rabid.

You grew tired of his impetulant outbursts, whispering a soft incantation with hurried hand flourishes and his movements ceded. Burnt into the wooden boards around his feet, still smoking with specks of orange embers were runes, etched into a circle. Something felt off, the air reeked of acrid mildew mixed with copper and you knew instantly what triggered the reaction.

Ignoring the binded man’s threats you let the magic sing to you, caress you, consume you while softly speaking in a forgotten and forbidden tongue.

The windows and door fly open, inviting in a malstrom of wind, tempestuous and bludgeoning, the centre it wishes to converge is at the body on the table still choking, still clawing at himself for air. His spirit dwindles at every garbled breath but you sense his will and you could feel his fight, he was a warrior through and through even in the face of imminent mortal peril. Not many of those who seek you, offer the same resoluteness.

The older brother is driven to shield his face from the vacuum of wind battering him against the unseen magical force which keeps him in place. Fear was evident in his eyes, perhaps even a touch of regret and guilt though you don’t linger too long as you shout a final mantra, holding both your forearms with formidable strength that is unbroken until the last word passes your lips, you break your grasp.

And then suddenly, the gale force of destruction dissipates.

Silence follows. And you are sat beside the young brother, placing a paste across the part of his face which had been torn away viciously. “What attacked him?” It was the first time you had spoken so directly, but it was because you knew the answer, the nobleman before you couldn’t possibly know what lurked through the mangroves and stalked beneath the stillwater.

He doesn’t appear to comprehend the question at first, muttering to himself a litany of false truths to explain what had happened right in front of him. His very own trembling brings him back from his prison of thoughts as his gaze lifts cautiously to meet yours, “a Direwolf.”

“How did you know it was a Direwolf?” You ask instantly, predicting that he would say as much. No matter, you step over to the cabinet that housed jars filled with all sorts of assorted components for potion making or spell casting, the moon light coming through the window casting an eerie shadow on the workspace.

”What else do you call a giant fucking wolf, what does it matter?” He grew restless again.

You dripped a small phial of black liquid into the mortar filled with other ingredients with great haste, eyes curiously peering out the window looking at the moon as you grimly sigh and mix together what’s been obtained. “It matters,” you grit, trying to grind the remainder of the paste, “the difference between a Direwolf and what attacked him is an exceptionally vindictive blood curse.”

He blinked at you, “what?”

You discard the mortar and cross the room swiftly, shelves littered with bones, glowing rocks and a variety of ceremonial looking daggers. Though magic and its very history were being erased by the ‘new god’, you still hoped those within the settlement weren’t entirely sheltered.

“He will know no master lest it is the moon, he will know no anger stronger than wrath, he will know only pain and isolation.”

The expression that fell across his face told you all that was needed; He understood fully what was at stake, just as you had moments before. Though his resolve hardened and he met your gaze once more, “cure him. Whatever it takes, I do not care!” Both of you knew he was in no position to demand, not when he was still held in place by unseen magic and you had proven many times how easily it was to simply disappear.

And that is what you did, if only briefly, shooting him a coy smile before vanishing and leaving him in ruination for the moment. In the silence, forced to look at his brother made his lip tremble. He hoarsely called out to him, shaky words choking in half sobs to beckon him awake and rip him from unconsciousness to no avail.

”He’s not here,” You softly say, causing him to jump when you reappear and brush past him. “His soul is in limbo, he won’t hear you.” But I can, you think, the energy sings to your soul in a gentle hymn and your blood sings back to it. In your hand a lock of silver hair clasped in your fist, having come from where you disappeared to, though it caused immediate alarm for the man.

He pointed a finger at your hand and grimaced, his bottom lip still trembling but no longer from hopelessness. Though he doesn’t ask the question out loud, you know what he’s thinking and you were certain he wouldn’t like the answer regardless of how you explained it.

“Whatever it takes,” you gently repeated his words and it was enough to silence him, for far longer than you thought was possible. Though the silence was welcomed, encouraging concentration while you handled the spellcraft with the care and love that had been taught to you. The woman in your memory that provided warmth and affection was not your mother by blood and yet she lived through your very essence as if she were.

She was there with every spell, whispering gently and coaxing a power buried deep within you. She was in the walls of the hut, imbuing you with much needed protection from creatures and men. And she was here, watching you through omniscient delight as you dedicated part of your essence to a stranger and his injured brother.

The serenity only just takes the edge of tension away, as if you weren’t tending to the impossible feat of near resurrection and stitching a man whole together once more. Life was fragile, mortality was inevitable even to those who yearn against it but magic could manipulate it enough even if it took great energy. It wasn’t without drawbacks, though. Transactional in nature, to undo what has been done required blood magic, the type of magic you were versed well in but it almost always came with consequence.

’What is taken, must be given back’ the words of your ‘mother’ echoed superfluously everytime your duty required meddling with the laws of nature. Perhaps that was why many travelers or townsfolk revered you as a hag, if not for the way you dressed or looked or lived, then for your duty as an indiscriminate arbiter of unfairness and misfortune.

Magic was fair, balanced and it obeyed karmic laws, this was why you cradled such energy. Life was not, it was often unfair and that much had been made clear the moment your real mother left you in a swamp to be taken by whatever monsters prowled in search for their next meal.

So you do what needed to be done - if only a little self serving to you personally but - you give back the injured man what had been clawed away and take something from his family locked away in their fortress within the walls of their beloved township. Not without a final twist in the knife for the older brother who demanded your help many hours ago. Appearing beside him like a shade, gripping his wrist abruptly and slicing a line across his palm to draw blood.

He attempted to fight back but he was bound, he could only wince and complain while you squeezed the blood into a medium phial. When you had finished, he snatched his hand back, holding it to his chest as if to soothe the pain and grimaced at you almost childishly, “you could’ve asked.”

A faint smile tickles the corner of your lips, though it was no matter of if his words were amusing or his mannerism when he calmed down were fascinating, there was still a task at hand.

The final part of the brutal rite fell appropriately on the witching hour, where the crow sings thrice while the moon is still high. To complete everything, you dropped several dribbles of the brother's blood into the injured’s mouth and finished off your words of sacrilege.

”He will recover,” You announce, finally after what seemed like hours upon hours of the sounds of your transfixed mumblings and careful spell work.

The man hadn’t heard you at first, in fact he had barely registered the runic circle by his feet had disappeared quite some time ago which meant he was no longer bound in place yet he still remained as if he were. But the only thing that broke him from his trance had been the shallow breath followed by his younger brother lurching forward in a confused panic.

No longer was his face torn, eye gouged, the only indication of that was the faint pink scar that remained. His eyes — both, set on you and he surged forward straight toward your neck. Not that you could blame him for being in such a state, though it would be rather humorous to allow him to indulge in his urges and let him throttle you, you step out of his reach like an alluring treat that only served to frustrate him.

The older one flung himself forward, fretting over the younger and the tension immediately dispersed into quaint relief. Though it lasted no longer than a matter of moments, chaos stalked the two like they were messengers from the god of chaos himself, the energy between them repelling from one another like static in a storm. You could merely watch on in light amusement at the bickering duo.

“— I already think so low of you and yet you exceed expectations once more. Bringing me to this devil whisperer's den?!”

”Well I was simply not going to bring you home marked and dying!”

“If you must lie that you care for me dear brother, at least have the conviction to not pretend you had my interests at heart when we both know you wish to save your skin. Now I have to explain to mother why I stench of sin.”

You laughed, quite loudly it had broken the two from grappling one another to look over. The glimpses of lives you often see when people stop by are often times quite enlightening, just as it appeared in the present between two quarrelling brothers. One who thirsts for recognition and appreciation while the other wishes to disappear and fade to obscurity.

“Do we amuse you, hag?” The younger ones eyes set on you, his grimace was apparent as he did little to hide his contempt.

“Quite.” You hum, barefoot toes curling into the splintered wood while thinking aimlessly. No words followed, not when your gaze cast on the elder who had gone a shade lighter in his face, his limbs beginning to quake and tremble. Cracked lips curling into a smile as you watch him collapse to the floor, writhing in what one could assume was unrelenting pain, the type of pain that embedded itself into a person.

“Aegon — Brother!” The younger falls to his brothers side and you watch curiously, how interesting the dynamic was between the brothers. Their resentment ran deep yet there was still a matter of love beneath it, a bond that weaved itself between them despite such obtuse differences.

The younger was furious, shooting his deadly gaze at you with nostrils flared and he lunged at you, this time for mere entertainment, you let his hands wrap around your neck and press you hard against the cabinet. “You fucking monster! What have you done to me! To him?!” He spat, rightfully so, you thought that someone as pious as him would befall such a fate, though from the little information you’ve gathered on the two, Aegon — as you now know him — did not share such piety.

A weary smirk pulled at the corner of your lips, choking out, “I am no monster, little lordling though it pleases me so, to bestow a mark on your family who seeks to reject their very own heritage.”

The screams and pleas of Aegon in the background fuelled this one’s anger, “we’ll have you burnt for that —“ His hands tighten their grip, leaving you to his mercy for now in his hands like a ragdoll force to move at his whim, jerking you forward and then slamming you back into the cabinet. Glass shattered from the impact around the both of you but your focus remained on him, the only thing to do in the instance was laugh and so you did.

“Quite the ferocious brute you are — you’d have made a fine servant to the moon, though I cannot say the same about your brother.” His hands squeezed down on your windpipe with malicious intent but you remain unperturbed despite the immense pressure building within your head. Like a bubble about to burst.

The elders' whimpers of pain droned on in the background, mixing into the symphony of nature that carried on throughout the marsh. You had a little too much fun toying with people, if they were to treat you a certain way, who were you to not at least get amusement from it?

You laughed, bringing a fist full of powder up and flicking it in his face before disappearing through his fingertips like grains of sand. The powder served distraction enough, staggering him back and you silently thank your motherly figure for always ensuring you carried turmeric. Even if it was to ward off bad spirits only.

When you reappeared, your lips barely skimming the shell of Aegon’s ear as you whisper a soft incantation, it felt lewd and profane but at once his pain ceased. The wrinkling in his forehead and face softened while beads of sweat trickled downward, threatening to sully his eyesight by falling into it.

In your hand was the phial of blood you had taken from Aegon, the other held the scruff of his neck. His brother only just recovered from having powder flung in his face, the searing and burning had barely stopped when his eyes settled on you, hovering over Aegon like an enchantress with ill intent.

You crushed the phial in your hands, glass cutting the insides of your palm mixing two bloods together, placing your bloodied hand to Aegon’s sweaty forehead and began muttering swift words. You turned to the younger one, haggard and crazed with a look in your eye that seemed to elicit fear in both of them, raising a clawed hand up you pointing directly at him.

“I have done what is asked of me, to unmark and unburden you. And the cost has been paid. He —“ you look down at Aegon’s fearful eyes, and something in your mind whispers to you to show mercy, it is not your voice, rather hers the one who taught you the ways of magic, “he may now be a servant of the moon but he is bound to me. Every lunar cycle when the moon is at its fullest he must come to me lest he be made an example from the zealot’s who poison your minds with promises of false salvation and piety.” You were still rather on the theatrical side, not truly enforcing a blood bind on him. And yet, it had the desired effect. Fear.

“And if he doesn’t?” The younger asks in mock defiance, serving as a mask to hide the fear so prevalent in his eyes.

“Then when you pray at night you better hope your false god listens.”

——— Taglist ———

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged for the next update! :D

@karlachs-soldier

#imagines #imagine #fanfiction #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon

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winged-self-indulgence · 8 months ago

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Sacrifice!MC where I blinked and suddenly I had 1.7K words of whatever this is. I am definitely going to edit this later

It was dark, wherever you were. Wherever those masked cultists had brought you.

Shadows hid the dilapidated surroundings, held back only by the truly impressive array of Bath and Body Work candles and the scarce moonlight shining in through the shattered roof. Still, it was barely enough to illuminate the room you were in, but you could tell what it was. Or at least, what it used to be: the remains of an old church chapel. A burned-out husk of its former saving glory, with broken statuettes of angels strewn across the floor and the disfigured images of saints left dangling on the soot-stained walls. What little stone that hadn’t been obscured by decades of ash and grime was completely covered in layers of fresh graffiti. Pentacles, upside down crosses, magic staves, someone’s brave attempt at an ouroboros encircling a moon. Whatever cult had taken you; they clearly hadn’t been at this very long.

You strained against the ropes binding your arms to the corners of the low altar, but they held. Your fingers were bruised raw from struggling to untie the knots, but every time you felt the loops give one of the cultists would march over and redo them with a sort of nervous efficiency. Eventually you’d given up, vowing to at least wait until they left. Even if you’d managed to escape, you didn’t fancy your odds against five other people. Especially when one of them was holding a knife.

It was a strange instrument, a scarlet blade jutting out from an obsidian-black hilt. There was a pommel at the end that looked as though something had been carved onto it. Though you were wary of the blade, it didn’t seem like they were planning on killing you with it. You’d heard something about a sacrifice, demonic affinity, and yadda yadda unlimited wealth, insane riches, convincing their ex to get back together, etc. etc.

So, these clowns, whoever they were, planned to leave you tied up in this gross place as a snack for some demon? Fuck that. As soon as these weirdoes were gone you planned on getting out no matter what, even if you had to chew your bindings off. That still didn’t stop the thrum of panic when the one with the knife ran its edge over your throat and added your blood to the strange symbol encircling the stone slab. Finally, they called out for something in clumsy Latin while the other four made low humming sounds that reminded you more of being in a yoga class than at the center of a diabolical summoning ritual.

Perhaps they didn’t want to stay and watch you get eaten (cowards. At least commit to the experience). Perhaps leaving you was part of the rules. Regardless, soon you were alone in the dark and about to resume your struggle when one of the candles in the corner flickered. You froze, heartbeat ratcheting up when the flame sputtered once, twice, and then died.

As though that was a signal, every single candle in the room began to die. One by one, a cascade of inky blackness and scented grey smoke invaded the temple. You stared up at the ceiling, trying to force yourself to stay calm, to breathe normally. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe it was the wind-

You gave yourself a mental slap before the thought could complete itself. That was literally how people died in horror movies!

“Ha, it worked!”

You shrieked at the strange voice, eyes promptly darting to the source whereupon another scream began to build up in your throat. Up in the rafters crouched a monstrous creature, all red skin and short horns that curled up into pronged tips. Black, bat-like wings stretched upwards, partly blocking the moon. A nasty snarling smirk curved across its thin mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth and a line of drool dripping from the corner.

The creature jumped down, landing right at the side of the altar, salivating at your prone form while your mind struggled to make sense of this impossibility. You flinched away from the taloned hands, grimacing in disgust when the – demon? Demon – stuck out a slimy tongue and dragged it up the side of your face as though it were savoring you.

“Stupid little humans,” they cackled. “So ready and willing to believe anything from a creature they don’t even understand. If all it takes is a few empty promises, I’ll soon have legions of human servants willing to sell their souls to me–!”

“Ah, I wondered what was going on.”

Like a radio being switched off, the demon above you went silent. No, they literally froze in place. Terrified as you were, an irrepressibly curious part of you couldn’t help but crane your neck as far as the ropes would allow in order to peek behind them and see who was speaking.

They…looked normal. A tall, masculine frame draped in relatively casual clothing. Chestnut brown hair covered most of their face, fading into mahogany at the edges, and revealing only a pair of plump lips stretched in an easy and undoubtedly dangerous smirk. Aside from the black choker around their throat and the array of rings decorating their fingers, this person looked completely ordinary.

Yet, as soon as they spoke, the demon that had been menacing you just a scant second ago began to back away, nearly tripping over their own feet and wings to put distance between themselves and the lazily approaching figure. “L-Lord Zion! I only uh–! I was just…! Th-This was simply a test, you see!”

“Hm?” The person – the other demon? – cocked their head, the smile never leaving their face. Now that they were closer, you could see that the thing moving behind them was a tail. Spade-shaped and blood red as it flicked back and forth in lazy arcs. Those fingers, heavy with silver jewelry, were tipped with viciously sharp talons that they raised to tap their chin in a mockingly thoughtful manner. “Go on.”

“I-It was to see how easily humans could be manipulated!” The other demon stuttered, eyes darting around the room for some escape. When those eyes landed on you, your heart sank as you realized exactly what was going to happen a second before they spoke. “In fact, I was planning to give you this sacrifice! Consider it a token of my loyalty!”

The demon – Lord Zion they’d said – turned to you as though they had just noticed your presence in the room. Your eyes met through the gloom, and in spite of your fear you couldn’t help but think that their eyes were beautiful. Burning coals, molten flame encased behind amber, a heat that threatened to devour you whole. Those eyes widened through the haze of hair, and in a second the demon was looming over you with the toothiest smile you’d ever seen outside of a shark.

“Well, well, well,” they cooed, admiring you with the sort of fervent obsession one might give to a work of art. A hand brushed through your hair, across your temple, before cupping your cheek. “What have we here? Aren’t you precious, hm? Aw, did that mean demon frighten you, little human? There, there.”

The words and tone were condescending, but you weren’t exactly flush with options, and at least this demon didn’t seem inclined to eat you. You winced when their hold on you shifted, and their wrist brushed against the open would on your neck. Like clockwork, their eyes snapped to the line of blood sluggishly pooling in the hollow of your collar.

“Oh you poor thing,” the demon tipped your head to the side, the strength behind a single finger making it clear that you wouldn’t have been able to resist them even if you’d wanted to try. “Let me…”

A surprised whimper broke past your lips. A long tongue trailed its way up the side of your throat, lapping over your skin as though your blood were some delicious treat. Honey-sweet instead of the tang of bitter copper. Those lips latched onto your flesh, nuzzling and nipping while you thrashed and struggled to tamp down the unholy noises emanating from both of you. The sounds of sucking, saliva, lips smacking, you would have thought the demon was enjoying the finest of meals if not for your own high-pitched moans, wails, and pleas.

Finally the demon pulled himself back with a gasp, a feral grin carving his face in a truly infernal mien. “Oh. Oh, I am never letting go of you, Dove.”

“D-Does that mean I’m free to go?”

Your face erupted with heat. You’d forgotten that the other demon was still there. Judging by the irritated expression that crossed Lord Zion’s face, they’d forgotten as well.

They exhaled a long, loud sigh, and then snapped their fingers. In an instant, a bubbling mass of shadows rose beneath the demon’s feet. Slowly, exponentially, they began to sink into the murk like quicksand. “Let me see,” Lord Zion hummed thoughtfully. “You planned to overthrow me, attempted to manipulate humans in my name, and even used my symbol as part of the ritual? All while believing I would never learn of your weak attempts to usurp my throne? For your crimes, you ought to be tortured and slaughtered in front of my court.”

“M-My Lord, I was only–!”

“However,” Lord Zion cut them off, lips twisting in a sadistic smile. One that gained a hint of softness when they looked at you. A clawed finger played with a lock of your hair, twisting it gently before moving to undo your bindings. “Your one redeeming outcome is finding my human for me. So I shall be merciful in return. Pick one.”

“One?” The demon stammered, now only a head straining to stay afloat above the burbling gloom. “O-One what?”

“I said I was planning to kill and torture you, didn’t I?” Lord Zion said placidly, finishing with the ropes and hooking their arms beneath your exhausted body. You leaned against them, unable to even complain about being held bridal style. “So pick one. Think carefully though. Neither will be quick.”

#favor vn #i need to stop doing this at 2am. whatever demon possesses me to write needs to develop healthier sleep habits

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di-writes-stuff · 1 year ago

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Cowboy Like Me

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Chapter 1

TW: Mentions of bl00d and canon typical weapons. Literally nothing else.

A/N: Okay, I’ve had this idea swirling around for a while, so this should be fun. Buckle up, hoes.

Never had there been a town so poorly named as Valentine. It was far too romantic, far too sweet for the drunk addled pigsty that lay before Arthur Morgan.

He’d never liked going into towns. The judgmental passersby. The beggars. The hookers. The adulterous fools stumbling drunkenly out of saloons with them. Not to mention the sheriffs and bounty hunters lurking in the shadows. The ones that always seem to be searching for a face on a poster that looks an awful lot like him.

His feet sink a good inch or two into the mud that makes up the ground in Valentine as he makes his way to the general store. If he had enough money to buy nice boots, he would have been annoyed at the way the grime sticks to them. But, it’s just another addition to the layers of dirt, grass, and blood that adorn the leather.

Clouds cover the sky, leaving the whole town darkened, only adding to the unfortunate scenery before him as he walks up the wooden excuse of a sidewalk to the store. He’s not here to buy anything, of course. No, he’s here to find something.

A target.

A good hit. It’s what Dutch has been talking about for months now. Just one good hit. That’s all they need. A jackpot in the world of thieves and liars. And of course, in a town like this, lips are loosened by easy trust. A foolish belief that nobody around them could possibly be listening. Watching. Waiting.

Except, that’s exactly what he plans to do. Sit on a bench with a hat over his eyes and wait. Wait to hear about some rich uncle not to far away, or a train from down South full of land owners ripe for robbing.

It’s not his favorite way to spend his days, far from it. Arthur’s only hope is that the payoff from whatever he finds will make up for it. As he steps up the first stair to the patio of the general store, a small can rolls past his feet. He bends down to grab it quickly, standing back up straight and seeing you.

And because as much as he might look in the mirror and see an animal, he is still a man, he notices. Admires the fact that you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen in a long time.

And because he is not only a man, but a man easily charmed by your pretty smile and bright eyes, the faintest blush rises on his cheeks as you bid your thanks in a soft voice.

“‘Course, ma’am.” He manages to keep his voice steady for those two words as you take back the can.

And because you are a woman, you look, and you admire. Admire his cerulean eyes, and the small smile that plays on his chapped lips as he looks down at you.

Before he knows it you’re walking away, leaving his eyes to trail after your figure before remembering the task at hand. He quickly clears his throat, embarrassed for no real reason. Maybe just because he acted like a person instead of the threat Dutch has so carefully carved him to be.

It doesn’t take very long for the image of the pretty girl with the plaid dress to leave his mind when he hears a couple of women discussing exactly what he’d been looking for.

A rich man named Mr. Mallory that just moved in not to far away, buying up a house that’d been vacant for years since nobody could afford the enormous property. But, the land was profitable, and the house was large. Perfect for a single man eager to flaunt his wealth.

And the perfect target for Arthur. He’d never felt particularly bad about robbing the rich. They’ve got plenty to share, and most don’t come about their money in the kindest of ways. Especially not men from out east, which is exactly what this one sounds like.

He holds back a judgmental scoff as he hears one of the women detailing the directions to the house, as the other plans on welcoming him to the community. And if Arthur knows people, which he does, her visit is probably in hopes of marrying him. Not for love, of course. For money, more of it than somebody will ever need or use. And for status. The two desires Arthur hates most.

What a fool. He thinks to himself as he adjusts on the bench, sunlight finally peaking out from behind the clouds.

Except he’s become a fool too, of his own kind. Because the thing Arthur doesn’t notice is the other person lingering nearby. Listening. Watching. Waiting. He doesn’t notice the way her ears perk up at the sound of a good payoff. Of a guiltless robbery.

He doesn’t notice you.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Normally you would have stayed in the town for longer, soaked up the sunshine of the unusually warm spring you’re having. But today is not just any day. Today, you have work.

The windows of your small house are flung open to allow in the crisp air as you lay the food you bought onto the table hurriedly. You only notice the can that rolled onto the floor when it occurs to you that it was the same one as earlier. The one the man with the pretty eyes had picked up for you.

The coincidence is disregarded quickly as you pick it up, tossing it back onto the table before hurrying to your room. It’s getting late, and you need time to plan before you head out. You’d already ridden out to the house, and a rough sketch of the layout sits in your notebook.

Unlike Arthur, the man you don’t yet know, you were listening to the women long before any rich man was mentioned. The accents they spoke with caught your attention, clearly some kind of eastern. Their voices came with a certain coldness that you’ve yet to find out west.

Either way, that coupled with the quality of the clothes that adorned their bodies told you they were wealthy. And you were right.

You always are.

And if you’re assuming correctly, which you almost always do, the man they spoke of is also from out east. Meaning Mr. Mallory doesn’t yet know to lock his doors and keep a rifle beside his bed. Even if he did, the rich bastard probably wouldn’t know how to use the thing.

But you, you do. And if he happens to wake up while you work, he’ll learn that soon enough. You quickly change into a blouse and pants, leaving the dress you’d worn into town today abandoned on your bed.

The plan is finished quickly enough, as there’s plenty of entrances into the house to choose from if the front door’s locked. Now comes the part you hate the most. The part where no matter how rich the man you’re about to rob is, no matter how perfectly fine he’ll be despite the loss, guilt sets in.

This is when you wait. Because a woman riding on her own horse, in her own pants, with a mask over her face in broad daylight isn’t a sight that goes without notice.

It’s not as if you wanted this life. But, between selling your body and thieving, you’d choose the latter again and again. Of course, you could get married. Settle down. Have children. And that all sounds so pretty, so sweet in your mind.

If only the husband wasn’t necessary. The oppressive, aggressive, boring, utterly vacant husband that every married woman seems to be saddled with these days. That reality, over everything else. That, you refuse.

Day shifts to night as you leave your house, climb onto your horse, and set off to pay Mr. Mallory a visit.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Arthur sits, crouched in the grass as he waits for the light to go out in Mr. Mallory’s window. The robbery was going to be easy, that is until he realized that his target happens to enjoy late nights. It’s damn near one in the morning, and the bastard is still up doing God knows what.

A sigh slips from Arthur’s lips as his attention shifts to the horse tied to the porch railing. It’s a bit odd that the steed was just left out front for anybody to steal, and if it seemed to be a valuable one, Arthur would have done just that.

But, it’s simple. Looks to be a Kentucky Saddler, nothing he couldn’t find a few miles out, grazing in a field. Also odd, considering how much money this man seems to have. The peculiarities leave his mind in an instant as the front door creeks open, a small, lithe figure slipping out.

A figure that most certainly isn’t Mr. Mallory. It’s a woman, quick eyes darting back and forth to check for anybody watching. Her gaze eventually lands on Arthur, and a finger comes up to her masked face in a “shush” motion. His mouth falls open slightly as the stranger mounts her horse and rides away, a sack filled with all the riches Arthur missed out on slung over her shoulder.

A twinge of prideful envy hits him as he realized he’s been beat. He watches the mysterious woman as darkness engulfs her, trying to place the sense of familiarity he felt as her eyes met his.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

There’s a smile on your face as you spend a bit of your well earned money in town the next morning. Not just from the wildly successful robbery that you’d managed to pull off while Mr. Mallory was awake. No, the image of the man waiting still lingers in your mind.

It was the man with the pretty eyes, the one whose chivalry had made you blush mere hours before you bested him at his own sport. A cool breeze hits you as you step out of the general store into the warm air, a bag with a new vest and pair of boots slung over your arm.

Arthur walks across the street, still brooding about the robbery that’d been stolen from him the night before. The worst part is the sense of admiration he can’t help but feel. Mr. Mallory had been awake, walking around, and still oblivious to the fact that he was being robbed.

That takes skill, one that Arthur isn’t even sure he possesses. It’s the very reason he’d waited outside, all but letting you do the job for him.

A small bell rings as you leave the general store, and Arthur’s head turns in the direction of the noise. Recognition flickers in his eyes as he takes you in, first as the woman that he’d picked up the can for, and then…

“My God…” He whispers to himself as you smirk at him, crossing the road to stand in front of him, pride coming off of you in waves.

Bright eyes look up at him, the same ones he’d admired in the day, and the ones that he’d recognized for only a moment in the night, too short for him to realize who it’d been. Your lips curl into a smile as your hand reaches up to touch his broad should while you walk past him.

Words escape him as you lean up, your lips close to his ear as you whisper. “Better luck next time.” You walk away promptly, only looking back once to throw that dazzling grin his way again as he turns around to watch you.

He should be annoyed. Angered at your pride. At your gall to rub salt in his wound by acknowledging what you’d both already realized.

Yet, the smallest of smiles that appears on his face defies all that should be true, the breeze seeming to replicate the sound of your voice in his ear as he watches you until you’re a small blip in the distance.

A/N: Okay, this is really long, but first chapters always are. Hope y’all enjoyed, I’ll probably have the second one up pretty quick.

- di <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #rdr #rdr1 #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 1 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan rdr2

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theherosvillain · 5 months ago

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8: Welcome to the end of eras

Previous - Masterpost - Next

Vale lived in a penthouse on the top floor of his headquarters. The place was shiny and modern and reeked of wealth. The living room alone was almost as big as my house (not that my house was very big, but still), and the spired glass chandelier hanging above it must have cost more than my aunt’s car. There was a glossy grand piano that looked as though it had never been played, behind an angular leather couch that seemed too expensive to actually sit on. Other than the museum-esque, do-not-touch living room, there was a dining room that seated a dozen but likely only ever saw one, a state-of-the-art kitchen straight out of a home design catalogue, and a second floor balcony that led to four bedrooms, only one of which was occupied. At least, up until now.

Vale opened the bedroom door and flicked on the lights, and I gaped. The room was huge. Plate-glass windows dominating one wall, a queen-sized bed barely taking up its own side of the room, and opposite that, doors to what must have been a bathroom and a walk-in closet. The floors were marble (fucking marble, in a bedroom). It looked like a five-star hotel suite, complete with a total lack of personal affect. I couldn’t imagine myself living here.

It took me a moment to register that Vale was speaking. “—leave you to get cleaned up. There are some clean clothes in there, but we’ll have to find you a more permanent wardrobe soon.” His gaze flicked judgmentally down to my tattered jeans and grimy hoodie.

My face burned. “There’s nothing wrong with how I dress.” True, I was a villain on a budget, and it wasn’t glamorous. But with the shit I got up to, I managed to ruin my villain getups pretty regularly. It wasn’t worth investing in anything nicer than what was available at the thrift store. And, also, he was the reason I hadn’t changed clothes in several days, so he didn’t get to complain.

Vale looked doubtful. “I have an image to upkeep, and so do you. You’ll get a new wardrobe soon.” Before I could protest, he turned away. “Come downstairs when you’re done. Dinner will be ready soon.” I bit my tongue as he left me alone.

The bathroom was cavernous, and despite the lack of windows, I felt utterly exposed. I showered quickly, wincing at the sting of soap and hot water over reopened scabs, pointedly not looking down at the extensive bruising on my ribs. Despite the physical pain and the uncomfortably barren bathroom, it was a relief to wash off the grime of the past few days.

Had it only been a few days? It felt like so much longer. My thoughts flickered to how things must be going at home—my aunt freaking out, my friends worrying … Had anyone told my mom about my disappearance—?

My stomach flipped. I twisted the shower knob to cold so I could pretend thatwas why my hands were shaking, and I let the water wash the thoughts away.

The bathroom counter had more space than any one person could possibly need, and it was empty except for a first-aid kit and a stack of clean clothes. I cleaned and bandaged everything that needed it before getting dressed. The clothes were brand new, simple but clearly expensive, which I sensed was the theme in Vale’s house. Everything was slightly too big, and I rolled up the waistband and shirt sleeves so they wouldn’t get in my way. The scent and feel of stiff, unwashed fabric had my skin crawling. I’d felt clean for a few precious moments after showering, but putting on these unfamiliar clothes made me feel grimy all over again.

I glanced at my old clothes, which I’d left in a heap on the floor, but there was no way I could justify putting them back on. They desperately needed to be washed; plus—and I hated that this had to factor into my decisions now—Vale wouldn’t like it if I showed up to dinner wearing my old clothes again. Even knowing that, I was hyper-aware of each shift of unfamiliar cloth against my skin as I reluctantly left the bedroom and headed downstairs.

I couldn’t shake the churning feeling in my stomach as I crossed the vast living room and passed the threshold to the dining room. The dread felt irrational. In the past few days, I’d been kidnapped, beaten, and had my life turned upside down several times over. Having dinner with Vale shouldn’t have felt like the worst of it. And yet I felt vaguely ill, my palms sweating as I spotted him sitting at the head of the table. He wasn’t wearing his blazer anymore, just a white dress shirt and a loosened tie. It was weird to see him without it, like seeing a turtle outside of its shell.

The opposite end of the table was the only other place that was set. It was ridiculously cliché to be sitting at two ends of such a long, empty table, but I was just relieved that I didn’t have to sit any closer to him. “Do the clothes fit?” he asked.

I shrugged, fidgeting with my rolled-up sleeves to avoid eye contact. “They’re a little big.”

He frowned, and I wondered what criteria he’d even used to guess the sizing. “Well, Hilma can take your measurements tomorrow.”

I don’t want Hilma to take my goddamn measurements, I thought, feeling childishly stubborn about it. If I had to work for Vale and live in his stupid fucking penthouse, I at least wanted to pick my own wardrobe. Better yet, I wanted to be at my own house, wearing my own goddamnclothes.

But I didn’t say that out loud. If I opened my mouth now, I had no idea what might come out of it, and I was too exhausted to risk pissing Vale off.

The kitchen doorway swung open. Vale’s housekeeper, Hilma—because of course he had a housekeeper; Vale was rich and important, but I guess someone had to do the chores—arrived silently, carrying two plates of food. She placed the first in front of Vale, since he was closest. He didn’t even acknowledge her. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but I found myself judging him for it. I hoped her paycheck was large enough to make up for his ungratefulness.

Hilma crossed the room and placed the second plate in front of me. “Thank you,” I said quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her nod. She didn’t look the least bit surprised, but then, she’d maintained a poker face when Vale had introduced me earlier, too, despite my days-without-showering crustiness. In any case, she left the dining room quickly, the door swinging shut behind her.

My stomach felt like a hollow pit as I stared at the plate in front of me. The food looked restaurant-quality, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the fork. My skin itched beneath my stupidly expensive clothes, and even though I didn’t look up, I felt the weight of Vale’s gaze on me. Did he expect me to speak? I couldn’t bear to hold a casual conversation with him. “You should eat,” he said finally. “You must be hungry.”

“I’m not.” My stomach chose that moment to growl.

He sighed, having the nerve to sound annoyed. “Phantom.”

I gripped the edge of the table. I couldn’t look at him. I was afraid that if I looked at him, all the rage simmering under the surface would burst out of me, and I couldn’t afford for that to happen. I took a deep breath and counted up to fifteen, slowly, reminding myself of the consequences that an outburst would bring.

Vale began speaking, sounding as though he were choosing his words carefully. “I realize that this is going to be an adjustment for you—”

I couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that escaped my mouth. “You fucking think so? You kidnapped me, and now you’re making me live with you—” I cut myself off before I could say anything worse, feeling as though my grip could snap the solid mahogany table in half.

When I hazarded a glance at Vale, he looked unfazed. “Are you finished?” he asked flatly.

All thoughts of not making things worse flew out of my head. “Fuck you.”

His eyes narrowed, and my heart leapt into my throat. “Just this once, I will let that slide,” he said. “I recognize that this is difficult for you”—the understatement of the century, although I managed not to point this out—“but I expect you to settle in sooner rather than later.”

Another threat piled on top of the rest. Adapt, or else. I didn’t fucking want to. I didn’t want to stay here long enough for this to become my life, because this wasn’t my life. I had no desire to stay here long enough to become the type of person who was okaywith all this. I didn’t want to be his apprentice, his son, and holding onto my somewhat petty defiance felt like the only way to keep it from taking root.

I took a deep, deep breath, struggling against the stream of insults that threatened to explode out of me. Before I could formulate a response, Vale continued. “Give it time. You’re more resilient than you think. In the meantime, try not to make yourself more miserable than you have to be.” He nodded to my untouched plate. “Eat. That’s an order.”

I wondered, for a brief moment of white-hot rage, whether my telekinesis could break the dining table, or maybe shatter those huge windows overlooking the city. Then I forced myself to pick up my fork. It pissed me off that he was ordering me to eat, but even I had to admit that starving myself wouldn’t do any good. “Fine��yes, sir,” I corrected myself, miraculously speaking the words without gagging on them.

Vale looked, if not pleased with me, then at least placated by my cooperation. He made no further attempts to speak, and though it didn’t make the skin-crawly, visceral wrongness of the situation go away, it made it a hair more tolerable. I managed to choke down enough food to justify excusing myself, and then headed back up to the bedroom.

It was so empty that the sound of the door closing actually echoed. It made me flinch as I turned to face the room, which was about as personable as a dentist’s office—a very fancy one, but nonetheless, not a place where I wanted to live.

I frowned when I saw a folded set of pajamas at the end of the bed. Hilma hadn’t passed through the dining room at all during dinner, and I’d thought the only way upstairs was through the living room. There must have been a back way. What was it called, a servant’s stairway? Like in an old mansion? Because of course Vale could afford stairs just for his housekeeper. Fucking rich people.

I didn’t want to get changed just yet, but I didn’t know what to do with myself. I paced the length of the room once or twice, confirming that it was just as unnecessarily huge as I thought. I closed the curtains to hide the dizzying view of the city, which gave me some measure of relief. And that was about it. With no personal affects to fiddle around with, there was nothing for me to do except sit here and think, and that was just intolerable.

Then it occurred to me that I could try to scrub the blood and sweat out of my hoodie and jeans. I headed for the bathroom—only to find that the spot where I’d left my rumpled pile of clothes was now empty. I froze, staring at the floor for a moment, as if that would make them appear. I checked everywhere in the stupidly big bathroom, even the trash can. My clothes were nowhere to be found.

My thoughts flickered back to the pajamas on the bed. Oh. Of course, Hilma must have taken them—they were filthy and needed to be washed. But it occurred to me that a millionaire’s housekeeper probably had a much lower standard for “unsalvageably dirty” than I did, and the thought filled me with anxiety. My clothes may have been worn and torn and blood-stained, but they were mine. They were the only things I had here that were mine. I made a snap decision and headed downstairs.

In the living room, Vale was sitting on the couch, watching the news on the overlarge flat-screen TV. He glanced up as I passed, raising an eyebrow. My face flushed; I felt like I’d been caught sneaking around his house. I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for Hilma. I wanted to ask her something.”

He scrutinized me for a moment before returning his attention to the TV. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand. “I believe she’s still in the kitchen.”

I found Hilma finishing up the last of the dishes, her back to me. “Um, Hilma?” I asked. She turned, drying a still-dripping frying pan. I shifted awkwardly. “What did you do with the … the clothes that were in my bathroom?”

“They were very worn out.” She spoke with an accent I couldn’t place—maybe Scandinavian? I didn’t have time to identify it before her next words hit me. “I thought it best to just throw them away.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat, trying not to let the despair show on my face. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” Before I could lose my composure, I turned and hurried back the way I came.

By the time I got back to the bedroom, it was a struggle to keep the tears from falling. I pressed my back against the door with a fist to my mouth, feeling ridiculous. My hoodie and jeans were both worn out, torn and patched in multiple places. They weren’t even the first outfit I ever went villaining in; more like the third or fourth iteration of my costume. But they were the last remaining shreds of my old life, the only thing I had to hold onto. And now I’d lost them, too.

I crossed over to the bathroom and turned on the shower so the noise would muffle my sobs. Vale had made it clear that he didn’t want to see me wearing those clothes ever again, anyway, but … I could’ve kept them. Secretly, of course. I could’ve had one thing here that wasn’t stiff and exorbitantly expensive. When I buried my face in my knees, it didn’t exactly help that my pants smelled like faint hints of designer perfume. Maybe the tear stains would help break them in.

Once the tears tapered off, I just leaned my cheek against my knees and sighed. I desperately wanted to go home and sleep in my own bed and wear my own fucking clothes. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to survive the next … however long I was supposed to endure this. The rest of my life? Jesus fucking Christ.

I’d been in the bathroom a long time when I heard the bedroom door open. I stiffened, going silent. Briefly, I heard footsteps, but no one knocked on the bathroom door, and the footsteps receded after a moment. The bedroom door closed again.

I waited a few minutes, but I didn’t hear anything else. Wearily, I got up and turned the shower off, and then headed into the bedroom.

My heart leaped when I saw the stack of black clothing on the end of the bed, right next to the new pajamas. I rushed over and grabbed them, shaking them out, and I choked on another rush of emotion as my jeans and hoodie unfolded in my hands. They were clean now—still stained, but clean and here, and that was all I cared about. I clutched them to my chest and cried, feeling absurdly relieved.

Once I was all cried out, I carefully refolded my clothes and carried them to the walk-in closet. A quick inspection told me that it was completely empty, though I got the feeling that would change soon. But I picked out one of the bottom drawers and stowed my clothes away in the back corner. As long as Vale never saw it, I could have one thing for myself here. That would have to be enough.

Title credits: Emperor’s New Clothes – Panic! at the Disco

Tag list: @toyybox (if you want to be added, just ask!)

#villainous ramblings #captivity whump #whump writing #original writing #heroes and villains #original fiction #(try not to) kill all your friends #oc: axton vale #oc: the phantom prince #oc: hilma #she won't be around much but she can have a tag too

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fidothefinch · 4 months ago

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From Hull, Hell, and Halifax

Whumptober, Day 13: "Til death do us part" Read on Ao3

Dick watched the executioner from his prison cell window.

The masked man was sharpening the guillotine blade in long strokes, the sching, sching, sching ringing in the cobblestone courtyard. The machine was equally beautiful and horrible; a weapon for quick and efficient death.

Dick hoped it would be quick.

The door to his cell opened. No knocking – prisoners were not paid that manner of respect. Still, Dick had been expecting this visit, and he did not turn from the window as several pairs of heavy, metal-laden feet marched inside.

“Kneel for the king,” one of the soldiers commanded.

Dick bit his tongue, straining to keep his posture unbothered as a pair of deceptively quiet footsteps entered. The back of his neck prickled at the feeling of all eyes watching him. He wondered what they saw – the layer of grime on the clothes he had worn since being thrown in this cell? The bruises and dried blood mapping his time in captivity? Or were they focused on the blue bird stitched across his shoulders, a symbol of hope for the community and a source of shame for the throne?

Nobody moved.

When it became clear that he did not plan to turn, and pair of cold armored hands clamped around his shoulders. They forced his gaze away from the window, and slammed him to his knees. Dick barely managed to avoid biting his own tongue. His knees split against the rough stone.

“Bow to your king,” the guard commanded again.

Dick glared. In all of his missions, he had never been so close to the man. He looked remarkably like Bruce – dark hair, the same jaw line, the same nose. Dick tried to imagine his guardian wearing similar attire – heavy velvet, pearls and gemstones, the finest silks. A sickening display of wealth. But the king’s eyes held none of the warmth that his brother’s did. No, Thomas’s eyes were cold and cruel.

“I do not bow to tyrants,” Dick said, voice surprisingly steady despite his weariness.

The hit came so quickly he had no time to dodge, and it landed squarely across his cheekbone, whipping his head to the side. This time, his teeth snapped briefly around his tongue, and blood began to pool in his mouth.

A harsh yank on the chain connecting his shackled wrists to the floor sent his upper body sprawling forward, arms outstretched. “You would do well to show respect to His Majesty, traitor scum.”

Dick craned his neck up to spit thick, red blood out of his mouth and took great pleasure in the disgusted backpedaling of the guards. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

Fine leather shoes glided forward and stopped in front of him, toes spreading the drops of blood. “So this is the little bird who has been causing so much mischief?” The king sounded the same way Bruce did when he identified a rare medicinal herb, but with a touch more condescension.

Dick would hardly call his theft, sabotage, and acts of treason “mischief,” but he wasn’t about to confess to his crimes. The chain slacked just enough for another guard to tug his head back by his hair. He grinned without humor, hoping it showed off his bloodied teeth. “Who, me?”

The corners of the king’s mouth tugged down. “Tell the servants to bring a bath,” he told one of the guards, somehow making eye contact with Dick while still not addressing him. “And to mend the clothes.”

Dick’s stomach churned, and for the first time in several days, it wasn’t from the hunger. “I would have cleaned up, if I had known to expect a visitor.”

“Silence.”

Dick’s mouth snapped shut at the word, conditioned by years of hearing it in the same tone from his mentor. If the king noticed, he did not draw attention to it. Instead, he leaned down and gripped Dick’s chin. He tilted Dick’s face side to side, like he were inspecting a prize horse.

“You bear a remarkable resemblance to your parents,” he observed.

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Something in his face must have shown his surprise, because Thomas’s lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I saw them several times as a younger man. It was such a shame, what happened.”

He was being deliberate in not revealing Nightwing’s true identity, and the fact only made him more wary. The king had a plan, and Dick was beginning to feel more and more like a pawn.

“Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow.”

Dick swallowed past the urge to vomit.

“I am sure you have seen the guillotine in the courtyard. We had it specially erected, just for you.” The king’s fingers found the divot between two of his neck vertebrae and pressed down, sending a chill down Dick’s spine. It was the position of the cleanest decapitation. “You are well known for your showmanship, so I took the liberty of inviting the entire kingdom to watch.”

Dick stiffened. He knew, logically, that his execution would be made public. It could serve two purposes: a thinly-veiled threat to the Batman’s sympathizers and bid for loyalty from his enemies.

“Of course,” and Thomas stepped back, fingertips leaving burning stripes where he had touched Dick. “There is still time for me to reconsider. You just have to answer my question.”

“I work alone,” Dick ground out, voice steady despite his rising fear.

“Oh, wretched boy. I know that is not true.” Thomas’s thumb wiped away the blood that had dried under Dick’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where your little team of vagabonds is hiding, and I will stay your execution.”

This, at least, was easy. “No.”

“Give me a name, then. Just one name will—“

“Nightwing.”

Thomas was not amused. “You have proven yourself clever. But cleverness will not free you from your fate.” His eyes darkened. “Farewell, boy. Let your guards know if you remember where your friends are located.” His expression took on a dangerous edge as he continued, “I do so hope that they come to tomorrow’s showing.”

The tone sent a chill down Dick’s spine. He felt that he was missing something.

But with nothing more than a final, lingering smirk, the king and his guards left. The heavy wooden door thumped shut, and the lock turned with a thunk similar to that of the guillotine’s blade.

#whumptober2024 #no.13 #til death do us part #dc comics #fic #guillotine #dick grayson #thomas wayne jr.#fido writes #whump

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nishaxeleazar · 7 months ago

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Name: Nisha Eleazar Faceclaim: Christian Serratos Age: 721 Species: Vampire Occupation: The Titan Theatre Owner Hometown: Florence, Italy Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Dramatic, Ruthless, Impatient, Decisive, Free Thinking, Independent, Persuasive, Obsessive.

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGER WARNING: MISCARRIAGE, ABUSE, STALKING

Nisha was born in Florence, Italy to parents she no longer remembers the names of. Really, they were inconsequential on Nisha's life, especially since they passed when she was seven. It was a tragic accident, as the ship they were on sunk and her parents succumbed to the deep blue waters of the sea. Nisha was found clinging to several large planks and saved.

Ever since then, she was an orphan. The church always tried to help the unwanted children, but they could never keep up with the amount of kids that didn't have homes. Nisha taught herself how to swindle and steal. When she was old enough, she even used her body to get what she needed. She wasn't proud of it, at the time, but there was nothing more for her to do.

That was, until, she met a handsome young man who came from one of the wealthiest families in Florence. Sure, he was arranged to marry another woman, but that didn't stop Nisha from sliding her way in and stealing his heart. Did she love him? She believed so. But really, the girl had no idea what love was.

After they wed, Nisha did everything and anything to make him happy. To show him that he did, in fact, win the highest prize with her. Eventually, he was wrapped so tightly around her finger that the numerous miscarriages meant nothing. As long as he had her, and she had the means to do what she wanted, nothing could tear them apart.

One night, walking home from the theatre, Nisha and her husband were attacked. At first, she believed it was from people who just wanted their wealth. But then she soon realized that it wasn't the money that this man wanted, but her. He made her watch as he drained the life out of her husband -- as if that would truly break her heart -- and then, he whisked her away. Away from Florence. Away from Italy. Away from the life she had clawed her way up from the grime of the streets to have.

Before and after he turned her, he kept her at his side, rarely letting her out of his sight. He did not offer the same comforts as her husband had, and slowly but surely, resentment grew.

One day, she met Markus. Even though he was human, Nisha felt a tug towards him that she'd never felt before. Not even with her husband. There was a need to be around him and not only that, but he gave her the attention she didn't even realize that she craved. She thought that maybe -- just maybe -- she could turn him and he could help her escape her sire. But that hope was squashed right after she helped Markus transform. Her sire found out about it and whisked her away. She wasn't even able to say goodbye.

Her sire became more controlling and possessive after that. Between the isolation, the demands, and the lack of any form of freedom, Nisha's vibrancy for life damped. The drive and thirst for something more vanished.For decades, she lived like this. Doing as she was told, being kept in houses that never felt comfortable.

That was, until, she found out that vampires could be killed. The moment she discovered this information, she methodically planned the murder of her sire and escape. From the start of her plan, to the week of the execution, it had taken another decade. But before she could finalize her plan and actually kill him, Hunters attacked the both of them. She hadn't even realized there were people who were hunting them, let alone the fact that they sometimes hunt in packs. Nisha managed to fight them off and kill a couple of them before fleeing, leaving her sire behind, as he'd already been dealt a fatal blow.

Nisha moved around a lot, after that, as she felt as though she needed to experience everything and anything. She'd been confined for so long that she could no longer sit still. She also didn't want to raise suspicion, making it to where Hunters could track her easily. That was until she found Port Leiry. She settled there a little over a hundred and twenty years ago. Occasionally, she will leave for long term vacations, but she always comes back.

Ten years ago, she encountered Hunters again and almost died, herself. Nisha already had anger towards them for trying to kill her the first time, so this led to her wanting revenge on them. Not only that, but she wanted to make them regret ever messing with her. That's when she became obsessive over her next plan: find the best hunter, the most prized one, and take them for herself.

Not long after that, she set her eyes on one person: Reid Halstead.

She stalked him, gaining any and all information she could on him and his many talents before she was confident that she could not only best him, but turn him. Not only was this one of her more prouder moments of herself, but Nisha vowed to not be like her sire. She wasn't going to isolate Reid, nor was she going to make commands of him. Not unless she felt it was necessary, of course. Or if it brought her a bit of fun in her life. Because no matter what Reid thought -- he was hers and she'd be damned if she didn't make the best out of their situation.

HEADCANONS

Nisha has a flare for the dramatics. She always has. She's enjoyed the theatre from a young age and worked hard to be able to own the Titan Theatre.

There are times when Nisha wishes she felt normal emotions, or knew how to have a genuine connection with people. She has cursed her parents on multiple occasions for dying before they could show her how a person is truly supposed to act and feel.

Nisha never saw her miscarriages as a bad thing and was thankful for them, as she never wanted children. She knows she'd be a horrid mother.

Every day, Nisha fights to not be like her own sire. She doesn't want to force anything on Reid. However, she wishes he took to the vampire life a bit more seamlessly. She absolutely hates that he feeds off of animals and plans to change that in the near future.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

DID YOU MISS ME? ; Nisha believes her sire is dead. She swears that she saw the killing blow from the Hunter happen. But in reality, he is not, and he has been looking for her for over a century.

JOIN US ; This person (or people) have been trying to get Nisha to join a clan for centuries. She has no intentions of joining anyone and continuously tells them so whenever they try to talk to her about it.

SAY MY NAME ; Nisha has had a plethora of lovers over the years, but this person is their newest. Their dynamic is completely open. She is not the sentimental or commitment type. She is there to have fun and for it to not be complicated.

more tba later!

#{ nisha } « biography #miscarriage mention tw #abuse mention tw #stalking tw #cor.intro

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dragons-clause · 11 months ago

Text

The Dragon's Clause

Sabo x Fem Reader CW: Forced marriage, intrigue, character death, fantasy violence, blood, magic, language, smut, 18+ mdni

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff

Chapter 2: Word About Town

Approaching the capital city of the Goa Kingdom was a relief for several reasons. It was good to be done with your long journey, but also the state of the infrastructure leading up to the city was remarkably well cared for.

Some kingdoms didn’t have the capacity to maintain their roadways, and some kingdoms let them rot unless they were paths commonly traveled by nobility or the Empire. Oftentimes the maintenance of such farm roads and trade routes fell to the people who needed them the most.

Between merchant-maintained and farmer-maintained, you found you preferred the latter over the former. Merchants would often opt to set up informal checkpoints, and while the fees could be manageable, sometimes the enforcers were not. Farmer maintained roads were often of better quality, since farmers would simply walk their livestock over the roads.

Repeatedly.

This made for remarkably smooth and wide roadways. The only downside being that these paths often reeked. But the stench of manure tended to be less headache than dealing with those who were full of it.

You hadn’t traveled all the roads between Lulusia and Goa, but the roads between any two kingdoms were rarely traveled by nobility. As a rule, anything more than three days was worth the cost of magic, so any nobles who traveled by carriage further than that were either poor, miserly, or trying to win the favor of the masses.

Technically, you fell into none of the three categories, because you were neither important enough, nor powerful enough, to command the wealth that was associated with your name. But more to the point, a good infrastructure was a good sign.

You had no care for useless opulence, and no desire to deal with vapid royals. A functional kingdom was the sign of functional royalty, and that was the bare minimum you had hoped for. Most nobility married for politics, so you’d long since set aside the ideal of love, even more so when your father died. Your Uncle might not have loved you as warmly as your father had, but if this was how you could repay him then so be it.

None of this sat in your heart as malcontent. It was what it was, and you had only to make the best of what you could within those lines. It was far easier to find joy when those around you were competent.

Just inside the main city proper you found an inn. You had funds enough to put yourself and your small retinue up for a month of days, so it wasn’t an issue to get everyone rooms and get them settled. Everyone was road-weary, your coachman and knights more so than yourself, you were sure. You provide each with ample funds to eat as they pleased, and to drink with consideration toward your destination the next day.

Small in number, but your Uncle did not send you to a new country with fools, and you were grateful for their collective competence. Something you would miss after tomorrow, since all four would take the long journey back to Lulusia. Another kingdom’s knights would not be provided entry into Goa’s castle, unless they were your own personal guards, and even then the King could deny them if he so desired.

Such an action would cause strain between the two lands, but as you did not have personal knights, it wasn’t something for you to be worried about right now.

You paid handsomely for a hot bath to be brought up to your room and prepared. It wasn’t an easy process, and an inn just inside the city gates wouldn’t have many who would request it, but it was worth the cost. You cleaned most of the muck and grime of the last week off before even getting in the bath, making use of it to soak for a long while until you caved in and washed your hair.

Basic cantrips had kept you and your small entourage mostly clean during the long travel between Capital cities, but they had limits. Cantrips couldn’t clean as well as proper baths, and the longer you went between one the harder it was to get accumulated grit and grim free. The week and change wasn’t too terribly long, but you were used to bathing far more regularly, and could

With a bath at your disposal there was no reason to delve into anything more advanced. Another draw of cantrips was that they didn’t leave any marks and were almost impossible to track, unlike advanced magic, which could draw unwanted attention. The restrictions upon it could also come back to bite you, so it was better to avoid even considering it until you were properly settled.

Simple clothing was your choice for the evening, and you went down into the inn’s common areas to eat and relax. The best part about your upbringing was how you could easily fit into two very different worlds.

Life on the road wasn’t about etiquette, and until you’d gone to your Uncle’s castle, all you had learned about socializing was from fighters and rowdy tavern keeps and campfire gatherings. As long as you dressed down you weren’t anything more than a young lady enjoying a meal after having traveled. It was unlikely someone would match you up with the noble who came in earlier - the very idea of nobility dressing down was taboo. Besides, all you wanted to do was eavesdrop for a couple hours while nursing some ale and a hot bowl or two of stew.

Most of it was expected. News about an expedition to the Northern border to cull the monsters. Those happened about once a month, depending on the ferocity of the beasts, and how much their bones were worth. There was some scattered chatter about how the Crown Prince’s fiancée was due to arrive any day now from the kingdom of Lulusia, but no one seemed to say much beyond that.

It was good that there weren’t any rumors about you or your cousin, but it was a little interesting how little the people were talking about the royal family of Goa at all. Some kingdoms barred commoners from speaking to nobles first, but no one barred them from speaking about nobles as far as you knew.

You weren’t even sure how such a thing could be enforced. People would just start talking in code anyway, but there wasn’t even a sense of that in the idle chatter of the inn.

Even if they weren’t going to talk about concerns or joys or praise, commoners still gossiped the same as anyone else. You didn’t hear them mention any other noble households, at least not directly. People mentioned some when they were talking about the expedition, but they were merely listing who was going and who wasn’t.

Maybe the people were tense for some reason, related to the nobility or not, and it had trimmed down their desire to gossip. You drained the rest of your drink and were about to step away when a shout caught your attention. A small gesture from you kept the guards away - you weren’t trying to draw attention to yourself.

“Say that again, you rat!” One man bellows, standing up, and over, the one who had raised his voice first.

The smaller man seems unbothered by the other’s size, finishing off his drink before responding.

“I said yer a fool.” He repeats, standing up and squaring off despite barely coming up to the first man’s chest. “How could you think the Grand Duke would only take ‘alf as many knights as usual fer any other reason ‘dan the prince forced ‘im?”

The taller man visibly bristles. “You’ll call him the Crown Prince, as is proper!” He bellows. “An’ he wouldn’t put his brother in harm’s way like that! The Duke’s just too arrogant to ask fer extra help!”

Ah, that explains a lot, you muse to yourself.

There was a deep divide in the kingdom, at least among the commoners. People didn’t gossip cause it was easy for it to turn into a squabble over the smallest things. Usually this sort of divide only happened when there was an impending war of succession on the horizon, but there were no other signs of it. The Grand Duke had no desire for the throne, and the Crown Prince would be solidified in his position the second he was officially engaged.

But these people were really passionate about their stances. Already the rumors you were aware of were proving to be at least slightly wrong. There wasn’t any true malice in their bickerings, and they weren’t referring to either party as cruel or unjust; whatever the cause for the divide was, it wasn’t some sort of “good vs evil” situation.

That probably just made it more complicated, and drove the dividing lines deeper. Nebulous concepts often caused people to dig their heels in even deeper than objectively clear-cut ones.

“Yer precious lil’ Prince can’t even-.”

“OI!” Someone else bellows over him, smacking the smaller man across the back of his head. “You mind yer tongue, or you’re gonna lose it.” He admonishes.

You knew the Crown Prince was adopted. It wasn’t a secret, and maybe there was a point of contention among the people that made small concerns larger in their minds. Commoners could get more bull-headed about bloodlines than even some nobles. If you believed in the Divine Clause as something more divine and less legal, then a little fanaticism wasn’t surprising.

Turning away and heading to your room, you wondered what it was that the Prince couldn’t do.

#The Dragon's Clause #sabo the revolutionary #revolutionary sabo #sabo one piece #sabo #x reader #reader insert #Fantasy AU #Royal AU #mdni

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miyakuli · 10 months ago

Text

Roadwarden

I'm a poor, lonesome roadwarden

I'm a long way from home. My footsteps have led me to this mysterious and dangerous peninsula. I've been asked to explore it to find out more about the locals, so that I could guarantee a commercial exchange with my customers. I only have a few days, and my future meetings and decisions will be decisive.

❤ The history of this region is truly rich. Each village has its own history, customs and beliefs, and even its own dialect. So each visit will therefore be enriching as the locals place their trust in me. Each of them has more or less stormy relations with their neighbors, and I'll do my best to manage any conflicts. But these lands also abound in places that are difficult to penetrate or hidden, so I'll need to be patient to reach them, and who knows, they may reveal new knowledge that will help me in my quests. So many things to discover! ❤ My past is my heritage and I decide my future plans for myself. My skills are my own. As for my social relationships, I'll decide in due course whether or not I'll adapt to the person in front of me. I'll make my own choices according to my own morality and circumstances, but I doubt that everyone will come out a winner in the end… even me. Who's to judge anyway? ❤ The landscape around me is minimalist but striking, and I enjoy observing the different architectures and admiring and fearing the nature that surrounds me. Certain things don't always appear in my field of vision, but I can easily imagine their outlines because they've been sufficiently described to me. ❤ Sometimes I close my eyes to appreciate the sounds around me; I can hear the wind blowing, the rivers flowing, my faithful steed grazing beside me, the cries of creatures in the distance keeping me alert…and sometimes silence, which is never a very good sign. I wonder if there isn't a traveling bard, because I often hear soft music above my head, often melancholy but very pleasant. I'm hoping to ease the tension in this place, so maybe next time I'll hear more festive music…

+/- I feel the weight of time passing, I have so little of it given all the tasks entrusted to me, and I have to evaluate for myself the shortest and most advantageous routes to achieve my ends. I've almost become a tactician. However, I regret my arrival in this region, where my physical condition and lack of wealth and adequate equipment, as well as my unfamiliarity with the area, made me waste precious time. It was very brutal and almost punishing. Of course, I could always come back some distant day and be ready to deal with it, but my first visit will always be the most memorable, and I'm sad to leave when I had one of the peninsula's biggest mysteries right at my fingertips. How frustrating. +/- I feel very free in my actions, which are not always dictated by intrusive thoughts. I can ask locals about places and people on my own, just by mentioning their names or sometimes even a simple description…but it seems that sometimes, my field of possibility is too wide to act, especially for people like me who don't master the local language. I don't necessarily have any clues, and my words and gestures will often have to be extremely precise, as any other alternative won't be accepted.

✖ My encounters were certainly significant, but I don't think I'll keep very fond memories of all these people. The atmosphere was always very austere, which I can understand given the tense situation in this region, but I didn't manage to get attached to many people. And even the friendships I made at the time seemed cold and distant. Only Eudocia managed to touch my heart, despite my solid armor, and she'll always have a place in my memories. I hope she's doing well. ✖ I've never been able to maintain a decent level of hygiene throughout my entire journey. As much for my hunger, my clothes and my magic, I always managed to find a good balance. But finding a place to bathe and sufficiently remove the grime from my body was a priori my nemesis. The locals often stared at me with disdain and I too often struggled to gain their trust because of my filthy appearance. I vowed never to set off on an adventure again without first buying a bar of soap! ✖ Even when I was very well armed and equipped, some monsters resisted me because a single choice could be fatal. Losing a big chunk of my armor just because I thought of dodging a monster rather than jumping on it, sometimes undermined my morale, and I admit to having used my "save" spell at times, which allowed me to relive my confrontation. And I don't like to go through all this for a single error of judgement. What's the point if not to strengthen my physical condition and my weaponry…

In the end, my short excursion didn't reveal all the peninsula's mysteries, and I left intrigued, wanting to see more, to learn more. At least my visit brought a little something positive, but unfortunately not for everyone. I'll certainly be back to revisit this faraway land, Over mountains and over prairies, From dawn 'til day is done, My horse and me keep riding, Into this settin' sun.

youtube

➡ My Steam page

#roadwarden #look at my rp review X'DDD I DID MY BEST OK #just the part with the bard to explain the ost makes it so ridiculous lol but I like it anyway #personal #Lola plays games

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rheaitis · 2 years ago

Note

thoughts on a what if arjuna had been a girl scenario? i feel like she’d somehow still manage to outshine everyone else and end up gaining the attention of karna, however better or worse it may manifest in this world…

ahahahaha so MANY content warnings, you guys! (implied incest, assault, canonical levels of violence)

“Let me get the wheel out of this mire, and I’ll fight you,” Vasusen pleads, his eyes on the ground, his hands scrabbling to hold up the wheel. “I will duel with you, only wait.”

Almost, almost Anagha heeds… not his words but his voice, his desperate sunken eyes. He looks grimed, without the golden armour that had been so warm against her skin, when… He looks defeated already, mud and blood smeared on his arms, his scarred chest. That year before Krishn came for her, she had grown as adept in the use of a dagger as ever with a sword, but Vasusen had just laughed and wrapped her in his stifling embrace, had crooned comfort at her while she raged and wept and flew at him with knives, pins, nails.

Some other year, perhaps. Some other lifetime. But it is the seventeenth day of the Kurukshetra War, and all pity has long since bled out of Anagha. She scarcely needs Krishna’s hand tight on her hip, his voice urgent in her ear.

“You killed my nephew,” she tells him, quiet under the din of the battlefield. “That child, I held him in my hands when he came out of his mother, I wiped his nostrils clean for his first breath. I wrapped his corpse to put him on the pyre. Do you think you deserve mercy, a good death? Answer me!”

He looks up and his eyes catch on her face, recognition flooding in. “Princess,” he whispers, in the voice that followed her into and woke her from nightmares, so different in the crowded daylight. The sun is in his eyes, a benediction on his silvering hair when he closes them. “No. For the boy, and for what I did to you, I deserve whatever you mete out.”

It is so easy to kill him, in the end, kneeling in the mud with his throat bared. So easy Anagha is bewildered at first by Krishn taking Gandiv from her, easing her to a seat on the floor of their chariot, chafing warmth into her hands.

“If there is guilt in this, it is mine to bear,” he is saying when she can hear again, in the urgent tone that means he has said it before. “Mine for leaving you there, mine for leaving you in the forest with your brothers, mine for letting you shoulder many griefs. Not yours, never yours. My beloved friend, my brave one, your deeds will resound down the ages. Up, now. Up and to camp before the Kauravas scramble into order.”

Anagha retrieves Gandiv, stands alert as Krishn drives them back into the welcoming arms of the Pandav host. It is no great thing, to have slain Vasusen even with guile, when she has felled Bhishma already. There is no reason to feel bile rise in her throat, no place for the tears with which she had watered Prince Devavrat’s feet.

“You have,” says Shakuni, “other siblings, O King. The wise Sahadev, the wondrous Nakul, the valiant Anagha. Shall you not hazard them and win back your wealth, your legions, your brother Vrikodar?”

Yudhisthir, trapped, bets their younger brothers, loses them both, pales till the veins stand out on his shaking hands, his sweating brow.

“I hazard,” he says, and stoppers his mouth, darting a glance at Bhim in his shackles, at the twins. “I hazard…”

“Anagha, daughter of Pandu, the unvanquished,” she says into the waiting silence, going to her knees at his back. “He hazards me. What do you put against it?”

Better her, for whatever cruelty their cousins can concoct, than Panchali. Better Anagha’s calloused hands and broad shoulders and habit of suffering, than Draupadi’s ferocious fragility, her beauty like a flame nestled in an eggshell.

Vasusen grins and whispers to Duryodhan, who laughs. “For a woman forty and unwed, lingering in her brother’s household with a barren womb? Only the chance to retrieve what he has already lost.”

Yudhisthir loses again; hazards Panchali; loses again. A servant returns rebuffed from the women’s quarters. Dushasan goes himself, returns with precious cargo, hauling her along with a cruel hand twisted into her hair.

Panchali wins. Bloody and battered, she shames their elders into three boons, frees herself and her husband and…

“Give me my sister-in-law,” she says. “Give me Pritha’s daughter and we will go quietly away.”

Vasusen scoffs. “Oh, where? To Panchal where your brothers will arm their men? To Dwaraka where the Yadavas will bristle at the insult? No, Yajnaseni, you cannot sail your husband’s kin safe across the rivers of misfortune. But you may rest assured, glorious one, that she will not be neglected.”

In the end it is Vasusen who catches them. Too late for it to affect the swayamvara, too early to not cause new chaos.

“A woman to wed a woman,” he laughs, “a new thing indeed is the King of Panchal showing us.”

The assembled princes and priests, already wounded, break into bemusement like a beehive swarming. On the dais Panchali’s eyes go wide and wounded, her brother’s hand tight on her arm.

“No, no,” Jarasandh scoffs, “you younglings have such short memories. He tricked Hiranyavarman ten years ago, brought in a wife for his eldest daughter. Ha! Is this a woman, truly? What an eye you have, boy.”

Anagha darkens under the sudden appraising gaze of so many men. Even the princes of Panchal, who should know better, even her mother’s nephew, who should know her, even… especially Vasusen, whom she had once foolishly thought of as her friend.

To the side Bhim stills into a predatory stance, willing to break their way out of this hall. Foolish of them, to have come at all, against their mother’s admonition, their brother’s advice.

Anagha laughs, head back and feet planted, her voice rising into the clear registers she forsook for her slight disguise.

“So,” she says, still smiling, “I have won a bride for my brother. What of it? Is such a thing unknown in Aryavarta? Didn’t everyone hear at their mother’s knee the tale of Prince Bhishm’s great valour? Only us? Well then, O Kings, hear now that Pandu’s children have followed their forebear in this too, and tell it to your children.”

Everything moves after that almost too quickly for comprehension: the Yadavas at their back, and the delighted smile that almost hides the shadow in Panchali’s gaze, and the chariot driven by Prince Dhrishtadyumn himself that brings them to their little hut in its clearing.

“Come away now,” Krishn whispers after her mother has spent her first bout of rage and turned all-smiles to Princess Draupadi and her twin. “Let your brothers fend for themselves a little while; we have much to talk about, you and I.”

“A man such as this, to match valour with the heiress of Pandu? A man of no known antecedents, no proven deeds?”

The scorn in Acharya Kripam’s voice is deadly, thunderous amplified by the acoustics of the stadium. Anagha recognises in her own body the flinch that overtakes his, though these are not the words they use for her.

Duryodhan shouts defiance, blusters and makes promises, sends servants running.

“I will battle him,” she says, overlapping Duryodhan, silencing him. “I will contend with him. What, shall I ask every stranger in a hunt or a fight their ancestry before I string my bow? I spent my childhood playing with the children of sages and scavengers alike, will you bar me now from testing my mettle against this man?”

“Princess Anagha is wilful,” Acharya Kripam says, and this time it is she who flinches. She could recite it with him, the litany of her deviations from docility that has only grown with her.

“Daylight’s wasting,” Bhim drawls, coming up to put his bulk behind her. “Let them fight or send them off the field, Acharya; the commoners are getting restive.”

“Let them fight,” Duryodhan urges, “he will be a prince by nightfall, whoever his parents might be. Come, Acharya Dron arranged such a spectacular show for his favourite, will you truly disappoint the spectators?”

Anagha is in the hayloft, nursing her wrist, hiding only a very little from the crowd out looking for her. If she is found before she can feign being free of pain nobody will let her pick up a sword for months and months, and a bow never. Acharya Kripam is already against it, and his comments make Mother purse her lips into a thin line and frown. She’ll fall behind everyone if she’s held back so long, and it’s just a little pain, after all, her wrist isn't even interesting colours like Duryodhan’s was last month when he fell out of the tree Bhim was shaking, just swollen and… probably a little purple? It’s difficult to see, in the dimness and against her dark skin.

“Princess,” someone calls up from the stable floor. “Come down, they’re gone to check the gardens near the Durga temple.”

Anagha crawls out from behind the hay bale and looks over the edge: a youth in the livery of the royal stables smiles at her, his hands full of cloth and little pots. As old as Yudhishtir at least, probably a few years older still. Almost a man grown; adults were variable in their priorities, and so many of them wanted to curry favour.

“No,” Anagha tells him, and sits where she can keep an eye on him. If he leaves to fetch someone she’ll have to scramble down the ladder and sprint up past the kitchens to the fishponds: Bhim has a blind there that nobody else knows about, not even Yudhishtir. It will be painful but she can manage.

“I have liniment,” the boy wheedles. “I heard you’ve hurt your hand in training.”

“Horse liniment?”

The boy laughs, as though that isn’t perfectly logical. “No, Princess. Liniment for humans; we get hurt sometimes working with the horses.”

He has a nice laugh, and—Anagha peers down at him again—his eyes are deep-set and kind, like Mother’s. And her wrist does rather hurt.

“What’s your name?”

“Vasu,” the boy says, “but I’m nobody, Princess.”

This is obviously a lie, even if he means, as they all mean, that he’s nobody she needs to bother about. But she’ll let him keep his secret if he’ll keep hers.

“I won’t come down,” she temporises, “but you can come up here.”

#mahabharata #arjuna #karna #au: always a different gender #rule 63 #ciswoman arjuna #cw: assault #cw: death

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wyvernscales · 2 years ago

Note

hair from the prompts list :)

I think the oc who has the most personal and impactful relationship with their hair is Lorelei, and I’ve put some of my thoughts on the matter in this post, so I’m going to talk about Feja here!

There’s not really much canon lore about beauty routines in Thedas, let alone Orzammar, so I just need to make my own.

I don’t imagine Orzammar has many materials that could be used in cosmetic products other than fungi, so I’d assume many dwarves in higher Castes use products from the surface. As Orzammar’s largest trading partner, many cosmetics are bought from Tevinter.

Given the whole “surrounding a lava pit” thing, one would assume that Orzammar is very dry, but because it's a cave the water can't evaporate. So 100% humidity. Every day. In that type of environment, sealing in hydration is key. One of the traditional hair products used in the Thaig is bronto fat infused with different deep mushroom oils to mask the scent.

As an Aeducan, Feja always had access to the finest hair oils, soaps, balms, combs and accessories in Thedas. She often used vinegar or another astringent to rinse out the grime and then used olive, jasmine, and grape seed oils to keep her hair soft and her curls defined. Because the humidity is always so high, she'd also use a small amount of cocoa butter to keep frizz at bay. Then she’d perfume her hair with felicidus aria--an an endangered and expensive flower--and other luxury herbs as a display of her wealth.

Most days, she kept her curls pinned in a plaited updo as befit her warrior status and to keep it safe from breakage. Elaborate styles were reserved for royal appearances.

She also had a large collection of bejeweled and enchanted hair pins with a myriad of effects. Some were more practical, enhancing her combat ability or wit. Others were more mundane. A personal favorite of hers was a minor ward against tangles that she personally commissioned from the Shaper of Runes.

But then she was banished from the Thaig with nothing but the rags on her back. Abandoned. Then found. In the beginning of her journey across Ferelden, there were too many things to worry about and her hair was simply not a priority. She resigned herself to combing it out with her fingers and wearing a helmet or coif.

When she and the rest of her party got more established, she began to think about her hair again. First, she tried a soap purchased from Bodahn that was way too harsh on her hair. Before she resolved herself to trial and error, Feja to swallowed her pride and asked her fellow Warden Elias how he kept his curls so defined and bouncy.

He told her of soapwort, deer tallow soap, and a few oils he knew were good for hair like burdock root and walnut. Their hair textures aren't the same though, so some of his recommendations were just too heavy for her hair. She did manage to find a routine that worked well for her in time.

Immediately upon her return to Orzammar, Feja picked up a nug bristle brush and two pins with anti-tangle enchantment. One of them was gifted to Elias as thanks.

(I clearly got lost in a research hole on this one.)

Thank you for the ask!

OC Character Design Questions

#dragon age origins #dao #junk speaks #asks #feja aeducan #aeducan #the warden #my warden #my ocs #worldstate: the maker's (un)chosen #elias lavellan

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whattheheckcleaning · 2 years ago

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imaginesofeverykind · 10 months ago

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Witches Brew - Series Teaser

I recently read Napoleonville by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew (go and read everything they’ve written holy SMONKS) and the swampy, everglade setting just fucking embedded itself in my head for this one.

It’s KINDA a DnD AU, if you squint really hard it sits between something like DnD and I guess???

If you wanna be tagged when the full first part comes out let me know! <3 <3 <3

Warnings: HEAVY mention of blood, Magic described as visceral, magic is outlawed, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, Gore themes, language

Aegon ii Targaryen x F!WitchReader

”Please!”

Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!”

”Sit.”

A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the kings road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.

”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid than anything.

You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lord. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.

You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than humans, threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.

His eye was gone. That can’t be helped.

”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.

“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.

Anger overcame him, outstretching his and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.

The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.

“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.”

#aegon targaryen #fanfiction #original work #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #imagine #house of the dragon aegon

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