#wyn stuff

[hirokiyuu]

Heddwyn "Wyn" Caldera is a freshman from Diasomnia. He's well known in alchemical circles for multiple revolutionary breakthroughs in the world of potions, the first of which he discovered at eight years old. Though invited to NRC last year at age thirteen, he waited a year before accepting a position at the school.

here he is my baby boy......!!!! been tossing this kid around in my head a lot lately and wanted to make a profile card for him to show him off to the world. imagine me as a proud parent and ive pulled this out of my wallet.

based off the black cauldron. both the movie and like. the cauldron itself. naturally he is good at potions. since the cauldron is essentially a mcguffin wanted by everyone the idea is that he's extremely good at what he does but is also pretty vulnerable to being used. he's also very stone-faced bc he's...... made of stone............ get it.............

template is from here!

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Didn't expect to do this, but. Excerpt from a longer piece I'm working on from my Curse of Strahd campaign, because I was reading over it while trying to find something to work on in the midst of all of this awful shit and got slapped with some very on the nose feelings. Call it my WIP Wednesday, lol.

“But honestly, who is going to blame me for indulging in a little bit of absurdity right now? This whole situation is mad.” “Is it?” Now Ireena turns to face her, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “How so?” This, from Ireena, is a real question, and not a sarcastic quip at Wyn's expense, so she takes a breath to quell the sudden scorch of fire in her chest and turns her attention back to her sketch.  “Where would you have me start?” she asks, very lightly. “The night that we spent safe among a full caravan of people on a well-traveled trade road, only to wake up in the middle of unfamiliar woods, alone, with necromantic mists chasing our every step? The haunted manor house so full to the brim with moral transgressions that it tried to eat us one floor at a time, and very nearly succeeded? Or perhaps the fact that less than two hours ago, we were sat down at the table of a woman who claims to see the future and told that, despite our inexperience and our incompetence and the fact that we have not so much as a whit of real skill between us, we are apparently meant to be this land’s saviors?” In truth, savior hadn’t been the word that Madam Eva had used. She had been more delicate, less certain; she had used words like ‘might,’ like ‘maybe.’ But she had still held out beseeching hands across her card-strewn table and told them that they carried hope on their shoulders, that she looked to them for the cure to the curse on Barovia’s stricken land. She had still said that they were what she had been waiting for.  The whole thing had been so absurd that Wyn still feels a little glow of pride when she remembers that she hadn’t laughed. Beside her, Ireena nods, slowly.  “I see,” she says, and she probably does, but Wyn can tell by her expression that she also thinks that Wyn is overreacting. The thought is nearly enough to spin up the grease fire burning in her gut again, almost enough to bait the howling animal — but then Wyn takes another breath, and sighs, and shrugs. “I expect that you’re the only one who does,” she says, smiling like there isn't a part of her that wants to start screaming instead. “But, as near as I can tell, I have two options: I can either wallow in the knowledge that this is our death sentence, and spend a very productive evening being a font of wretched despair and grim portent, or —” She makes a flourishing gesture down to the sketch in her lap. “— I can paint a beard onto the wizard. Considering that I expect to spend no small amount of time on the former, I���ve decided to indulge the latter while I have the energy.”

[calico-heart]

Reinstalling Fallout 4 today and setting up my mods. Three years ago I was SO careful about reading instructions and checking for incompatibilities and not putting too many in at once. today I'm deploying 91239127 mods before even running a save file and we'll just see if the game survives when I try to boot it up

[lookbluesoup]

Do people ship Azem/Venat much?

I see tons of Azem paired with Emet Selch, Hythlodaeus, Elidibus, and even know about some Hermes and a Lahabrea... but I'm not sure I've ever seen one with Venat.

It seems like lots of potential there, they were obviously very close if Azem took over her seat.

And a similar possible dramatic fallout to an Emet or Elidibus ship (or any Convocation member), since Azem wouldn't join Venat in summoning Hydaelyn either, even when asked.

There's all the potential narrative drama it adds to the MSQ. We know Emet never got over the loss of Azem, but did Venat? Would seeing Azem's shards struggle and suffer and die over and over make it harder for her if the two had been lovers, instead of friends?

Plus uncomfortably familiar almost-not-quite-memories for the WoL, any time they speak with Hydaelyn.

idk, aside from the narrative potential - she's pretty, she's spunky, she's a rebel. As popular a character as she is, it occurs to me I just personally haven't seen shippy stuff with her, yet. I'd have expected it to cross my dash at least now and then!

[thedruidsforest]

I'm so close to finishing my draft of Stone & Leaf, and then moving on to my editing round - but that also means I now get to start the chapter that introduces one of my favorite characters of all time, Wyn.

I can't do a full reveal on her in this book yet, so the anticipation is going to hurt me. But, there is so much coming that Wyn will have her hands in - and definitely not in the way you think.

[wynco]

BioWare dropped the ball with most of the companions lacking almost any edge and rook being a circle practically so I guess I have to do everything myself around here

[seasaltandcopper]

vampire hunter AU Pt 2

[Prev] | [Next]

Summary: Mal is handed over to Teddy by the vampire hunters.

(This one got longer than I expected, and is still mostly set up for the story and dynamics, but it's also chock full of whump, so I feel like I'm splitting the difference.)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Profanity, mentions of torture, blood and gore, violence, manhandling, nonsexual nudity, imprisonment, starvation, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun (only used by one character)

“Mal.”

One word. One name. It dropped from the hunter’s lips and snagged Mal’s attention like a fishhook through the gut. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard someone say his real name out loud.

Years, probably.

And now it spat from the mouth of this woman, this hunter, like a curse. Like some personal ax she had to grind with him.

Like she knew him.

Stiffly, Mal raised his head enough to get a better look at her. Short. Subtly curvy, but muscular. Dark skin, deep brown eyes, well-kept hair, all leather and denim and piercings with an attitude to match. The ensemble practically screamed, pick a fight with me and see what happens.

Teddy smelled like clean sweat, gun oil, and the intoxicating vibrancy of blood flowing through her veins. Life. Food.

God, he was starving. He was so fucking hungry it hurt. More than hurt. Hurt was a broken arm, a knife digging between his ribs, the burn of a cigarette put out on the arch of his foot—this was closer to losing a piece of his soul. Feeling it shredded and screaming in agony without relief.

Mal swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth before he choked on it, and tried to ignore the twisting in his gut as the smell of them permeated the cramped space. He held Teddy's gaze, sunken eyes peering out through a mess of filthy hair, but the flash of recognition he hoped for never came. She stayed unfamiliar. A stranger.

But one who obviously thought she knew him.

“Today’s your lucky day, bloodsucker,” she said, eyes flint-hard and sharp enough to cut. “You’re coming home with me.”

What?

Mal blinked. It took longer than it should have for reason to catch up and plunge icy fingers past the fog of exhaustion and pain. He’d expected—well, more of the usual. Another guest looking to blow off some steam, or getting “justice” for someone Mal had likely never laid eyes on in his life.

This wasn’t the first time the hunters had brought in a friend; honestly, the bleak-humored side of Mal was surprised they hadn’t thought to charge admission. Probably could’ve made a nice little profit on the side.

Still, the script stayed the same: they took him out to hurt him, and after they got tired or bored or felt they made their point, someone dragged Mal back to his box. Time passed, alone, in the dark—sometimes hours, sometimes days—before he was fed just enough blood to heal the worst of his wounds.

Then the cycle repeated.

Over and over and over. A horrific, never ending nightmare, but a familiar one.

Leaving with another human—no, a hunter, who knew his name, how did she know his name, who was she?—smashed every established pattern to pieces. Unease tangled like thorny brambles inside his rib cage, clawed at the back of his throat.

Mal couldn’t ask what the hell she meant; he couldn’t even open his mouth, muzzled like this. Cautiously, he glanced towards Brooks, hoping for some kind of clarification.

The hunter chuckled. Hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and leaned back against the wall, smug as could be. The nasty glint in his eyes sent a cold tremor down Mal’s spine; he dropped his gaze back to his lap.

Brooks was one of the ones who’d taken a personal liking to Mal, early on. Back when they’d been uncommonly cruel in their attempts to wear him down, testing the limits of their creativity with techniques that still left Mal nauseous to think about.

If Mal’s heart had been capable of more than sluggish, off tempo beats, it would’ve raced.

“You got your own restraints for transport, or should I write up a slip for loaner gear?”

Reaching behind to unclip something from her belt, Teddy flashed a standard issue set of cuffs and a muzzle, then tossed it to him. “Here.”

Brooks snagged the gear out of the air. Stepped away from the wall with a sigh. Tensing, Mal pulled in a shallow breath through his nose, and watched Brooks out of the corner of his eye. The man’s black-polished boots crunched on the grit strewn floor.

The woman made a noise at the back of her throat. Derisive. “And hose him down or something before you bring him out. Smells like someone left roadkill in a hot van.”

Brooks snorted. A half-beat later, the toe of his shiny, black-polished boot slammed into Mal’s hip. It tore a pained exhale from him as he lurched to the side, the clatter of metal singing against brick. Catching himself on his forearm, Mal winced at the stripe of skin he lost for his trouble. Blood welled up in dark beads, staining the pale firebrick with more of the same.

Dead blood.

It wouldn’t satisfy like fresh, human blood would. It didn’t smell like anything at all. But the sight of it still tied Mal’s insides in knots as the instinct to feed spiked in response.

All his body understood was that it was starving, and that looked like blood, even if logic knew it was only a trick.

“Look, I don’t give a shit about the transfer order. Whatever. You want the vamp, you can have it. But we’re not runnin’ a grooming service. You want the thing washed and styled, do it on your own damn time.” Eyes still on the other hunter, Brooks tangled a gloved fist in Mal’s hair and hauled him upright. “Alright, shitsucker, let’s go. Up.”

Scrambling to get his legs under himself before Brooks left him with a bald patch, Mal twisted and choked on the words trapped in his throat. The sudden shift in gravity left his head spinning, limbs somehow both too stiff, and too wobbly to fully bear his weight.

Legs shaking, Mal planted his feet as best he could, but stayed on his feet. Barely. 

Just do it. Hurry up and get it over with, I can’t—

Brooks came to the same conclusion a second later. He hissed an irritated sigh, and released his grip on Mal's hair. Unsupported, Mal sagged on his feet, brows pinched in a pained grimace.

“Lazy motherfucker,” Brooks muttered. “Told you. Give ‘em an inch…”

Yeah, and I'd tear your throat out, you fucking bastard.

Strong fingers dug into Mal’s arm as Brooks worked to unlock the manacles. Heavy iron clattered to the bricks. Then again, as Brooks stooped and did the same for Mal’s ankles.

Without the added weight, Mal felt marginally steadier on his feet. And uncomfortably naked.

Gingerly, he ghosted bony fingers over the red, raw patches of skin circling his wrists. Black humor bubbled in Mal’s chest, and he swallowed back a laugh. Now he felt naked—without the extra pounds of iron weighing him down—but not because he hadn’t worn clothes in years.

On his list of priorities, Mal's desire for pants had dropped depressingly low over the years.

At least when Brooks cuffed him again, arms behind this time, he left Mal’s ankles unshackled. The muzzle went last, and a part of Mal hated himself for the way he tilted his head without prompting, obediently offering Brooks better access to the buckles; the rest of him didn’t give a shit, as long as it got the fucking thing off faster.

Brooks tugged it, giving the muzzle a disgusted look as no small amount of crusted gunk and scabbed tissue pulled free too. Mal barely noticed. After days suffocating in the thing, he was just glad to have it off.

He sighed. Worked his jaw, and held back a groan as sore muscles twinged all the way down his neck. Dried bits of filth Mal definitely did not want to identify crumbled loose with the movement. More of it itched under his nose and around his mouth, but the worst still matted the scruffy mess of facial hair stubbornly clinging to his jaw.

Even when they deigned to leave the muzzle off, there was only so much grooming he could do without access to water or rags or full use of his hands.

At some point Mal just gave up trying.

Gloved fingers snagged his chin, pulling Mal from his thoughts. He flinched. Not enough to pull loose—even reacting blindly Mal was smarter than that—but enough to earn an amused snort.

“Maybe it could use a hose down,” Brooks muttered. He ghosted a leather-clad thumb over Mal’s chin, squinting. “Ehh.” Then shrugged, wiped his finger clean on Mal’s shoulder, and lifted the replacement muzzle to fit in place.

Mal shivered as worn leather kissed his skin again. It sat overlapping some of the bleeding lines chafed by the old one, bright stinging pain sinking into a deeper, throbbing burn as Brooks cinched the straps tight.

At least this one was purely to prevent accidental bites—just a simple, boxy wire guard and leather straps—not like the ones Mal was used to, meant to completely immobilize the jaw.

He could still open his mouth. Take a real, full breath. Run his tongue over the outside of his teeth, or lick his lips. Talk.

This was fine. Mal could deal with this. This was—better.

After double checking his handiwork, Brooks laid a heavy palm on the back of Mal’s neck. He tensed, visceral disgust tingling down his back and making his skin crawl. Touch didn’t carry many pleasant connotations these days, but being touched by Brooks left Mal feeling genuinely sick.

The hunter squeezed once, pinching with his index finger and thumb. A warning.

“Let’s go,” Brooks ordered. “Move.”

Gentle pressure turned to a vice grip, and Mal hissed. His entire body was an ugly patchwork of marks—welts, burns, the scabbed over remnants of a recent caning, bruises layered on bruises; and his neck was no exception.

Brooks’ fingers molded themselves to older blue-green imprints, pressing hard. A sharp boot-tap to the knobby part of Mal’s ankle followed, and he cringed at the pathetic, wounded-animal sound that rose in his throat. Lurching forward, he struggled to stay on his feet and limp along at Brooks’ pace.

“I’m—trying,” Mal rasped, frustrated. He tripped again on the lip of the kiln. Would’ve fallen if Brooks hadn’t literally had him by the scruff. Shit.

The world pitched. Dark spots burst across Mal’s vision.

“Quiet.”

Fuck you.

Teddy followed silently, a dark smudge in the corner of Mal’s vision as Brooks manhandled him out of the room. Up one flight of concrete stairs. And another. Past the living quarters, and then into a part of the compound Mal only remembered seeing once: a pair of heavy steel doors that led outside.

Out, to the wide, open world and a night sky Mal hadn’t laid eyes on in years. He didn’t notice he was shaking until they stopped. Blinking rapidly, his vision strobed. He felt light, fuzzed at the edges, like he was about to pass out.

The pressure vanished from the back of his neck. Replacing it, a hand curled around his upper arm. Skin to bare skin. Warm skin, and slender, strong fingers. Though Teddy's hands were smaller than Brooks’, one of them still managed to encircle the entire circumference of Mal’s bicep.

There just wasn’t anything there anymore.

Side by side, Mal figured he stood a good five or six inches taller than her, but she probably weighed more. She sure as hell could’ve picked him up if she felt inclined.

“I got it from here,” she said, to Brooks.

A nod. “Sure. An’ listen, you change your mind, you can always drop it back off. Teddy, right? No questions asked.”

“Mm.”

“Yeah, alright,” Brooks said. “You got my number if you need anything—” A pointed pause. “Y’know, anything—handlin’ advice, someone to share a drink with…”

Grimacing, Teddy shot Brooks a look that would’ve vaporized a weaker man on the spot. “Yeah,” she drawled. “I got it.”

Raising his hands in mock surrender, Brooks took the hint. “Alright, alright, Jesus.”

Eyes the color of dark amber settled on Mal’s face, and this time he visibly grimaced at the attention. Swallowing hard, he tried unsuccessfully to push back against rising anxiety as Teddy addressed him directly.

“You try anything and I’ll break both your legs, and drag you the rest of the way to the truck by your hair. Got it?” He nodded.

Yeah. Mal got it. And his tentative hopes for ending up somewhere even marginally better than here dwindled by the second.

Warm, sweet smelling night air folded around them as they stepped outside. Grumbling to himself, Brooks turned and vanished into the compound without a word, not even sparing a glance back.

He’d probably agonized more over tossing out an old pair of boots. Or getting shot down by a cute hunter.

With a sharp bang, the doors pulled closed behind them. Sighing, Teddy tightened her grip. Something Mal couldn’t identify flickered across her face. Disgust? Anger? Whatever it was, Mal blinked and it was gone.

“C’mon. I wanna beat the sunrise home.”

AN: Annnnnd we're about to start really getting into the meat of it. I actually planned for more to happen in this chapter and had to shove that in the next one, and this still ended up 3x longer

Next chapter we get to meet Will, the other half of the hunter duo

Taglist: @whumpsday @writereleaserepeat @thecyrulik @lookbluesoup

[ricardian-werewolf]

9: The Cost of the Crown

(Oh yeah, there's a reason for THIS gif. Totally.) @lordbettany - I almost want (need) to see this gifset on your dash for the sole sake of your unhinged comments.

Ao3 link

Summary: Eight weeks of travel and troop movements have passed. Finally after over two years, Alina and Nikolai reunite. With that reunion comes tension, a lot of pent up emotion and some very devious plans to get a certain saint into a particular king's bed.

TWs: None, except implied smut in the end, and a church gets blown up (though no one graphically killed).

Chapter below the cut.

The Vy, a week’s ride from Os Alta.

8 weeks later. 

Alina’s fingers found purchase on the spy-glass clutched in her fingers. She rode side-saddle on a calm west-Ravkan mare of the fairest white, her kefta’s skirts tumbling down her legs in a heap of green satin and fox-fur. Her kefta’s top had been closed at the throat and buttoned up against the freezing chill. Her white hair was done up in a braided chignon. Woven through it were strands of gold and green ribbon. She wore a crown of hammered gold fashioned in the style of Morozova’s antlers. A gift for Nikolai to undo when he reached her.

At her side, Olga checked her rifle. The line down her cheek had left a scar, holy anointed. She dipped her head in the presence of the Sankta. Alina’s gloved finger touched her cheek, and she raised a brow. 

“News?”

“They are headed southwards, Moya Tsaritsa.” Olga murmured. Soon, the banners of the double-eagle and fox in splendour would paint the horizon in swathes of babe’s blue and emerald green. With them, at their helm, would be the true king. An open rebellion against the Lantsov pretender who’d been crowned by the Apparat had begun. Starting originally in the eastern reaches, past Os Alta, the peasantry had thrown down their plows and picked up their scythes. They prayed to their saints, begging for an end to the hunger that sickened their stomachs; robbed their cradles and meager coffers. It had been against the new king’s grain quotas, impossible to achieve even in times of peace, and the mood had become a tangible one of rage. When the militia was brought in to quell the uprising, the people lashed out, taking over the grain stores and the city’s Duma, press-house and inn. From there, they used the printing press of the press-house and a learned nobleman held at musket-point, to write an edict of the uprising. It demanded that Nikolai Lantsov, the one true Ravkan king, end centuries of Serfdom, remove the threats of Shu Han and Fjerda, and most amazingly, overturn the choke-hold the nobility had on the land.

Nikolai himself had written these peasants, and while Vasily or his father would have sent more men to crush the uprising - Nikolai acknowledged and allowed it to continue. He congratulated the peasantry on fighting the corruption of their pretender king, and asked them to keep him in their prayers.

Murmurs of the Fox-Saint, the King of Scars, had swept the country already. From inn to ale-house and banyan, the murmurs of King Nikolai returning had swallowed Ravka whole. The Fox Saint and the Sun Saint were said to join together at the center of the Vy and relieve Ravka of the Darkling and Lantsov Pretender. Unto that, their reign would be one of peace and prosperity. Already, a new design of a royal banner was beginning to spread through the villages and smaller towns - an emerald green backing of a red fox under a sunburst. The fox wore a crown. Some of the pieces added the firebird above the sunburst, wings aloft in a baptism of fire that would cleanse the land and air.

Alina herself had created that idea. The new maps she was making as part of her saintly progress were tactical, a way of observing the Darkling’s weak points. As they moved along the Vy, Alina was starkly reminded of how it had been a scant 4 years ago, when she was merely 16. She had been a girl then, unaccustomed to the mantle of Sainthood. The Apparat and White cathedral had marked her 17th name-day with the mantle being a crushing one. Then, her 2 year exile and slumber had forced her to become a woman. Her childishness of girlhood burned in the fire she swore to her followers had purged her of sin, and whitened her hair for eternity. In truth, her hair was going to stay white perhaps centuries more.  

She adjusted the reins of her mare, pulled close to Tamar as the procession began again. The Kefta Alina wore today, while green, would soon be changed to gold as they moved closer to the lands around Os Alta. The Duchy of Udova had sent their to-be Duchess a cape of ermine-fur and purple velvet, which she knew was safely packed into a trunk. The traditional offerings of bread and salt had passed her lips many a time as they’d picked their way north. While old maps of Ravka noted the Vy as being from Kiribirsk to Os Alta, a second wing of the Vy, known as the Yuzhnyy, ran from Dva Stolba to Os Alta, passing Keramzin as the major source of trade and travel for the southern expanse of Ravka.

The crossroads of the two Vy’s was directly west of Os Alta by a good thirty miles. Balakariev loomed before the procession, and Alina raised her hand. They halted, and Alina looked over her shoulder to regard the followers. Entire villages had vacated to follow their savior, and Alina tilted her head to the side to count the number of women, children, and older men. Normally, all of them wouldn’t be the kind to fight a war against the Darkling, but they’d followed her. The Apparat’s claws were in the hand of the Lantsov Pretender. His Soldat sol were hers to command. Indeed, Alina noted their brown robes emblazoned with her sunburst. She nodded to them, drew a line with her pinky finger.

Be covert. Be on the outlook for spies. 

The weeks of training, a scant eight, had turned them from a poor force to a crack fighting team that rivaled any of the top First Army regiments. The 22nd would be their only superior. Alina couldn’t wait to show them off to Nikolai. In those eight weeks, she and her soldiers had developed a sign language of finger symbols and codes that showed who was foe or friend. Her raised hand to pause the procession had in of itself been a symbol - keep the flock together. Amongst her followers, plain-clothes Soldats were herding the faithful into a tighter group.

Their leader, Vladim Ozwal reined in his steed and bowed his head, his hand clenched to his chest.

“Sankta, What do you require?”

“Look out for spies. Disperse some of your men to the town to ensure there are no threats. Send a rider to-” Alina removed her crown and melted one of the antler fronds off it. She tied the bit’s slender tip off with a green hair-ribbon and handed it to Vladim. “-to give this to the Fox-Saint and tell him that I will be awaiting him in the inn’s bed-room.”

Vladim bowed his head, splayed his fingers out and wheeled his horse. Her commands were barked out without a word spoken. The sign-language provided the perfect covert operative in case the Darkling’s spies had slipped amongst her faithful. Alina let a smile touch her lips, and urged her horse forward.

The procession wound its way down the hill and spilled into the town. Alina, reining in her horse, accepted glasses of tea, thick slices black bread and salt. The flour stores were starkly low, but someone had still offered up the loaf to feed her. Another, sadder smile reached her face. She let the sunlight fill the town in thanks, and swung off her horse. Her boots hit the cobblestones with a welcome thud and she reached for Olga’s arm. Even though she was at full strength, her legs wobbled a little.

“Yes, Sankta?”

“Get me the mayor.” 

Olga nodded, and disappeared into the crowd. The town square of Balakariev was war torn and attempting to present as anything but. It succeeded remarkably. Scrappy blue flags painted with crude gold suns waved from the windows, and the double-headed eagle flapped overhead in the town square. The mayor, a major civil servant of Nikolai’s father’s generation came over with Olga on his arm. The two of them were markedly similar, and Olga bowed deeply. 

“My grandfather, Mayor Ivan Alexandrevich of Balakariev is delighted to offer you the use of his town, Sankta Sol.” Olga spoke for her elder, and he pinched her thin cheek, chuckling. “Indeed, Sankta,” He bowed deeply, and spread his arms. “I wish for you to take my home. We have many rooms-”

Alina knew refusing an offer would be sin, but she held up her hand before the mayor could worsen the bulging vein in his temple. “Your offer is most appreciated, good sir, However might I suggest you offer that room to his majesty Prince Nikolai and his General of First Army, Dominik Vertov? I live amongst my flock.” Alina’s voice softened and she folded her hands behind her back. “I am not one much suited for living amongst four walls these days, however-” She needed to offer an olive branch.

“I would be more than happy to dine with you and your esteemed family, sir.”

Ivan’s eyes widened in joy and he kissed Alina’s hand profusely. She sighed inwardly and Olga giggled, mouthing; he’s old fashioned, forgive him, Moya Sankta.

She smiled, and waved her free hand. Once her other hand was free of Ivan’s lips - which reminded her faintly of Vasily’s - Alina found herself swept into a whirlwind tour of the town. As she passed houses, market-squares and fountains, people stopped in their work and fell to their knees. Alina regarded them all coolly and let the light from a passing lantern flare in a sunburst for a moment - a sign of good fortune. 

It was as they were walking amongst the town’s outskirts that Alina’s eyes settled on the town’s church and the line of homeless flowing out from the door. She gathered her skirts, and moved closer to the Mayor. 

“Are there nuns here?”

“Indeed, Sankta. Mainly followers of the Order of Sankta Anastasia.”

Alina nodded. “And what do they line up for?”

“Pottage and tea, Sankta,” Olga’s fingers edged to her pistol. If there was anywhere for the Darkling’s spies, in the former sniper’s eyes, it was here. Alina shot her a glare. Not Here. The hand stilled, and moved back to its place at Olga’s belt. 

“May I be allowed to see them? To offer blessings?”

The mayor’s eyes widened. “Y-you would?”

“Is it not good faith to give unto those who are suffering?” Alina asked, quoting from the Istorii Sankt’ya. 

The Mayor’s eyes almost bulged out of his head as Alina swept off in a trail of skirts, dust, and the smell of unwashed bodies. Weeks amongst her followers, who while suffering from the ruins of starvation, still possessed homes and incomes, no matter how pitiful. These people were devoid of anything. She came up to the simple wooden doors and knocked on them. Gasps went up from the congregation. 

“Is there a reason this isn’t open?” She asked a woman waiting in the queue who held a babe to her chest. The little thing was hollow-eyed with hunger, and the woman wasn’t much older than her twenty years. 

“The Head Sister says they have no pottage to give.”

“Nonsense.” Alina scoffed, refusing to think clearly. She went to rap her fist against the door again, and then her head twisted back as a bugle call rang through the air. The roar of hoofbeats was growing louder with every passing moment, and she stepped down the stairs of the church in shock as the full swell of First Army’s 28 regiments - cavalry and infantry - streamed into the town. At their head was Nikolai, his kepi was bent a little, the uniform he wore covered in smuts from riding hard for evident weeks. He swiveled in the saddle and dismounted from his steed with the speed of a seasoned soldier. 

He was running to her. Alina’s heart stuttered in her chest and she tore up the street to him, not caring for the dust or how her hair looked or her skirts. She threw her arms wide, and ran straight into Nikolai’s waiting grasp. The crushing feeling of the collision with him knocked the air from her lungs, and she gasped in hysteria as he spun her around.

“Alina!” He cried. “We didn’t see your banners! I thought you were still back at Keramzin!” He gasped. 

“We did a lot of hard travel over the past weeks.” Alina breathed. 

Tears were pouring down her cheeks, and she cupped his face in her hands. She smiled, feeling the ghost of stubble against her palm. He’d not been shaving. The exhaustion and burned skin of his face gave her an estimate of the amount of land and time he’d covered from Chernast to Balakariev. Judging by the regiments he’d gathered, he’d amassed quite a mass of men and munitions. There was another bugle blast, and the artillery surged into the town. At the head of the crush of soldiers was Dominik, yelling orders to men and women. Isaak was at his side, snapping at the non-coms to get the lower ranks into file and dig latrines for the massive tent-city that was about to come into existence.

She watched Ivan and Olga head back to the town square to welcome the First Army to their humble town, and she turned her gaze back to the waiting crowd. Nikolai looked up, and his eyes widened at the gathered group. He sniffed, noted the closed blue doors of the church and fished in his pocket for his pocket-watch. Flipping it open, he noted the time - a little after the noon bell.

“Why’re they not open? It’s вторник.”

“Apparently the head sister has no pottage to give.”

Nikolai scoffed. “Let’s see about that.” He slipped his arm through Alina’s and the two of them moved back to the church. Knocking on the massive door, silence emanated back. He made a face. “Not even a priest. Hmm.”

His fingers shifted through his pockets and he pulled out a pair of lockpicks. Bending over, he began to pick the lock while the waiting crowd shifted from foot to foot and fidget. They were evidently used to such depravity as waiting with the patience of divinity. This was evidently not something remiss to them.

With a satisfying click, the lock gave and Nikolai pushed the doors open. He stepped in, and something under-foot twinged. He stopped cold, and held up his hand. 

“Tripwire.”

Alina’s eyes widened as Nikolai dropped to his knees and blindly touched the wire in front of him. With the slightest touch of his finger, he felt the tension in the wire and grimaced.

“Get them into the square.” He could feel the whole church under him being boobytrapped with enough fabrikator-explosive to level the church. He rose to his foot, and was almost free of the church’s doors when one of the congregants closest to him leaped forward. Nikolai moved too slow to catch the man’s fall, and both fell to the ground, right on the wire.

Alina screamed as the explosion rippled outward. What she felt next was the feeling of being lifted off her feet and thrown into the air. Looking down, she saw black wings emerging from Nikolai’s back and the sight of the Merzost flowing over his wounded skin to heal the tissue.

She flew backwards, threw a glass-plated window, and the whole world spiraled into darkness.

When Alina came to, she found herself lying on a cot in what was certainly the mayor’s wife’s bedchamber. She coughed, the stench of plaster and crud in her lungs. She hacked, wheezed, and struggled upright. Steady hands pushed her down, and she fought back wildly, clawing at the air.

“Calm down! Alina, it’s me!” 

Alina’s eyes flew open properly and she settled on Nikolai’s hands on her shoulders. She stopped fighting and stared up at him in shock. Her ears were ringing, blood dripped from her nose. She sneezed, and then her stomach roiled.

“Here.” Nikolai shoved a china basin under her chin and she expelled her stomach contents, all while he pulled back her hair. “Shh. it’ll be alright.” His wings were still looming out from behind his back. She wondered if they were a permanent fixture.

“T-the tripwire?” She wheezed. Nikolai sighed.

“A booby trap. I don’t think whoever did it accounted for the unhoused needing their food-stores of the day.” He noted her wide eyes and rushed to soothe her. “We’ve fed them and made sure they have space in the camp to be tended to and live in. No one died.”

“Except for the man who pushed you onto the wire.” Alina’s voice dropped. She wanted to maim the man, to blind him with her holy light and make him live as an example of what it meant to harm the man she loved.

“He was desperate, Alina.” Nikolai murmured. “I believe he merely panicked.” 

“Or he tried to kill you.” She spat. 

“That is for the saints to determine, not us.” He murmured against her hair. She snorted, and growled;

“I am a saint. I say he meant to kill you.”

“If it soothes you, no one else was hurt. The explosion was a foolish, home-made attempt. I don’t even know if they meant to kill us or anyone. It explains the lack of a priest and nuns. That is unusual. Maybe they retreated to the nunnery for the summer.”

“And left those people to starve?” She whispered.

“People are unkind.” He examined the disaster of her braided coiffure and sighed. Reaching over, he grabbed her brush and began to run the bristles through the silvery strands. The ribbons were carefully unwound and removed, and as he ran the brush through her curls, Alina realized no one since Genya had done her hair. She’d stuck it in a braid during her exiles and in hiding, and now, she was here, in the mayor of Balakariev’s wife’s bedroom, getting her hair brushed by Nikolai Lantsov.

Her stomach churned and she groaned.

“Tell me it was something I ate.” 

“Not sure on that.” He reached for a silver plate and held up an apple slice. “Here. this’ll help settle your stomach.”

“How? It’s Summer.”

“A little help from the Little Palace greenhouses.”

Alina breathed. 

“The Darkling rules over the Little Palace.”

“He’s neglectful of one of the tenets of building relations with Otkazat’kya. Those in positions even as lowly as gardeners appreciate basic respect and decency. I’ve known the gardeners of both palaces since I could walk.” He slipped the slice between her open lips. She bit down and the tart sweetness caused tears to bud in her eyes.

“Have your soldiers ravaged the town’s stores?” She blinked at him. He rolled his eyes. “I am but a man, Alina. Not even I as king can cease a marauding army from painting the town red.” 

She laughed and then groaned again. 

“No more jokes, you ass.”

He snickered, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I thought Grisha don’t get sick.”

“We don’t, but getting thrown through a window does leave more wounds than let on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I think of ways to dispose of my enemies.” 

“Your most powerful, most dangerous enemies,”

He winked, and traced a line down her cheek. “Mmm.” A dangerous glint entered his eyes and she sighed fondly. Fisting her fingers in his hair, she set the basin aside, and dragged him down into a deep kiss.

His tongue snuck out, pleading entrance, and she let him in without a moment’s hesitation. They’d slept together before this, starting from that night in Os Alta after he’d announced their engagement. It had been a hot night filled with sweaty sheets and sinful words that would burn lesser couples. 

This, however, was different. The kisses from Nikolai’s lips were hungrier, desperate. The monster within him was keening for her light, unafraid of it. She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the flex of muscle under her palm, and grinned.

“Mind taking that shirt off?”

“Only if I get to-” His lip brushed her earlobe and murmured; “Undress you.”

“Do the wings stay present?”

“Oh, yes. And the claws.” He tore off his gloves with his teeth and she gasped at the sight of his talons, imagining those onyx shards in her thighs.

“Bring it on, Moi Tsarsevich.” She purred, dragging him down with her. He hissed, his inky fangs finding purchase in the tender flesh of her neck. He sucked at the skin, leaving a shining, wet and reddened hickey. 

“That’s Moi Tsar, Sankta.” He growled. “And if you’re not good, I’ll have you begging for me to break you in half.”

“Oh, will you?” Alina teased, slipping a hand under his shirt, watching his eyes darken with that primal hunger. “Remind me, what did you say to me after my awakening?” She purred.

“‘I’ll not let you from my bed, even if you threaten to burn me to a pile of ash.’” Nikolai quoted, nipping her ear-tip with his teeth. 

“And are we staying true to that?” She examined the time on his pocket watch. “Or are you going to at least let me perform my services to my flock?”

Nikolai growled. “I much prefer your services here.”

Alina rolled her eyes and stroked his cheek.

“Then, you might want to get on your knees, Nikolasha.” Her grin turned devilish. 

“And start praying to your glorious Sankta to let you confess.”

The look he gave her was so hungry, so wanting, that Alina purred and shoved him back into the bed. To any listening maid or soldier, the noise the two made would send even the heartiest souls scampering for their prayer books, ears burning. The pent-up wanting of two years of no intimacy (they’d never figured out how to do it through the tether even while awake), made them into wild beasts that raked clawed hands across one another’s flesh and their releases to be violent, sweat-soaked and filled with the guttural cries of two people so deeply hungry for the other that the world and heavens would buckle under them.

As Alina snuggled into Nikolai’s arms, he kissed her soft hair and idly braided it under his fingers. At long last, the monster within him settled, and he splayed his wings out to cocoon them both in its inky embrace. She sleepily pressed her ring-clad hand to his chest and she nuzzled into his pec, murmuring something.

“What was that?” He yawned sleepily.

“I love you.”

Nikolai’s fingers stilled in braiding her hair, and a smile split his face in two. 

“You know, you’ve never said that to me once.”

She reached for a pillow to hit him with, but the wing encircling her trapped her movements. He chuckled at her glare. “Don’t think of burning me. Not after that sinful tongue of mine-”

Alina buried her face in her hands and groaned. “There’s people listening!”

“Let them. You deserve to be worshiped.” He winked at her angry look and ran a thumb down her cheek. “And, you know you loved it.” 

His lips pressed feathery kisses to the tip of her nose, her eyelids and lips in quick succession, like tiny star bursts on the canvas of her face. She giggled, and snuggled closer to him. “Don’t…” she yawned. “Let go of me.”

“No such chance, Moya Sol.”

She smiled, and threw an arm over his stomach, then let out a loud snore and nestled closer. Nikolai stifled a laugh and rolled onto his side, bringing her closer to him so they could spoon. He kissed her neck and nestled his face into the crook of it. 

They both slept easy and for a long, long time. When they woke, a whole day had passed. With their rising, came plans to formulate an attack against the Darkling. However, these were not the half-baked plans of Nikolai and Alina in the attack on the Grand Palace 4 summers ago, but a plan that would work without fail, having no gaps for which the Darkling to poke his fingers into.

It would be perfect, it would work, and no more casualties than the ones naming towns from Os Alta to the Fold would be added. No more men would be cut down by the Volcra, no more women and children made widows and fatherless. 

The Sun Saint had her fox, and the Fox had his queen once more with him. All was right in the world, and all would be so. Even if things went poorly - which they would not - all would be well, and the hell of the Darkling’s rule would end not with a whimper, but a bang.

They would meet him where all of it began - at the Making of the Heart of the World, and from there, send the bastard son of a bitch back to where he truly belonged - hell. And with him would go all of his monstrous kith and kin.

End of chapter 9.

[sasukimimochi]

His eyes scanned the horizon, making sure he was on track to get home, but then his legs faltered as he saw something in the distance, between the many aspen and evergreens. A small splash of color amongst white and faded jade. He slipped, exclaiming as he tumbled down the slope, as shallow as it had been. The man groaned, and lifted himself slowly while dusting off the snow now stuck to him from the rolling.

            “Are you…Alright?”

            The man’s head shot up and met with another pair of eyes- like fields of ice, but soft. He’d never seen such eyes. “I…y…yeah, wait,” He shook his head and stood up, now noticing the ethereal man kneeling beside a frozen spring, thin, ivory digits stained pink from the cold and held calmly in his lap. This man…who was he? Why was he out here?

            “Uh…What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.” The ethereal figure quietly looked back to the stream, eyes somehow…speaking a thousand words, but none that the other could recognize.

            “Waiting…”

OK. I decided to bite the bullet and post this.

These are character designs for an original cultivation story (would be BL btw, i realize i forgot to write the genders on the sheets) and i was kind of nervous to post them for some reason so i've had them for a while now (as you can see at the end of 2022)

But i love the characters obv, and since i didn't draw today again due to trying to get some posts prepped for the future, i thought...what better time to share these than now?

um well, i hope you like the concepts? i don't really have a summary for the book yet. since its an original though i wanted to do a lot more research into cultivation before i began actually writing again (i have some bits and bobs but they need to be redone probably) uh, basically the premise is though that Wyn (chestnut hair) is disguised as a woman for an arranged marriage but then the husband he marries, when he lifts the veil, is very happy abt it and they end up having a happy life- for however long that lasts. something happens and he dies (he's already dead at the start of 1 this aint a spoil lol) and so we begin 50 years later where every day he waits at the spot his husband was supposed to meet him no matter the weather, and he meets a rogue cultivator who likes to go by Aspen. Ensue hijinks lol

Drawings that didn't make the cut [or you know, first scribbles/thoughts] are under the read more line.

honestly tho idk the rules of cultivation stories which is holding me back, i'm so interested in cultivation now but i have read 2 danmei and thats it rn

so i'm clearly lacking the needed experience sadlfhasdg-- anyway...

[void-botanist]

Thade Adventures: Negotiator

OCs: Thade Orech-Pabat and Orvi Orech-Pabat

Words: 298

Content warnings: a little suggestive

Taglist: @vacantgodling

Thade leaned back in his desk chair and answered the call. “Hey babe, what’s got your dick in a twist this time?”

Orvi ignored him. “Did you seriously offer them tariffs?”

“Yeah, but they’re not gonna take it.” He picked up a pen and started to fiddle with it. “That’s the point. They’ll come back with a better offer tomorrow.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. They’re just pulling you into a better position.”

“No, that’s what you would do, Orv.  This is how we do things in Landris.”  He could practically hear Orvi wiping a hand over his face, and before he could get another unreasonable response, he added, “You gotta stop calling me right after a meeting, man.  I know you have Wyn running everything back to you but it doesn’t make sense if you don’t get the context.  And you don’t get it.”

Orvi was taking a deep breath, which meant the wheels were turning.  “Fine.”

“Great,” Thade said cheerfully.  “So how are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” he said in the exact same tone of voice, leaving off the “not that you care”.

“What are you wearing?”

Orvi made a scathing scoff, but didn’t hang up.  “What do you think I’m wearing?  Court attire.”

“The green one?”

“No, the red.”

“Eh, that one’s good too.  I wish I were under it right now.  You really—”  

He heard the click of the call cutting off.  Predictable.  That wouldn’t stop Orvi from calling to complain at him, but maybe it had gotten him hot and bothered in return.  Or just bothered—he’d take what he could get.  Unfortunately he was hot and bothered now just thinking about slinking under Orvi’s robes…he eventually came back to himself, pen still tapping at his cheek, and returned to his agenda.  

[mini-uzzy]

.

[hirokiyuu]

oh i dont talk abt wyn much on here but ive had a few dif thoughts lately

his most notable quality is being immediately adoptable to most ppl who meet him HOWEVER i do think it would be immensely funny if due to his status as the Premier Potions Expert of the 21st Century vil fully does not see him as an underclassman to guide but as like. a colleague or even senior to discuss potions and brewing with LMAO i think its good for baby to have a lot of ppl who treat him as a baby but vil as someone who respects him as a guy who can do potions relaly good is so funny to me. worlds most adoptable child and vil doesnt even care vil wants to know what wyn thinks abt the difference between these two very similar plants when it comes to brewing at low temperatures.

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

My DM thanked me for encouraging in-game party chat yesterday. 🥰 I am getting a good grade in tabletop game, which is both normal to want and possible to achieve,

[crusted-rumpup-posting]

wyn here! red friend isn't feeling well so i'm helping it out. no sneaking up on it, yeah? or else.

[lookbluesoup]

I've had a lot of people interacting with my post yesterday about wishing there was more fandom meta discussion and exploration of "missing moments" with... huge amounts of fear and insecurity.

And I get that it's hurtful to share stuff in a fandom space and potentially be met with silence. It's easy to feel drowned out or get overwhelmed in a big fandom. It's terrifying to be in an online space and potentially get harassed by assholes who think anyone who looks at canon differently from them are evil.

I have definitely left spaces before where one or both of those things were so prevalent that I didn't feel like it was worth it trying to be part of that community. Your feelings are valid, they're legitimate fears. But it really hurts my heart to see so many creative people be so afraid.

Based on what I've seen, I assume that many DO want a more interactive fandom experience, in spite of that anxiety.

I can't tell anyone what they should do. I can advise you that fear and insecurity usually come from the inside - from past hurts, and that understanding them and deciding you don't want to be afraid anymore, that you deserve a space and a voice, is an important step in being able to reach out and form healthy, genuine connections with people over the things that you love.

But you are the only one who can decide what's good for you. Maybe you need therapy, or a different fandom, or a different environment. Maybe you need to cut some toxic people out of your life. I'm a stranger on the internet and I'll never be able to answer that question for you.

In lieu of that, I'll share some tips that have generally helped me feel safe in fandom spaces even though I have sometimes have anxiety attacks just trying to talk to friends.

Block people. I am dead serious. This bit is extra long because of how serious I am. 1) You're deliberately putting your comfort first, and that's a good thing to practice and 2) You won't have to worry much about those people invading your space

You don't have to hate them, they don't have to be evil, you just have to decide this isn't someone who's opinions you want in your corner of fandom. If they keep posting way off base critique of your favorite character, or imply liking a ship/character is somehow evil, or are just generally negative and you feel worse after seeing their posts most of the time? Take care of yourself. Block them.

If you really don't like their takes, you can go into your settings and use the filter tool to hide posts that their username is mentioned in from your dash. You don't have to see them or deal with them. Ignorance is bliss.

This is not being mean, it's not being an asshole, it's not being insensitive.. It's telling yourself "My comfort matters." We're in a hobby space, here to enjoy ourselves. You can always unblock someone later if you want.

If someone sends you anon hate. Block anon. If you MUST reply to the ask to show your friends or get the last word in, screenshot it and post the screenshot to respond to. But click that menu beside the actual ask and block the shit out of that Anon. Afaik they'll be IP blocked, it will be much harder for them to send you additional hate. (Not impossible, but harder, and most will move on to easier targets.)

You are not "winning" by leaving them unblocked, you're not proving that you're brave or that they don't matter, you're just leaving yourself open to more abuse. Block anon hate.

Unfollow people if the content they put on your dash upsets you. You don't have to dislike them personally. You don't have to justify it. Being "mutuals" is often overemphasized on here. You can be friends, you can read their fics or send them asks and be supportive without having to see every single thing they share. Following is about curating your dash, not picking friends.

Don't post when you're angry. I know that person bashing your fav character is an idiot but do not vaguepost or call them out in a fit of rage. Take a step back, remember it's fandom and not the entire world. If the other person seems interested in discussion, you can have a good-faith talk about it, but don't go into it determined to change their mind. You're just exchanging information, and you're allowed to disagree. If they're only hating and clearly not interested in talking, then write something positive about your character instead, in your own post, and focus on maintaining a space with people who you actually like talking to.

Hopefully you're seeing that the above advice is about building a safe, manageable fandom corner for yourself, and feeling powerful enough to enforce it. That's important. You don't owe people online interaction.

Fandom acquaintances can certainly grow into strong friendships, but not everyone, or even MOST of the people in fandom, deserve to be your friend and all the social obligations that entails. It would be exhausting and stressful to do otherwise, and it's not practical.

Now for positive action!

Nurture a handful of good friendships. If you brought some to fandom with you, great. You're a book club now. Each other's main "support", who (hopefully) do genuinely enjoy talking together. Fandom at large might not always give you affirmation, but a few good friends who know you giving you that support will be much more meaningful and sincere.

Talk to people you like! Say nice things about their art, writing, or characters. Reblog from them. Show a genuine interest in talking to them and seeing their creations. I know it's scary, but if you're trying to make connections, you do have to reach out! Lots of us are scared and most of us don't hear that we matter to someone else often enough. Be the change you want to see. You may be surprised to find that opening a door allows others to come through it, too, and they'll often try to connect back.

Not everyone will reciprocate the interest, for a variety of reasons which won't usually be your fault. That's ok! If you like their stuff, keep supporting them because that's part of what keeps fandom alive, but look for friendship elsewhere. Even if it doesn't work out and you don't hit it off, you tried!

More people agree with your takes than you think. A lot of them might be scared, too, because going against fanon mainstream is intimidating. But you'll have a much harder time finding like-minded folks if you never share your takes/writing/art/etc for people to find. Putting your voice out there is an investment that might take some time to pay off, but if it makes one other person out there feel less alone and more validated, surely that's worth it?

You're allowed to change your mind. About characters, about people, about fandom, about yourself. You are not beholden forever to your first or second opinion about a topic.

[thewynnershop]