#::the gossamer priest::

[sirensdxn]

November DWC Day 3 - Forest/Morality

✧✧✧ Journey into Eromai Epolomono ✧✧✧

Chapter 2

-Written by Ra’hsen

“Ru’lan let go.”

The feathered raptor did not release. Trapped between those sharpened fangs rested an elaborately carved beam of wood once intended to accent the training room walls. Now it proved to be the perfect chew toy for a rebellious ravasaur. 

“Drop it.” Ra’hsen gestured down toward the floor mirroring the basic training he’d been given before the Syl’voran’s disappearance. Part of him wondered if the two would delight in knowing their precious son had helped decorate with his own artistic sense. He’d have to save it just in case, that is if he could get Ru’lan to release. 

The Reverend settled on his knees and stared into those vast but fierce eyes for a time. A fearless hand firmly gripped the beam mere centimeters from Ru’lan’s teeth. Moist and hot breath escaped the creature's nose and mouth before answering Ra’hsen’s command with a snort. Down the beam fell with a thud. 

This hadn’t been the first time the now fully grown raptor had decided to throw a fit, nor would it likely be the last. Ra’hsen picked up the beam and moved it into a spot Ru’lan would at least have difficulty climbing to. His single sliver eye peered at his pacing housemate, those large talons had worn a path into the once grassy play area.  In adults and children alike destructive tendencies were a sign of stress, as was pacing. He stepped forward and held out a flat hand to signal his intentions. After a brief moment of hesitation Ru’lan stepped forward and rested his chin upon the hand. Ra’hsen smiled and ran his free hand over their nose toward the mane of feathers. His expression darkened for a moment as he felt around and pulled away, loose feathers. 

“Seems as if house life is not for big boys now is it, Ru’lan?” The priest continued to pet the raptor for a time. “How about we schedule you a little vacation, hm? A chance to roam the forest with your buddies?” 

Ru’lan’s excited tail swatted against the ground.

Still, it didn’t answer the cause of the creature’s distress. No child be it man or dinosaur thrived without their parents. Ru’lan may have been adult grown but his actions were no better than a teenager first discovering how to talk back. Not to mention his particular species were known to be family driven and extremely social creatures. While Ra’hsen had plenty of experience raising and training avians, raptor’s distant descendants, they were still entirely different species. With a deep breath he walked into the cabin, Ru’lan followed close behind. 

Ra’hsen had finally gotten used to climbing their stairs without second guessing his next step. At some point everything snapped into place, perhaps after his thirtieth day tending to their rose bushes. A distant gaze fell upon the unlit living space as light only trickled in the windows. Specks of dust danced in the evening sun’s rays and reminded the priest of his need to clean. Time for another winter clean it seemed. 

A smirk formed on his lips. It’d be just like them to arrive days before Winterveil with gifts in hand to apologize for their delay. It’d be what, two years without a holiday? The thought left a pang in his chest as he sat beside the table. Two years without Rowan. Two years without his dear friends. Two years spent staring at a bracelet that flickered once every several moons. Two years going on two centuries of endless waiting and stagnation. His loneliness gradually shifted to silent anger as his palm curled into a fist. 

Elven mortality was a funny thought. For some two years were nothing more than a blink of an eye. An entire mortal life could flutter into existence, bare children, grandchildren, and flicker out as an elf barely began their youth. While others mirrored their shorter lived brethren with lives a few years longer than a human’s. The Reverend just happened to be the lucky, or unlucky one who inherited those longer lives. He’d begun to witness his mate lose his life before him. The pale face he loved already showed signs of aging despite elven blood rushing through Rowan’s veins as well. Perhaps Ra’hsen should have counted his passing as a blessing, but his absence still weighed over him greater than the two who’s house he sat in that very moment. The same two who would witness his own aging with time as youth continued to cling to their features. 

Stuck in the Reverend’s mind the already lonely raptor did not handle being ignored. In some ways Ra’hsen could see where his avian friends learned their ego. Perhaps it was in the very same blood that the two species shared. Still, Ru’lan showed more compassion than the priest’s proud birds. Ru’lan pressed his nose against and peered up with confused vibrant blue eyes. Eyes that reminded Ra’hsen of the ocean and his late fiancé. 

“Apologies,” he whispered as his fist unwrapped and once again ran over the raptor’s head. “I didn’t mean anything to you, dear.” 

Ru’lan’s chin rested on the Reverend’s lap and yawned. Ra’hsen supposed Ru’lan wasn’t the only one missing someone. He stared at the quill and paper across the table out of reach. Maybe the sleepy one had the right idea, it was time for a nap. He could write Bellana in a few hours if not the morning. 

Thank you for inviting me to write @konietzko-sylvoran

Mentions: @talthorn-sylvoran @jorithas

Challenge by: @daily-writing-challenge

#::the gossamer priest:: #konietzko lumenstone #talthorn sylvoran #jorithas #novemberwc2022 #daily writing challenge #forest #mortality

[isaut]

glancing over at diluc, you watch as he tenses his jaw for just a moment before relaxing, the way he rolls his shoulders back slightly. he looks dashing, per usual, with the curls of his hair defined and wearing his nicest suit. the gossamer diamonds of your veil cause the stained glass sunrays to speckle rainbow across your vision. you want nothing more than to reach over and squeeze his hand.

the priest has been droning on for too long.

diluc catches your gaze and glances over at you, a wash of calm flushing his face. his brows soften, his jaw slacks just enough.

"you look beautiful," diluc whispers.

the priest doesn't miss a beat.

"so do you," you whisper back. then, you mouth to him: "i love you."

the corner of diluc's mouth ticks up. "i love you too," he whispers instead.

the corner of the priest's mouth ticks up as he continues reading from the book before him.

diluc's hands are gloved and steady, as he takes your hand and slides this grandmother's ring on your finger. it's diamond and sapphires, artfully laid out. he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

you don't let go.

when the priest announces-- finally-- that you could share your first kiss as a married couple, you follow diluc's hands up to your veil. instead of letting it cascade down your back, you rest it over both your heads, as an illusion of privacy from the majority of mondstadt who sit within the church's halls.

diluc presses his lips against yours. keeps his hands at your waist for as long as he can. dreams, as he cups your cheek, about sliding his tongue against yours.

instead, he pulls away while the entourage cheers, still willingly captured under your veil.

"i love you," you whisper to him.

he nods, a faint smile on his lips that reaches the tears in his eyes. you reach up to cup his cheek, and kiss him one more time.

#diluc x reader #he would NEVER get married in mondstadt's church but lets pretend ok

[aylinvail]

Tanna Talk: This Week in the Rogue Trader AO3 fandom (March 17 - 23 2024)

Hey hey hi, I want to be annoying on main so I thought it would be fun to start doing these weekly summaries of "What's new in the AO3 Rogue Trader fandom?" because my little rabbit brain can't keep up with the sheer amount of content and I loved @holylustration's dopamine week and think, you know what would be cool? Weekly newsletter style dop week minidose. This goes out to you @pycnolite my darling fellow organizer brained fan. Anyway, this is user aylinvail reporting to you live over vox caster from the Starseeker Bridge.

Events

Flowers of Spring (March 21, 2024) has officially concluded. Flowers of Spring is a floral-themed Warhammer 40k Rogue Trader Edition. You can find all the entries on the Flowers of Spring (March 21 2024) tag. This was preceded by Rosette Coordinated Strike Day which was dedicated in honor of Inquisitor @leadflowers's birthday.

Cool new fics

Maybe the fic did something new. Maybe it innovated. Maybe it's an entirely new concept we haven't seen yet. A non-comprehensive list. Here's what I chomped on this week.

Salt in the Wound - user Weretoad_Writer explores the aftermath of the decision to exterminatus Rykad Minoris. Excerpt: "When you’re a hammer, every problem looks like a nail, right? So either take a swing or get the fuck away from me!”

Omnissiah Forgive Me - user @jaal-ama-daravv has launched the long awaited Pasqal/RT longfic. Excerpt: "Okay, Tech-Priest, you don’t get to die that easily.”

Killing Instinct - user @nerendus cooked a very sexy Tervantias the Archmachinator x RT dead dove fic. Excerpt: “Then don't allow it,” the Rogue Trader suggests. “Force me into submission as I do the same to you. Break me as I break you.”

Who updated?

Just because my silly rabbit brain is at capacity for longfics doesn't mean it's impossible to round everyone else's plot rabbits up.

Theatre of Hearts - RT/Nocturne of Oblivion arranged marriage. And from what I hear, getting really cultural difference-flavor of interesting.

My Knight So Daring - An Imperial Knight!Heinrix x noble!RogueTrader arranged marriage AU. And from what I hear, getting really hot.

Edge of Daybreak Unbroken - Heretic Rogue Trader gets brought back to the start of the game. Time travel shenanigans ensue.

Into Temptation - Ministorum priest x Marazhai x Heinrix. Dead dove!

Pigeons and Eagles - Argenta/Cassia! Enemies to Friends to Lovers.

Tapestry of Fate II - Heinrix/RT. The Godmother of Rogue Trader Heinrix fics. Elena M is currently the furthest along the events of the game out of all the current longfics.

Starseeker - Heinrix/RT intrigue rewrite of game events with Kunrad-related canon divergence. And a shoujo romance.

I Can Be Your China Doll, If You’d Like To See Me Fall - RT/Calcazar. RT is voidborn and Theo's daughter, has met Calcazar before game events.

gossamer of starlight - RT/Yrliet. Yrliet watches her elantach's dynasty fall apart in slow motion. Non chronological.

A Thousand Floating Worlds - OC/Calligos Winterscale where Calligos becomes the Rogue Trader to save his Found Family from Interrogator Calcazar.

Addendums

will be updated, changed in the next few days, changes logged here. I just needed to get this out of my brainstem.

- Added I Can Be Your China Doll, If You’d Like To See Me Fall, gossamer of starlight as of March 22. Added A Thousand Floating Worlds on March 23.

#rogue trader #warhammer 40k #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40k fanfic #rogue trader crpg #warhammer 40k rogue trader #marazhai aezyrraesh #heinrix #cassia orsellio #sister argenta #heinrix van calox #ao3 fanfic #archive of our own #fanfiction #fanfic #lorraine's list

[dent-de-leon]

I’m not sure if you wanted prompts from that kiss list or it was just inspiration, but if you want writing prompts….. maybe 3 and/or 10 for widomauk? 🥺

Hi!! uhh sorry I took too long on this I got like a couple paragraphs in and then it just kept going. Anyway, here's some Moonweaver festival widomauk. Thanks for the prompt!

“Caleb! You have to come see this! There’s lights dancing in the sky!” 

The Moonweaver’s ribbons wind between the mountain peaks cresting high above, snow capped summit scintillating and shimmering like diamond dust, brilliant beams of neon green cascading into electric blue, opalescent radiance shining brighter than every star. Time slowing to the golden halcyon haze of a lucid dream. 

Heavy wingbeats echo overhead to the chorus of distant roars, wyverns soaring across the sky in dark streaks against the glowing night, their riders threading gossamer rays of light through a sea of stars. Thundering applause and uproarious cheers ring out in all of Lyrengorn, the crowd merry with song and dance as the Moonweaver’s radiance wove through a crystal clear solstice night.

The sight steals Molly’s breath away, leaves him starry-eyed and moonstruck, entranced by the ethereal night above. He throws his hands up in the air and twirls around in the whirling snow, flurrying powdery flakes alighting on his horns and crusting his long dark eyelashes. For just a moment, Caleb can imagine him catching a falling star, winding ribbons of light passing through his claws. 

If anyone could catch a shooting star, it would be Mollymauk. He burned with a light all his own, eclipsing even Catha’s pearly glow. Caleb always loved watching comets blaze across the horizon like a fireball called down by the gods, burning hotter than the Nine Hells. Incandescent. But how fast they faded as they fell to earth, their light snuffed out in a heartbeat. Too good to last. 

Warm, bubbling laughter escapes Mollymauk until he collapses in the snow still reeling with giggles, breathlessly giddy and delighted and so vibrantly full of life. 

“Oh. That’s lovely,” he sighs. And then, tail swinging excitedly at the thought, “Ya think they’d let me ride one of those?”

This is the side of Mollymauk that always brings a smile to Caleb’s eyes. The wide-eyed, easily dazzled wonder; his boundless curiosity and love for every little mystery and simple pleasure this world had to offer. Savoring the taste of fine wines and summer strawberries. Luxuriating in the soothing steam and perfumed bath salts of a lavish bathhouse. Threading wildflowers through tousled dark curls, horns jingling with chains of gold and silver and shiny little trinkets. 

Caleb wants to see Molly catch a glimpse of an airship as it lights up and takes flight, the fanged grin when he stands before a volcano for the first time. Bask in that patch of winter sun Mollymauk always carried with him. 

The Moonweaver herself must have cast her radiant glow upon Mollymauk when he first woke, bathed him in a pool of glimmering moonlight and washed Lucien’s bloody past away. Even now he was haloed in her celestial glow, soft pearlescent rays shining down upon him. 

Caleb was born and raised under Empire rule, burned and bled for it. And for all his life, worship of the Moonweaver was strictly forbidden. But of course Molly would flirt with the temptingly forbidden and mystifying, ingratiate himself to a god who was themself an outsider. It did not hurt that her domain was the easy allure of play and dance, trickery and passion. The keeper of midnight trysts. 

Even among the sanctioned deities, every temple in the Dwendalian Empire was government-owned and run, clerics and priests meticulously vetted to suit their needs—always kept on a tight leash. Religious practice in itself was a social taboo; the empire highly discouraged divine magics, fearing any earnestness in prayer that might turn to treasonous fervor. And yet, Mollymauk had still believed. And hid. Kneeling down under a full moon and carefully tucking his idols of Sehanine away. 

Caleb had never seen Mollymauk Tealeaf worship so freely, lost in a crowd where everyone was so warmly welcoming and happy. The crisp night air was alight with music and laughter and cheer. Dancers twirling their partners as glistening auroras rippled and swirled above. Children chasing after each other howling with laughter. Merchants passing out hot drinks and fresh baked sweets, the scent of gingerbread wafting in the air. 

He’d gone to festivals like this once. Long ago, in the flowering fields of Blumenthal. Wulf sharing a sip of his drink as Astrid grabs him by the arm, steals him away. Leads him off into the crowd of merry dancers and lets her hands fall to his waist—

He can’t linger too long on those stolen moments, the rare smiles and tender touches, gentle kisses in a hidden alcove after the clock strikes midnight. Every shred of cold comfort desperately scoured in the darkness. It bleeds together with all the rest, the gnawing pit of shame and guilt and grief hollowing him inside out. That life and name he can never return to. 

But he isn’t there, buried in the ruins of it. He’s here. He’s Caleb. And beside him, Mollymauk’s joy is infectiously radiant. 

Molly revels in the beauty of the Moonweaver’s star-woven tapestry, the bleeding crescent sliver of Ruidus merely a distant gleam, like a half-forgotten dream. On nights when the faraway moon flared a bright, blazing vermillion, it was far too reminiscent of the Somnovum’s burning red Eyes gazing down upon them. 

“You see that cluster of stars that look like a weird duck? Just there?” Mollymauk asks, pointing up at a shimmery haze of blue as dark as the midnight sea. Pinpoints of starlight sparkled in the mist, drawing Caleb’s eye farther north, to a beacon of breathtaking light. “Has different names,” Molly adds, “but Gustav says lots of elves call that the Mollymawk. It’s…a seabird. Or something. Big bloody thing, so don’t fuck with ‘em. Some say they’re a sign. An omen. Or maybe they’re just oversized seagulls that love to go for a swim. But I always thought they’re a pretty sight.” 

He tilts his head up to the light of full moon, basks in Catha’s glow and tries to glean the pattern of stars nestled by her side, tracing imaginary lines between half remembered constellations, seeing stories come alive in the winter sky. His hand falls, unbidden, to the pocket where he kept his tarot cards. You should ask him for a reading, Caleb admonishes himself, Molly would like that. Except, he’s still too afraid to take that step. 

He can’t bear the thought of what Mollymauk might see.  

A memory flits back to him in the soft snowfall and prismatic patterns of ambient light. Molly’s dextrous claws carding through the deck, deftly shuffling. “I saw her again,” he confesses, a quiet chuckle escaping him, eyes shining bright with mischief. “Beautiful and eccentric as ever. Read my fortune. It was a good card. Well, there are no bad cards—sort of. But this, aye, this was a good one.” He flips the card on the top of the stack, revealing a stunning portrait of Yasha wreathed in a sunlit halo. Shimmering wings unfurled to frame her imposing frame, a bouquet of blooming flowers cradled in her arms. Shackles shattering into ash and dust. Her soul breaking free. 

“Do you know what this means?” Molly asks, leaning in conspiratorially. 

The card is titled Love, and it makes his traitorous heart nearly stop. 

Caleb catches a flash of something out of the corner of his eye, coasting along on the late night breeze, fluttering away in the moonlight. 

A long white satin ribbon streams from one of Molly’s horns, tied on for good luck. Molly had fastened a matching one to Caleb’s own wrist, tying it in a neat bow despite his protests, frantic pulse beating against the whisper of soft sheer fabric. Hands sweating as Molly traced the delicate trimming with careful claws, thumb brushing over his lifeline. “Oh come on, Mr. Caleb. It’s festive.”

Although baffled and a bit flustered, Caleb was honored to be included. Mollymauk’s worship had always been such a personal matter; a quiet, private moment. An unspoken intimacy between him and the moon that always lit his steps through darkness. 

Swathed in silvery moonlight and whispering over his shimmering glass swords—how much of that was for show? A play, a performance, cloaking himself in the rich mantle of superstition and ceremony. They say Sehanine shelters her followers in the shadows, secreting them away under the cover of darkness. But Mollymauk, ever the flashy peacock, had mastered the delicate art of masquerading in a veil of prismatic color and glittering light. 

An ornate coat embroidered in the symbols of every god permitted in the Empire’s pantheon, the sign of the Platinum Dragon hanging from his neck. Idols of Sehanine safely tucked away in hidden pockets. Crescent moons subtly stitched into the lining of his coat. His love for the Moonweaver woven into the elaborate ornamentation of his tarot cards, inked into his very skin among blooming flowers and winding snakes. A secret covenant between him and his moonlit goddess. 

Molly’s worship is a declaration of love. 

Moonlit prayers and pleas whispered into warm skin at the witching hour, reverent and desperate and strung out with the sweetest sighs. A drunken song dissolving into bursts of giddy laughter. Lingering touches that echo for lifetimes after. Mollymauk worships the way he fights, scrappy and passionate and fiercely protective, bleeding his own heart dry. A sacrificial knife glinting in the last rays of twilight. His blood spilling down the alter, giving up all that he is. A body rent in two with the last gasping breath and trembling hands of a life tangled up in too many loose threads.

Caleb worships no one. Bows before no god, not even the savior whose idol hangs heavy around his throat. The simple comfort of a stranger’s kind touch and gentle words; a favor from a faceless god he could never return. And still, Caleb had never sworn himself to any Prime Deity in the pantheon. Never cared for the paltry promises of faith and salvation, not when he could bend reality to his will with his own mortal hands, manifest anything his broken heart desired. 

And what his heart ached and longed for more than anything was for Mollymauk Tealeaf to rise from the grave, laugh in the Raven Queen’s face just one last time. Finally open his eyes. Mollymauk lies naked, bloodied, broken, his ruined body torn from mangled flesh and bone and rot, painstakingly pried from Lucien’s decaying husk like some grisly, mocking pantomime of birth. Stripped bare and caked in blood and all curled up, tail wrapped around himself. He looks…young. Vulnerable. Caleb is seized by the sudden, fiercely protective urge to cover Molly’s still form with his own coat, to somehow shield his prone body from all the lifeless eyes of this horrific place. 

They don’t have any time for that. Caleb traces his fingertips along the wicked scar bisecting Molly’s torso, the one he dug his own claws into. His hand comes away drenched in blood—Molly’s blood, once so warm, but going cold—and he scrambles for the little lucky stone in his pocket, trembling as seven pairs of eyes all fall to him. 

He can do this. He has to. 

But it’s Caleb’s first time unravelling the Matron’s thread, and he is no cleric. He has no prayers or offering to lay at Molly’s feet. He has only his own magic, a lifetime of study and discipline and desperation coursing through his veins in burning clarity. He kneels and begs for Mollymauk’s soul to hear them. And when the spell fails, when the light dies and Molly’s body is still and lifeless and—empty. He’s empty. Even though Caleb promised, gave his word, swore he’d be Empty no longer—

When it all falls apart, Caleb has only himself to blame. 

If only he had something—anything—to contribute to the ritual. A worthy offering.

But he had nothing. Only a letter left unread, still buried in the grave, that Mollymauk would never see. “Your name is Mollymauk. Mollymauk Tealeaf.” Only a memory encased in stained glass, a rainbow of brilliant color glistening in the warm candlelight, the centerpiece of hearth and home. “Come and find us.” Only a broken goodbye as he gently brushes the sweaty hair from Molly’s eyes, leaves him with a kiss that tastes only of regret. 

Caleb is godless, faithless. And more than that, he is already damned; death and grief and guilt sink their claws into him still, every spark of flame conjuring shadows of his old home. He has no illusions of the weight his own sins carry, understands far too intimately that he may be beyond redemption. Too little too late. Maybe. For him. But if he can save another soul, pull someone else back from the brink, again and again, spare them from his own doomed fate—

Astrid. Wulf. Essek. And then Mollymauk, caged and screaming, rattling at the bars and spitting in Lucien’s face, prying away pieces of himself in clawing agony. 

Caleb has no god to pray to. But when Mollymauk’s body glows, bathed in the light of a Magician’s spell, and his skin is warmed as it was in life, and Caleb swears he can hear the faintest echo of a heartbeat, he desperately believes. In Mollymauk, in the Nein, in some raw aching hope for salvation and second chances. 

For this falling star that brought a gleam of light to all their lives, Caleb can kneel in supplication, and lay bare his own heart upon the alter. 

“He’s religious, you know,” Fjord divulged once, even as Beau balked and Nott nearly spat out the drink she just downed. “No, really. I see him praying over his swords every night.” 

“Every night?” Beau adamantly shakes her head, nose scrunching up as she snorted into her cup. 

“And every morning!” Molly adds brightly, slamming two more tankards down on their crammed little table. 

“Oh, Molly! You have a god too!” Jester squealed, jumping up to her feet and practically bursting with excitement. “Who is it? You think maybe they’re friends with the Traveler?” 

“Huh. That’s a good question, I hadn’t really thought of that. Could be…She reminds me a bit of you, actually. The playing tricks. The blue.” 

“She’s blue!?” 

“Just your shade, I’d think. Could be your sister.” 

“What is it you believe in, Mr. Mollymauk?” Caleb asks carefully, eyeing the glint of mischief in Molly’s twinkling eyes. 

Mollymauk swings his leg over the chair and falls down with a vibrant jingle of gold and jewels and clamoring trinkets all tinkling like a handful of coins. He sprawls across the table and shoves one of the tankards in front of Caleb, almost as an afterthought. Spiced sweetness; cloves, cinnamon, pumpkin. Sharp burn of whiskey. Caleb cradles it in his hands and greedily gulps it down, warmed to his core by the drink and something else he dare not say. 

Mollymauk turns to him with a rakish grin, claws idly circling his tankard’s rim. 

“What do I believe in? Mm, let’s see.” He dragged the words out thoughtfully, savoring the taste of every one. “Pleasure.” Caleb doesn’t wet his lip as his throat goes desperately dry. He definitely does not. “Joy. Chaos. Leavin’ this ridiculous world a bit better off. Making some folks a little happier, doin’ a good turn. Havin’ fun while ya’ still can. Love. The finer things in life, Mr. Caleb.”

The finer things. Caleb was anything but; haggard face smeared in dirt and grime, dark circles rimmed under his sunken eyes. Threadbare clothes falling apart at the seams, sagging on his bone thin frame. Too many months since he’d had a shave, since he’d taken a pair of shears to his overgrown, matted auburn hair. 

And yet, he can remember bits and pieces of that other life so clearly. Fine silk robes bearing the seal of the Solstryce Academy. Sunlight dappling golden halls, shining on stained glass. Condensation glistening on marble arches and columns, clouds of steam wafting over crystal clear bathwater. A ripple, a splash. His hands dipping into the water in a bloody stream, blotted streaks of bright crimson blooming at his touch, a stain he could never wash away. 

He gingerly scrubs the blood from Astrid and Wulf as his own dyes the world around them a deep, murky red. Fearful awe and aching reverence in every touch, trembling hands tentatively exploring the expanse of pale, bony skin laid bare before him. He can't remember if it was devotion he chased or merely desperation. If the distinction even mattered. If he wanted this or just wanted and wanted and wanted—aching to feel anything other than the ceaseless violence and searing pain. 

He still cannot fathom why Mollymauk cast those disarming smiles his way, looking past the decade mired in wallowing filth and decay, staring through to Caleb’s core and truly seeing him. For years, he hung his head and skulked in the shadows, roaming the streets alone and destitute, a nameless shade haunting the country he once called home. All in the faint, desperate hope that discerning eyes would glaze over him in sheer revulsion. No one would ever look too close and actually see him. Just another lonely hermit, not worth anyone’s attention. 

But Mollymauk had seen. Again and again, as Caleb ducked his head and raised his hood, darted past and fearfully tried to steer out of his way, he could never quite shake the tiefling’s piercing gaze. 

He squirmed at the attention at first. The playful teasing and too sharp smiles and barest brush of soft lips on fever warm skin. 

Caleb’s keen mind recalls that the Moonweaver favors kind souls and tricksters, Catha’s grace shining upon star-crossed lovers. The allure of forbidden romance. Clandestine trysts. Caretaker of all the bleeding hearts doomed to a tragic end.  

As Caleb reluctantly trails after Mollymauk in the mirthful crowd, he can’t help but notice parents lifting children up on their shoulders to admire the wondrous winter lights. Circles of elves timidly exchanging flower crowns. Young couples holding hands in the moonlight. 

Why had Molly even asked him to come? 

“...hey, Caleb. You still with me?”

It takes a moment for him to realize the tiefling had been speaking, chatting away animatedly as lights painted the night in bleeding watercolors; Molly’s face illuminated by the auroras’ soft glow flickering above, dappled in iridescent shades of glacial blue melting into molten gold.

“Ja. I was just—” Mollymauk is walking closer now, advancing on him until he’s stepping right into his space, leaning in until he’s mere inches away, “—distracted.”

“Magician.” 

Caleb loves the way he says that. The light lilt of his accent and soothing cadence. Fond, teasing. Charming. The Magician—flashy tricks, sleight of hand, a magic that’s only real if you believe it. A gracious bow as the curtain drops.

Molly bites his lip and Caleb desperately tries not to mirror him. But his gaze still falls to the pretty shape of his mouth and that glint of fang sinking in.  

Of course Molly catches him staring.

Mollymauk watches him with the quiet intensity of a wizard unravelling a spell, deeply invested and singularly focused, tearing loose the fabric of the universe to lay it all bare—an Archmage’s blasphemous arrogance.Tampering with the gears and tugging on heartstrings to see what makes a man tick. Deft hands shuffling the deck, every card stacked in his favor. Smiling as blood streams from a split lip. Hooded red eyes gleaming in the firelight as he downs his tankard with roaring laughter. Burnished sunset gold in glistening amber globules. Turning cards and twisting truths, changing fate and fortune at the whim of his too-soft heart. Sharp tongue still ringing silver, crooning sweet nothings in his ear with a devil’s tender touch. 

For all his playing at the fool, Mollymauk knew far too much. 

“Close your eyes a moment,” Molly orders, eyes narrowed. 

His tone brokers no room for argument. 

“Was?”

“Eyes closed! No peekin’.”

Caleb relents with an exasperated sigh, surrendering himself to another of Molly’s mercurial whims. And maybe there’s just the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips, a certain fondness for his ridiculous Circus Man. 

He’s rewarded for his gracious compliance with a little pat on the cheek. 

“Good boy,” Molly purrs—it warms him to his core, saccharine sweet as ambrosia spilt by the gods. Caleb can just imagine his tail swaying in glee, a coy cat who just cornered prey. 

Brat.

Something changes after that. A charge in the air, exhilarating and electric. A taste of ozone before the storm. Is this what Yasha feels, when she inhales the wind and pouring rain and heeds the call of thunder roaring in her blood? Skin soaked to the bone, dark tousled hair plastered to her sweat sheened forehead as she stands and walks headlong into the raging tempest. Terrifying—thrilling—a bolt of blazing lighting that resonates with every beat of her racing heart. 

Mollymauk is dangerously close. Both of them are. Dancing at the edge of the precipice, ravens circling. Caleb can feel the warmth of his breath fogging up the chilled night air between them with every gentle exhale. 

"Mr. Caleb," Molly says, and he knows it's accompanied by a cheeky grin. "Tell me, how would you feel if I--"

"Kiss me." Caleb's voice is raw, breathy, the words both a demand and ardent plea.

Molly's laughter is a warm rumble that could melt all the snow in Lyrengorn.

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

Molly delicately cups his cheek in hand, drawing him in like a gravitational pull, like a pale moon caught in their brilliant star’s orbit. Warm lips pressed against his in a tender kiss, feather soft and fleeting. Molly’s every touch is gentle. Intimate. A distilled moment of sheer bliss that leaves his heart lighter than air. Molly breathing a bit of joy back into his life, sharing some of the same spark that chased away his own demons, filling up the clawing Emptiness that hollowed him out and made its home in his bones. An Emptiness that Caleb feels he’s always known. 

It’s frighteningly easy to surrender at such gentle hands, acquiescing to Molly’s capricious impulses and guileless affection, an unspoken temptation he dared not indulge in. But Mollymauk, heathen, hedonist, patron of all worldly pleasures, had never once known temperance.  Chalice overflowing with the heady rush of desire, every forbidden tryst and flare of passion a reverential blessing. He has always bowed before the goddess of love, and he remains ever devout in his worship. 

It’s addictive, intoxicating. And over far too soon. Just as their lips brush, Molly’s hand starts to fall away—letting him go. 

Caleb doesn’t want him to. 

He surges forward and tangles his hands in Molly’s dark curls, drawing him in for another kiss. And another. Molly lets out a breathy laugh that Caleb gladly claims, holding him tight and reveling in the taste.

He’s enveloped in the familiar comfort of Mollymauk’s scent. Sandalwood—warm, earthy—and just a tinge of something sweeter. Kneeling in prayer over burning incense, massaging perfumed oils as they wade into the steam of a warm bath. 

And curse him, but Caleb is seized by a fervent longing to mouth at the hollow of his throat and bury himself in the soothing balm of Molly’s all encompassing embrace. 

He pours his heart into each kiss, the long months of loss and longing gnawing away at him. Heated gazes in quiet moments, a little pat on the cheek or comforting hand on the shoulder. Molly’s playful teasing thawing at the frost of his heart—even though the Waldhexe surely devoured it long ago. A spark of burning life that Caleb had to watch die out twice. Shine bright, Circus Man. Echoes of memories clinging to Molly, tethering back his wayward soul. Caleb’s feelings flowering into bloom just as his Circus Man finally wakes.

The last time Caleb kissed Mollymauk it was to say goodbye, tumultuous waves of grief and guilt spilling over in his last desperate attempt at comfort. Mourning a love and tenderness that would never return.

He wouldn’t stand by and suffer in silence again. Heart shattering along with the jagged shards of a Transmuter Stone, broken fragments falling from his shaking palms as it all goes dark. 

The Matron’s ravens couldn’t have him. Not while Caleb still lived and breathed; he’d sever the binds of every thread if it came to that, burning away at fate’s cruel weave until Mollymauk was finally free. 

“It’s good luck if you get a kiss tonight,” Molly whispers when they part, his face softening in the moonlight.

Then all too soon that rush of hearth-fire warmth is gone, Molly’s indigo curls wind tossed and fluttering in the cool night breeze as he turns away, turns to run and vanish under the cover of shadow. Molly shoots him a grin, sharp and sweet, before he turns on his heel and darts off into the crowd of revelry, that familiar laughter echoing in the night as he disappears into the dark. His mother told him fairy stories once. Tales of creatures with otherworldly beauty, dancing wild and free under the Moonweaver’s light, captivating lost mortals. But doomed to never stay. Fading back into the void black dark and winding woods, leaving behind nothing but the lingering shadow of a phantom touch. 

“M-Mollymauk!”

Caleb nearly loses his footing scrambling to chase after him in the snow, a gust of biting cold wind and ghost of a chuckle leaving him breathless. But he can’t help grinning, even as his teeth chatter and every aching muscle protests the bracing, blistering chill cutting through him, knives of ice in his chest. He barely feels it as he races after Mollymauk, spurred on by the tiefling’s teasing taunts and howling laughter. Chasing a falling star.

#widomauk #mollymauk #this got too long whoops-- #caleb widogast #the mighty nein #absolutely have these two on my mind with the reunion so soon I cannot wait

[dionysia-does-stories]

The Midwinter Player

Cringetober2023, Day 2: Self-Insert

On AO3

Rating G - 1,282 words - Tortall - Keladry of Mindelan

Summary: Kel reluctantly decides to accept a walk-on roll in Corus's Midwinter Plays

Story:

A massive sunbird flew past Kel. It’s wings were made of fine gossamer fabric dyed in fiery shades of red and gold. When she fell back into a fighting stance at its closeness, the puppeteer made a cawing noise.

Kel laughed and nodded her head to acknowledge the joke (especially since it was at her expense). The puppeteer carried on moving the great bird as though he were a living, flying thing.

Kel turned the opposite direction walking through the busy square. Players rehearsed their lines, committing the words to memory. Tumblers twisted their bodies into impossible shapes. Their costumes were sewn and textured to mimic rock. Kel remembered Lalasa mentioning that a friend of hers was sewing the costumes this year.

Kel walked past a player who was dressing up a live bull calf in a pair of fake horns. The calf was completely uncooperative with the proceedings and flicked them off. Kel caught one mid-air, handing it back to the beleaguered player.

Kel marched on. She had been told to report to the big tree at the back of the event space. She wished she was reporting for duty at a fort. There all she’d be asked to do is bash in heads and come up with military strategies. But no, she was in Corus for Midwinter and she had been asked to appear in the annual Midwinter plays. 

She would have refused immediately, but both the King and the First Daughter of the Goddess’s temple had asked her to at least consider it. She still wanted to refuse but a valid (although extortive) point had been made about how happy all the little girls in Corus would be to see her. She was trying to have an open mind.

Kel had been told the playwright would meet her at the tree, but she hadn’t expected the woman to be sprawled out on the ground. She was surrounded by individual stacks of paper. Each stack had a rock on it, presumably to guard against the wind. There were quills stuck straight into the earth beside ink wells that had clearly spilled some of their contents onto the dirt.

The woman stared off away from the chaos of the rehearsal square and into the distance of the city. Her eyes were unfocused but still sharp. As soon as Kel’s footsteps were in hearing range, the woman whipped around.

“You have good hearing,” Kel called, trying to be friendly.

The woman quirked half her lips up in a sardonic expression. “For every sound except words which is all in all a not the most useful ability.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone here,” Kel said. “A playwright named Diot?”

The woman was shoving her stacks of paper and quills into a plain leather bag that looked large enough to hold a small library.

“That’s me!” Diot’s tone was too enthusiastic for the banality of her words. Kel saw her wince. It was the same wince Neal made when he regretted what he’d just said. 

“I got here very early and sat down to do some work,” Diot explained. “If I don’t put a lot of effort into being early than I’m always late. And I’m a huge admirer of yours. And I didn’t want to be late. Because I figured you would be on time what with the military training and all.” The woman fell abruptly silent.

Kel blinked. “I can appreciate using your time wisely. I’m sure you have a lot to get done at this time of year.”

“I do, thanks,” She gestured to the Mithran temple. “I asked the priests if we could use one of the rooms in the temple to talk.”

Diot led the way down a narrow path to the back part of the building. She brought them to a little room, set up with a table and chairs. Diot had already been lingering here before she moved to the tree. The evidence was obvious in the stacks of paper on the floor and heavy cloak draped on the back of one of the chairs.

“So, this year our play cycle will be the birth of Mithros.” She clapped her hands together at the declaration, again followed by that regretful wince. She gestured for Kel to sit and plonked down in the other chair herself.

“The King mentioned that. He didn’t specify what exactly it was that I was going to be doing?”

“Of course! Of course.” Diot reached into the giant bag and pulled out a book of Mithran stories. Several pages had the corners folded down and Kel could see writing in the margins. “Don’t tell the priests that I’ve done this,” Diot whispered, loudly.

“It’s your book,” Kel pointed out.

Diot flipped to a page, showing an illustration of Mithros at a table with the sun, a fire, the scales of law, and a war horn. “We’re looking to offer the roles as the personification of Mithros’s areas of power to notable individuals. War has already been taken by the lord sponsoring the cost of the plays. Which is what it is, even though I doubt he’s seen a war in his life. The Law will be represented by Duke Turomot, the magistrate.”

“I’m familiar with him,” Kel said.

Diot nodded. “With our current casting leaning somewhat toward a conservative direction. I was very hopeful you would be the Sun.”

Kel thought about the many piles of papers she had seen so far. “How many lines would I have?”

“I’ve written some beautiful lines for the Sun,” Diot rushed to grab a specific paper. Kel had no idea how she knew where it was among the many identical sheets. “I wrote an entire monologue that you can—“ Diot noticed the Yamani stone of Kel’s expression. “—You’re asking because you don’t want any lines.”

“Yes. I don’t have any destiny that includes being an accomplished player. I think it’s best to save the fiery speeches for someone else.”

“What about one line,” Diot negotiated. “So, the audience can hear you speak?”

Kel imagined the little girls in the audience and forced herself to say, “Fine. That’ll be fine.”

“Great!” Diot exclaimed, this time without wincing. She was fired up and producing papers at an alarming rate. “I just have to change this one section, but I have an idea that I think will make it work.”

Diot began to scribble lost to the world. 

Kel rose from her chair. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Diot looked up, eyes widening in distress. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I really appreciate you coming.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have long before Midwinter.” Kel pointed out.

Some of the color drained from Diot’s face.  “No,” she said. “I really don’t”

Kel left. She wondered out through the main body of the temple. The priests nodded to her as they walked by, respectful greetings of “Protector,” coming from their hushed voices. Being a knight hand chosen by the Chamber of The Ordeal was a venerated title in the temple of Mithros.

She stopped at the Mithraeum, looking into the cave like structure. At the far wall, there was a statue of Mithros. He held his golden shield aloft, a victorious expression on his face.

“Are you happy now?” She asked it expecting no response.

The statue turned to face her and smiled.

A few weeks later, Kel walked the stage as the Sun to thundering approval, an experience that she remained uncertain about until the most popular guising costume that year proved to be the Sun. Little girls ran wild over the streets of Corus with painted faces and sunbeams coming out of their hair.

#Tortall Fanfiction #Fanfiction #Tortall #protector of the small #keladry of mindelan #cringetober 2023 #self-insert #this one was very difficult for me #Day 2

[kettlequills]

the champion of the skein

for the wonderful @blazingsnark ! a bit of fdb laat feat. mephala. its not super long im afraid but !! enjoy!

The Spiral Skein has many doors, under chairs and inside cupboards, gathering beneath beds and the secret cracks just small enough for a spider to squirm through. Mephala’s eyes are thousandfold, her hooked legs sprawl across every nation, every age, every war tent and peace council. None are big enough for Laataaz to crawl through.

They search, exhaustively, in the early years. After the shine of silence, stillness, sleep, has worn off, before the hopelessness sets in. Like a poison, their awareness of their fate saps their strength. Underneath it, a hidden blade, is the cruel, sweet relief.

Paarthurnax gets slower and slower, the webs settle on him thickly as a veil, a thousand spiders make their homes in the dents of his scales, the cracks and chips of his horns. He doesn’t stir them away as often as he used to. Eventually, he stops doing even that.

Grey in scale and grey in wing and grey in soul, he curls up and shrinks like a spider fist-curled in death. Captivity and dragons don’t mix well; he is coiling into himself, voiceless and old and no longer the howling friend seizing them in his wings when the blast hit to save their stupid, fragile flesh. Oh, the scars are there, still, Morokei’s magical attack blazing through the membranes like they’re lit from beneath by a deep, cold blue, but the heart is gone. Paarthurnax looks at them, and in his eyes they see only tiredness, no recognition of the soul he damned himself to try to save one last time.

He shouldn’t have tried. There is nothing worth saving, only gossamer spidersilk stretched over the void of a person, catching flies too foolish to stay away. Killer, murderer, lover. How she had smiled, and smiled, and smiled, when she cupped Laataaz’s cheeks in her hands, scraped her nails down their throat, and told them with such loving pride: You are a Prince’s plaything now, champion.

Laataaz hugs their knees close to their chest, craving the pocket of warmth between their thighs and their ribs. Skin brushes skin; sensitive, erotic, but when they rest their forehead on their knees it makes the bruises of their eyes ache. The spiders whisper over their spine; Laataaz’s shiver is an afterthought, their bare toes curling into the stringy grey dust. Where did their boots go?

They look up, through the dreary, dusty darkness, the muted semi-glow, even after years here, they haven’t found where the light comes from. Some of the webs are pitch black, black as under cupboards, but some are only black as moonlit nights, with some faint greyness coming in from somewhere, just enough for Laataaz to see shapes that flicker and skitter in the gloom.

They can’t see her. Her. The queen of the webs, but they know she’s there. Watching, a finger in every pie, a smile for the dying, a dagger for the lying, as beautiful, as multifaceted, as the lights that bloom behind Laataaz’s eyes when they’re a wheeze from fainting, their own hands wrapped around their neck and squeezing like they can crush out the Voice that lurks like a traitor inside. They can’t tear it out, the dragonsoul, the death-trap jaw that hungers and hungers and hungers…

Wyrm-tongued, wyrm-hearted, a priest with no god, a warrior with no general. Except for her. Her.

There are always legs, moving, tiny tapping feet. Laataaz looks down at their hands and find them greyed out, longer and more than they remember, furred over with dust. They don’t notice the tickling, anymore. They don’t notice the webs. Their robes hang, but no breeze seeks the rents and the rips, and webs cover the holes, so they don’t have to see their skin. Skin lovers have caressed, once, that loyal worshippers rubbed with oils until they gleamed like a blade, like a beauty, every part of them exposed to the cold, old air with only a fur across their shoulders and a mask on their face. Skin lovers so tenderly wiped clean of the blood, afterwards. All the blood, all that blood, it takes them hours.

It doesn’t look how they remember. Soon, nothing will. Laataaz can feel themselves folding, being swallowed, digested into the Skein. It is not a bad thing. It is not a foul thing. It feels like cocoonment, like sleep, like drugged, dizzy daydreams. But, for her, her, Laataaz would curl up and let the daedra that lurk just out of eyesight take them, wrap them, make them, mark them, fuck them into churning oblivion. But Laataaz is a Prince’s plaything now, a champion, and all that they are is another’s to wield.

They have only ever been good at being a weapon. Believing, even for a moment, that they could think, that they could feel, that they could make decisions for themselves… No, Laataaz knows the cost of that folly now. So does the world. All those bodies burning, those lives ending, and for what? A dream of freedom?

The blood, all that blood. It takes them hours.

Laataaz inhales, then settles their will around their spine, and sinks their hand into the sticky webs. Something nips at their fingers, they grimace. It burns, it stings.

They’d had gloves, once. They don’t remember where they went. Frayed off, string by string, from their swollen knuckles, secreted away to webs and wisps. They’d gone to the fight, that final fight, on the steps of Bromjunaar with the power of the Cult arrayed against them clothed, not a pet, not leashed, lashed. The leather had rubbed against them, the robes had whispered around their ankles, but their face, their face…

Laataaz doesn’t think, they don’t feel, they don’t choose. They are a weapon, a hunter, a killer, a lover, wherever she needs, a wyrm-hearted, wyrm-tongued priest with one queen.

Gritting their teeth, they sink one hand in, then the next. It comes out with a squelch. In this way, hand over hand, they climb through the rings, to the heart of the Skein… and the spider queen at its centre.

Mephala awaits them, queenly and bored. Are there words for what she is? Too huge to speak words into existence, too small to see, with a thousand eyes and none at all, she is a presence, an inanimate darkness, a cutclaw smile around dripping jaws. She stretches out one hand and the realm bends to her will, and Laataaz is kneeling before her, the carapace of her thick spider half glossed and gleaming before their nose. Her red eyes smoke in the gloom, like embers, her purple skin bruised as the flesh of plums.

Laataaz has never seen a plum, before her, but just because they can’t leave the Skein alone doesn’t mean they are unused. In the markets, the palaces, the shacks and the woods of the world, they have done hot and cruel bloodwork, whenever their queen wills it. Some of them have things a human from the icebound north has never seen, but they all die the same way.

“What do you want from me?” Laat begs to know, and Mephala laughs.

Beautiful as the whisper of eightlegged revels, it washes sticky-soft the worries from their mind with the kiss of its venom. Paarthurnax, dying in the prison of his own mind, matters not when Mephala is looking down at Laataaz with such unbearable fondness in her lips wet with poison. Laataaz has been a possession all their life, never have they been so loved for it.

“What mortal mind do you think you have that you can fathom the purpose of a god?” Her claws curve the side of Laataaz’s face. “You take my gifts, you haunt my realm, and you worship me, because you know there are things beyond your ken in this world. I am one. Where is this trust now, my priest? Do you no longer think my webs are weaving round your enemies?”

“My queen,” says Laataaz, “I am loyal, you know I am loyal-“

“-which is why,” says Mephala, tilting a finger under their chin and lifting it sharply, enough that their spine has to strain straight, “I am kind enough to permit your doubt, this time.”

Laataaz sighs, their eyes sliding away from hers. Their breath is shallow. The claw digs slightly under their chin when their trembling muscles falter, and their stomach clenches around liquid fire. The pinpricks the claws leave remind them of the weakness of their human skin, no dragon scale to protect their vulnerable parts. The near-sexual excitement of the old bloodthirst wells like deep-plunged water poured over droughted lands, scudding across a hard surface, soaking thirstily into the cracks. Corresponding heat beats in time to the snick of her eyelids closing one by one, the flashing of dizzy red among the darkness. They want to hurt. They want to feel incandescently alive, in the way only she can make them feel, in this dead, decaying world of drying spiderskeins.

“I remain whatever you make of me, my queen.”

“Yes,” murmurs Mephala, and condescends to bend her great neck to kiss Laataaz’s forehead. Her lips are soft, and she lingers. Cascading fireworks alight under her lips, tingling through Laataaz’s aching body. They strain into her gentleness, eyes falling closed and swaying helplessly into her arms. How long has it been, since they have been touched, loved? Were they ever, by any but her? All that blood, it takes hours to scrub off. But when Mephala’s nails scrape down their shivering shoulders and catch in the rents of their robes, her hands come away clean, as if there is no blood there at all. “And I will make you glorious, my champion.”

“As my queen desires,” Laataaz says. Boldly, they touch her cheek, the flecks of scaling that cover her proud cheekbones rough under their hand. It is a blind touch; they are not so disrespectful to raise their head to look her in her manifold eyes. Not so foolish to think what is left of them will survive such a contact. “Whatever my queen desires.”

“Desire?” Mephala chuckles. “No, not mine, champion. But your queen is gracious - come and please her.”

“Thank you,” Laataaz whispers, entranced, and rises up on their tiptoes for a venom-laced kiss.

Mephala permits the illusion of mortality for a moment, feeding Laataaz her forked tongue, teasing them with scrapes of her snake’s fangs. Laataaz trembles and moans under her attention, the pricks of her legs closing around their back like the bars of a cage; Mephala could open her jaw and swallow their head whole. Her tongue is overwhelmingly long and sinuous, flexible as a snake it chokes Laataaz’s throat, laps against their palate as she draws back. Saliva and venom mix, stinging sweetly down their chin as her flicking tongue thrusts and curls down their throat. Laataaz clings to her shoulders, the ridges of her carapace clicking smooth against their skin, hard and unyielding.

“You are a wretched creation,” Mephala says to them, as she withdraws, “Your hunger cannot be sated by even this feast. You are naught but a blunt blade, godkiller, so close to once losing your edge.”

Laataaz shudders, not disagreeing but unable to hide the sharpness of her words aimed like a knife. It is true the emptiness yawns within them, that crying ache that split wide with the first dragon soul they ever swallowed and ever since lurks within them, a canyon between the two sides of their bloodied heart. It is all they are, on the inside; a hollow, craving fulfilment.  

Mephala rakes her nails over Laataazin’s chest, scoring fierce lines. Laataaz imagines dizzily that she could reach in and feel it, that snowstorm of catching hooks, could fold her fist into where dragon souls are crushed and force open the jaws long enough to feed something warm in its place.

“I have a god for you to kill, hunter.”

She steps back, a cruelness in her many eyes, and the webs swing and gravity yanks out from under their feet. Laataaz plummets through the abyss, ripping straight through one web with daedra screaming on their back. They twist midair and bite open the daedra’s throat, teeth scraping harshly against the carapace, blood and venom stinging their cheeks, their hands. They hit a web strong enough to bear them hard enough to bounce, but the second impact sends them straight through the strands.

They hook one hand into the webs and dangle from it, arms burning. A glow from below catches their eye; Mephala, many thousand times larger than before, stretching up towards them, one hand larger than Paarthurnax as it reaches to swat them, errantly as a fly.

Laataaz crawls away, but the stickiness of the webs hinders them. The webs cling to them closely, tearing their ragged robes when they pull away, ripping at their pruned flesh beneath. Venom bursts in bleeding pulses from the torn webs, glowing like silver purple veins. An arcane heart, and Laataaz dangling from the shredded ventricles, hands wet with stinging sap and blood.

Mephala catches them in one enormous hand and presses into their chest with one finger, hard enough the breath wheezes from their lungs, organs against spine. They hook their arms into the web and hang on doggedly, feeling their muscles burning but not daring to relax into the pressure of her pinch. Their legs kick helplessly over the yawning darkness, a thousand beetle-like eyes glitter back in the dark, carnivorous mouths stretched wide and ready.

Mephala would not let them die, they don’t think. But she would let them fall.

“Whoever you wish, my queen, I will find them,” Laataaz rasps out, “God or daedra, dragon or man, they are already dead, the moment you willed it.”

The Prince of Lies smiles.

#laataazin #inkwrites #mephala #tes

[theblackbookofarkera]

Niberians

The Niberians are an indigenous people native to Luminaria where they live under the heel of the Tru-isil Empire. Not descendants of the people of Goz the Niberians claim descent from an extrasolar people from the distant world of Niberias. In their legends the Niberias was destroyed by a host of ruinous powers and only by freezing themselves in the body of a comet did they manage to survive and find a new home upon Arkera. The Niberians believe themselves fully human and claim that scattered across a hundred dying worlds exist small pockets of lost civilizations slowly being consumed by darkness.

The Niberians live mostly on the southern coasts of the Tru-isil Empire in ancient communal castles thought to have been built shortly after the Judgement. Their spiral castles are a sight to behold elegant in their simple strangeness. Skilled crafters they have exchanged their knowledge of divination and scuramancy for tenuous autonomy within the empire. Some Isilnyr nobles believe the Niberians to have deeper knowledge of lost power or perhaps a dark power that keeps the empire at bay.

There is no marriage in Niberian communities and children are raised collectively. Children are free to explore whatever path interests them eventually finding their position within the community free the will of others. Somehow all the necessary pieces find their place keeping Niberian communities vibrant and prosperous. The Niberians have coarse ashen skin and blond hair so fine it appears gossamer like a spider’s web.

“They are a queer and untrustworthy people I say. Their language is confused with even the simplest words having a dozen meanings based on delicate inflection. When one wrongs another even if be rape or murder there is strangely no punishment. Upon discovering a pederast had been discovered in their community I brought my retinue to have the offender hanged. Rather than have me execute the offender their priests brought him to their dungeons where the man returned pallid and silent. The law did not allow me to carry out further punishment without their consent so whatever justice they dealt out was satisfactory...by their standards. Years later one of soldiers reported seeing that man still pallid and silent tending to his forge like a ghost waiting to leave this world.”

-Arathu gel-Sarfaan, magistrate of South Gyelmhir province

#arkera #creative writing #fantasy world #conworld #worldbuilding #world building #low fantasy #dark fantasy #high fantasy #historical fantasy #pulp fantasy #sword & sorcery #weird fiction #cosmic horror #dungeons and dragons #role playing games #dune #conan #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #lord of the rings #world of warcraft #warhammer fantasy #warhammer 40k #bloodborne #dark souls #dragon age #fullmetal alchemist #the dark tower #malazan

[solaaresque]

Please, Goddess, he prays. Please do not let my prayers go unheard. I am a young king, but my people need a ruling figure to believe in.

This was his final resort, and he was staking everything on it.

The Aranara were a race that the Sumerian scholars were unfamiliar with. They existed in stories and fairy tales, and everyone knew that everything that did not exist in academic texts thus did not exist, because if something existed, then it would already have been vivisected and its insides open to public viewing.

But right now, the scholars were the ones being perceived, and Kaveh could tell that they did not like it. Internally, he smirked to himself.

Who has become the bug under the microscope now?

The forest shifts, a cool, damp wind blowing out like the trees were sighing.

It wasn't loud or flashy, but one moment there was nothing but grass and brush, and the next, there was a little girl standing there.

She was dressed in light gossamer silks, draped in white and green and a delicate crown of flowers rests on her head. Her head was bowed, her hands clasped as though in prayer.

"We call on the Goddess to answer our pleas, and to grant us a boon against the Withering," the head priest said. His voice carries across the clearing, and the last calls of the crickets fade away.

The girl walks forward, her head still bowed and her eyes still closed.

"Are you a representative of the Goddess?" The head priest asked. He was getting irritated.

This close, the little girl had a serene smile on her face; the kind that made you want to know what exactly she was thinking about. Or dreaming about.

"Answer the head priest!" One of the younger acolytes snapped.

<No.>

The answer shakes the earth and forced flowers from the soil. They bloom in triple speed, their buds opening and turning to the people like an accusing crowd.

The girl opened her eyes, and they glow like emeralds in the sun.

"I am She."

OH MY GOD OHHH MY GOD OH MY FUCKING GOD I AM SHAKING IN MY BOOTS ALMONDS WRITING >>>>> IM LOSING IT IM SHAKING IM SNARLING BAKRB ABKR BAKBR ABKRB BAKRB

#🎀—chats.txt! #🎀—convos w almond adeptus

[lasplaga]

-;┊ 𓆙 𝕮𝕺𝕹𝕿. ; ◥ - 𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 𓆙      —       “   Shut…  up,   ”  seethed through teeth the agent could probably only pry open with a crowbar.  Murky gossamer of veins encroach itself onto his skin;  purple,  black  &  gold hues spilling beneath his eyelids.  If he had the strength to carve this thing out of himself.  Punch through the sternum & impale it on the knife’s tip or excavate it out with bare hands.  “  I’m n–not…  ”  Leon spat,  the metallic & corroded aftertaste never leaving his mouth.  His posture slanted & writhed,  as though a magnetic jolt bolted down his spine.  What mattered was that he still stood.  It would take more than deranged incantations to bring him to his knees.  “   I’m not here for bible study,  you sick bastard.  ”

The amusing quips never failed to wretch a smirk, nay, a CHUCKLE from the highly esteemed priest. Try as he might to pride himself upon ancient traditionalism & preaching the holy word breathlessly, little cracks between worship permitted moments of drollery. Facetious as he was with his brethren in the depths of monastic lavra, flippantly would he address his disrespectful 'son' now, akin to how he would admonish The 8th Castellan.

" 𝔖𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔱𝔥𝔶 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔩𝔦𝔭𝔰, 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡 --- 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔊𝔬𝔡, 𝔫𝔬 𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰. " The devilish laugh rung again, thunderous & booming, before quickly subsiding. How The Speaker approached & gently carried himself was easily mistaken for feigned benevolence. Osmund could deliberately choose to afflict cruel punishment upon the vulnerable lamb in the form of horrific visions --- if not press his own knife against his throat, but strayed on behalf that 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕠𝕝𝕗 took pleasure in playing with it's food. Although the beast did not lick it's chops, the elder playfully 'tsk-tsked' before slowly bounding to encircle Leon with calculated strides. " 𝔄 𝔱𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔫 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢, 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔰? "

The harness suffocating his mouth, which he blissfully envisioned, went beyond metaphorical as Las Plagas was the aforementioned lead. Leon stood, yes, but his torment could not be more illuminated for Lord Saddler ; After all, his 'father' experienced such delicious agony as his own, relishing every moment & finding it pleasurable. Disturbingly lecherous, his kindred glorifying bodily disfigurement & self-sacrifice, beholding the various wonders of excruciating gratification & blessed regeneration. However, he was NOT without mercy & not above giving his prey a fighting chance of survival, if only enthused by spirited individuals, taking joy in breaking legendary iron-wills. As if his clawed grip upon the imperceptible leash loosened by a few inches... he soon anticipated for him to foolishly open fire upon a hallucination.

" 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔰 𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔲𝔟𝔪𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔬𝔪. "

#/ Saddler is eating popcorn while doing this btw. important distinction. he enjoys every second of this #buriedabove #𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

[devoutpriest]

whereherloyaltieslie:

In the many ages since Sigyn’s birth, there had been many different ages of mankind. She had seen those who prayed to the gods rise and fall like the tide, watched other beliefs bloom into life one moment only to wither and die in the next. There were the magical creatures in the woods, which Old Nan told stories about to Bran. All this and more taking place while the gods watched, only on occasion coming before those who worshiped them, choosing instead to work in other ways. Other faiths would come and go, but they stood tall none the less. Then the Christ God came. Soon people from far and wide abandoned their true gods, either by force or their own natural favor, and turned to this new god. She had seen it far too often, her worshipers mistreated, belittled, slaughtered or worse all for holding to the gods instead of the Christ God. These “Christians” as they called themselves, often claimed themselves loving, accepting, but all too often they turned on their words when met with ideals that did not match their own. Israel and Ephraim were two such entities, they being cruelly exiled. She was the wife of the god Loki, whom she loved, yet wished he could not argue with his brother, Thor. To loss worshipers in this manner had become almost normal at this pint in time. To see the reverse, however, was something far more rare.

The Priests words of prayer reached her, pulled her from her thoughts and brought her to the moment of his desperation. She felt compassion at his desperate demise. A man , once taken as a slave, now a part of the community, but torn between the gods and the one he grew and once devoted himself to. In a flash of light, she appeared before him, dark green and blue and pink gossamer robes floating through the air to settle around her, auburn hair shown like bright flames in the morning light. Pensive eyes stared down at the man. “ You seek guidance from the Gods, Athelstan.” She began softly, slowly kneeling until she was at eye level with the former priest. “ What troubles your spirit?”

His eyes widened in wonder, at the devastatingly beautiful Goddess whom appeared in front of him.

Her presence, although he could not discern which of the Goddesses she was, confirmed yet again that every SINGLE one of these Pagan Gods were real. She was like the vision of Mother Mary he saw, in blue and white dress, he seeing her after saving a village woman from her husband ; he seeing the scarring on her face.

He did not know how to converse with the Goddess, this being the first proper conversation with her face-to-face. He is wordless for a moment upon hearing her query and her knowing his name, before speaking once again.

“…I do, and I thank you for your presence. I am afraid I do not know how to address you…”

“Much troubles me. I am torn with the Pagan religion and the one I have grown up with nearly all my life.”

Both religions warred inside him, tried to COMMAND his presence, and not always in the most pleasant of ways, especially when they clashed with each other. To try to serve both masters of such prominent religions was proving difficult… He thinks, as he wears a hooded cloth over his head, speaking in his journals.

#rp partner | whereherloyaltieslie #ic

[lromanus]

My luminary, my morning and evening star. My light at noon when there is no sun and the sky lowers. My balance of joy in a world that has gone off joy's standard. Yours the face that young I recognised as though I had known you of old. Come, my eyes said, out into the morning of a world whose dew waits for your footprint. Before a green altar with the thrush for priest I took those gossamer vows that neither the Church could stale nor the Machine tarnish, that with the years have grown hard as flint, lighter than platinum on our ringless fingers.

—R.S. Thomas / Luminary

[madravensrambling]

Quest for the Stolen Dawn

A 5E dungeon crawl for celebrating the new year. Set in an ancient Greek time or plane.

At the height of the winter solstice, cultists of the Hecate beseeched her to take the sun and hide it. The Gods had a talk and the Goddess slipped away the sun.

The pantheon sent omens of a quest that night. Call for heroes of all sizes and creeds.

In a week a new temple arose from the Plains of Endymion. A lone priest stands outside the marble doors. Oracles have said that at the appointed hour the priest will let the doors open and the questers may try.

Blessings of the Gods: Each player gets 1 blessing when they solve a puzzle or defeat a room.

Aphrodite: Mirror Blade: Magical blade of mysterious metal that perfectly reflects on every surface. +3 to Attack and Damage. Short Sword, Attunement. Attuned character can use their reaction to reflect a spell or ability, if they succeed a CHA Save DC 15.

Apollo: Lyre of Radiance: Magical instrument that produces light when played. Attunement. Attuned character learns Light, Dancing Lights, Faerie Fire, Daylight, and Dawn.

Ares: Wand of Fuck You: Doubles radius of AOE spells. +2 to DC and Damage. (Thanks to RRoleplaying)

Artemis: Hunter’s Bless: +3 to Attack and Damage of ranged attacks and learns Hunter’s Mark.

Athena: Bastion Aegis: +5 to AC and +10 to HP Max. Attunement.

Demeter: Season’s Blessing: Resistance to Cold, and all damage deals additional 2d8 Cold Damage.

Dionysus: Mirthful Cup: Whenever a character drinks alcohol from this cup, they are immune from Charm and Fear for 2hrs, but have DIS on WIS Saves for the same time. A character may chug an alcoholic drink the cup and remove a poison and/or disease condition.

Eros: Bashful Aura: At the end of the character’s turn, Sanctuary is cast on them.

Hades: Helm of Invisibility: A dull golden helm with eagle wings. Medium Armor, Attunement. +3 to AC. When adorned, the character is instantly under the Greater Invisibility spell without concentration.

Hebe: Ambrosia Decanter: Character uses their Action to activate the decanter and pour out Potion of Supreme Healing (10d4 + 20 HP).

Hecate: Moonbow: A silvery gossamer veil. Attunement. The veil can become a shield that grants +3 to AC and ADV to Stealth.

Hephaestus: Crafter’s Blessing: Any check that uses artisan’s tools rolls an additional 3d4.

Hera: Rings of Alliance: Two gold bands with peacock feathers. Attunement. An attuned character may use their Action or Reaction to teleport to the other, as long as they are both on the same plane. Or use their Bonus Action to roll Hit Dice and the other regains that much HP.

Hercules: Belt of Stone Giant Strength: STR score is 23.

Hermes: Slide Whistle of Comedic Timing: 3 Charges. Creature within 60ft makes STR Save DC 16. On fail, creature falls prone as if slipping on a banana peel. Regains charges after a long rest.

Hestia: Spirit of the Hearth: Whenever character rolls to heal themselves or an ally, roll additional 2d8. Reaction, grant an ally within 5ft +3 to AC.

Hypnos: Super Comfy Blanket: A big quilted comfy blanket that can cover 4 people. (Thanks to RRoleplaying)

When taken a long rest, while attuned, roll 1d6. On 5 or 6, each person sleeping under it gains Temp HP = attuned character’s Lvl + Prof Bonus for the next 8hrs.

Alternatively, can be used to cast Tiny Hut, with an increased radius of 15ft.

Nike: Ambitious Zeal: Any Ability checks are made with ADV, if they are contesting rolls, roll additional 2d4.

Nyx: Sheltering Darkness: A shawl of dark material with small crystals sewn in. Attunement. Attuned character may use their reaction to cast Darkness.

Pan: Wild Zeal: Character may give themselves ADV or hostile creature DIS on an Attack or Saving throw. They can’t use this until they finish a long rest or roll on the Wild Surge table.

Persephone: Spring’s Promise: Character learns Druidcraft, Spike Growth, and Entangle.

Poseidon: Ocean Surge: Whenever character hits with a weapon attack, the target must make a STR Save DC 14 or be pushed back 5 x 1d3 feet.

Tyche: Gains Lucky feat.

Zeus: Storm Cloak: When the character is hit by an attack within 40ft, the cloak deals 3d8 Lightning damage to the attacker.

The Fates: A hollow d20 made of spun gold, silver, and adamantine. The character learns Fortune’s Favor, Gift of Alacrity, and Arcane Eye. 

Temple of Hecate’s Game

Temple Exterior: Marble like texture, but silvery appearance. Much like Athena’s Temple. The doors open at the first starlight on the night of the waxing crescent.

Temple Entrance: 40x25x30. Seven gold statues are placed around the room. The faces are featureless. Each is holding a different weapon. “Complete me for I have been broken. Seek the lost and the fame will be found.”

Statue 1: Unstrung bow, in a pulled back, ready to loose an arrow. In the hair of the statue is the spear head of #3.

Statue 2: Wielding a gladius, with a missing pommel. Stabbing in the back is the missing blade of #4.

Statue 3: Swinging around a staff that is actually a trident without the spear head. Hidden in the folds of cloth at the base is the other half of the broken scythe from #5.

Statue 4: Holding a club that is actually an axe without the blade. Once the other statues are made whole, the axe lowers, opening a secret door.

Statue 5: Wielding a scythe with a broken blade. 

Statue 6: Cracking a whip. Woven in the braid is the bowstring to #1.

Statue 7: Winding up a sling. Inside the sling, is the pommel of #2.

Temple Room 1: 20x40x25. Strands of gold hang from every corner. Three mirrors hang on one wall. “From the ground I seek your aid, raise me up and I’ll obey.”

Left Mirror: Copper. Etched around the rim are runes in Giant. “Breath onto me the glory of the forge so my true colors show.” 50 Fire Damage. 10 gold strands fall. 

Middle Mirror: Silver. Etched across the surface are runes in Dwarvish. “You may think me ice, but it is the sun I seek.” 50 Radiant Damage. 10 gold strands fall. 

Right Mirror: Platinum. No runes found on it. Players bring the fallen strands to the mirror. Runes appear in Celestial. “Break me with the might of song and storm.” 50 Thunder Damage. The mirror rises up the wall and a doorway appears. 

Temple Room 2: 80x100x30. 5 Suits of armor stand in a line. Behind them are 10 nude statues of marble. Each statue has a plague that reads “Grant me armor against the waking world, so I may slumber still.” Whichever statue isn’t given armor becomes animated. “Heed my words and gather your foes.” When the last animated statue falls, a stairway passage appears in the left wall.

Statue 1: Greatsword. Fighter, 60 HP

Statue 2: Greataxe. Fighter, 80 HP

Statue 3: Staff. Wizard, 50 HP

Statue 4: Sickle. Rogue, 50 HP

Statue 5: Dagger. Monk, 100 HP

Statue 6: Shield. Fighter, 60 HP

Statue 7: Spear. Barbarian, 80 HP

Statue 8: Longbow. Fighter, 60 HP

Statue 9: Morningstar. Barbarian, 80 HP

Statue 10: Warhammer. Barbarian, 40 HP

Temple Room 3: 60x100x25. Torch lit room with 4in of water. “Serpent of old, snake of gold, find me in the light, lose me in the night.”

Three Swarms of Undead Snakes. After defeating them, Investigation DC 15 to find the gold snake idol.

Perception DC 16/Investigation DC 19, find the painting of a night sky with a full moon. Without light, the moon fades way into an alcove. Placing the idol in there, all characters are teleported out.

Temple Room 4: 40x80x40. Grand hearth stands ablaze at the end of the hall. A wooden table (15x5) sits close to the front, where they teleported to. On the table are 6 keys. “Unlock the hearth to find the light. Only one choice, be wise and right.” Hearth fire parts and becomes heatless.

Key 1: Cast Iron, simple, two prongs. Instant pass. 

Key 2: Wooden, painted like a rose, three prongs. 2 Druids, 45 HP. 

Key 3: Gold, five interlocking rings, four prongs. 3 Golems, 25 HP.

Key 4: Gold, bat wings, two prongs. 2 Vampires, 40 HP.

Key 5: Silver, eagle wings, four prongs. 4 Harpies, 50 HP.

Key 6: Brass, shaped like a lizard mouth, five prongs. 1 Red Dragon Wyrmling, 90 HP. 

Temple Room 5: 80x40x50. Wooden room with open windows that show an idyllic summer day. Ten piles of brooms. “Flight is held in the wood, dust is chained in the straw. Free them and you’ll be free.” Once the 1oth is free, the characters are teleported to another room.

Investigation DC 18, Find the broom with the most dust. STR check DC 15 to clear the dust off. Broom of Flight flies out the window.

Get within 5 ft of a pile, 2 Brooms of Animated Attack, 40 HP.

10th Broom Pile has 2 brooms of flight, character may keep it.

Temple Room 6: 100x100x100. Dark grey stone room. A multilayered moving lattice cage over the sun. It illuminates the room in strobe and flashes. Standing beneath the caged sun is an 8ft tall hooded figure, with a featureless face, symbol of Hecate shimmering across their chest. The Avatar of Hecate. They stand poised with a greatsword waiting. Avatar of Hecate, Hexblade, 120 HP.

Once the players have defeated the Avatar of Hecate, the actual Goddess Hecate shows up, along with those who gifted boons to the players. The sun is released and the heroes go on to live full lives with many songs and myths about them.

If the game runs too long, but the players get to the final room, the DM can choose to end the party with one unseen stroke of the Avatar's greatsword. They awake in a luxurious pool, free of equipment and injury. Plates full of food and full chalices set nearby to each character. They were sent to Elysium.

#D&D Homebrew #Dungeons and Dragons #Dungeon Crawl #Winter #New Years #one shot #greek #quest for the stolen sun #5e #Fifth Edition

[aylinvail]

Tanna Talk: This Week in the Rogue Trader (Video Game) AO3 fandom (March 24- 30 2024)

"Oh, yes, a dance was never just a dance. It was also a display of the soul. It was love, and war, and didn’t they say that all was fair in love and war ?" - Tapestry of Fate, Ch. 34.

Lots of new plot bunnies this week in the trenches. Anyway, this is user aylinvail reporting to you live over vox caster from the Starseeker Bridge.

Cool new fics

Maybe the fic did something new. Maybe it innovated. Maybe it's an entirely new concept we haven't seen yet. A non-comprehensive list.

Two sides of the same Aquila - An AU where the Warrant of Trade is held by two most incompatible individuals in the Koronus Expanse. A series of pivotal moments of their relationship where they need to learn to share the power, space and an Interrogator in order to make it out alive. BOY THAT IS FRESH @vitanithepure.

Eliminate - A fic about Epitaph and Calcazar telling Heinrix to kill you. Told in 500 brilliant bittersweet words. @pycnolite's masterclass in how to keep it short and sweet.

Omega von Valancius - OMG @pallysuune has finally brought us the first A/B/O RT fic. As an omega, Violet von Valancius wasn't fit to be the Rogue Trader, and everyone around her seemed to know it too. But no one was more vocal about it than her so-called-peer. Can her actions ever earn his respect, or will she forever be lesser in his eyes?

The First Engagement - I know, I know, but listen. Have you seen a Lord Captain Heinrix x Interrogator RT yet? No. Fits here. Anyway, if you wanted to see what Heinrix is like as a jackass who "summers" in Janus, here ya go.

Who updated?

Here are the longfics that updated this week.

Starseeker - Heinrix/RT intrigue rewrite of game events with Kunrad-related canon divergence. And a shoujo romance.

gossamer of starlight - RT/Yrliet. Yrliet watches her elantach's dynasty fall apart in slow motion. Non chronological.

Predator & Prey - RT/Marazhai. Aurelia von Valancius has a secret. Marazhai Aezyrraesh has a craving. They're perfectly matched opposites, so long as as they can overcome their differences.

Theatre of Hearts - RT/Nocturne of Oblivion arranged marriage. And from what I hear, getting really cultural difference-flavor of interesting.

Much ado about the Lord Captain - A Comedy of Terrors - RT/Heinrix. A retelling of Rogue Trader with tons of pining. A forest of pine trees. And smut.

Immortalium - RT/Heinrix. NEW! From @cawyden-gaming. The story follows Venria von Valancius on her journey of coming to terms with her past and present.

Iron Maidens - Multiship. An Iron Widow x Rogue Trader crossover.

Omnissiah Forgive Me - RT/Pasqal. Pasqal Haneumann owes his life to the Lord Captain, Kassard. When he joined the Lord Captain's retinue, Pasqal found he had got more than he had bargained for. For the Lord Captain was enough for Pasqal's faith to be shaken to its core.

My Knight So Daring - An Imperial Knight!Heinrix x noble!RogueTrader arranged marriage AU. And from what I hear, getting really hot.

Into Temptation - RT/Marazhai/Heinrix. Former Ministorum Priest now Rogue Trader Cassius Von Valancius must contend with his heretical desires for Marazhai. Matters become even more complicated as his feelings for Heinrix Van Calox deepen.

Edge of Daybreak Unbroken - RT/Heinrix. Heretic Rogue Trader gets brought back to the start of the game. Time travel shenanigans ensue.

Once we were - RT/Heinrix. A story following the events of the game, in which Imogene von Valancius allied her dynasty with Xavier Calcazar and brought peace and prosperity to the Koronus Expanse. But neither last long, and the line between hero and heretic is always blurred.

Domino Effect - Multi. Betrayal is terrible. It never comes from one's foes. But instead from those closest. It comes from a place of safety. Of love.

Addendums

they go here. for in case there are late night updates. im out of spoons bros.

#rogue trader #rogue trader crpg #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40k rogue trader #warhammer 40000 #fanfic #fic #ao3 #fic rec

[sirensdxn]

Music

Daily writing challenge day 5: @daily-writing-challenge

Warning: Themes of manipulation 

It all began with a ruler's bite upon his knuckles. The distant ramblings of Cantor Soulek who doubled as the local tutor during off outs. He’d been singled out as pride of Greenbrook’s choir for special lessons every other night. While the children made mudcastles by the river he’d be learning sheet music. There was a half year attempting to teach him piano that ended with bruised fingers and cracked cries. A stint that ended with the boy running hiding out in one of the barrels out back for a rainy evening. Ra’hsen still remembered the chill that night, but the sting of pulled hair and scraped knees on wood was fresher than any storm. The lecture that followed put any scolding before down a level. After all, what would they do if their precious choir boy got sick?

A pretty voice, that’s all he was. . 

They fell for each time. The youthful lad dressed in silver and white with a hood over his head. A guise of humble robes with a weathered staff that sank into the wet road’s much after every step. Mud stained the hem of his robes as fragile eyes stayed glued to the street. Only the flickering lamp in his opposite hand offered any lumination through the night. Till the occasional carriage road on by into the village ahead. Yet, some still offered the lone priest a seat in their overpriced vehicle. Of course unaware of the watchful eyes in the distant fields waiting for the lamp’s flicker to vanish. They’d always inquire of his well being, it was dangerous to be all alone on these gang filled fields. He’d never have to worry now, after all, they’d protect him. Where was he going? Oh, the town next over? They’d be happy to take him. There, as the coach drove past the village did the oh so tired priest lean against the pig. They’d offer him a room, such a generous offer how could he refuse? Graciously he’d nod and offer them a blessing in thanks, it was the least he could do. His voice had grown more mature over the years, but held that youthful pitch. He kept their eye contact as the distance between the two closed. Only for it to be shattered with the sudden shake and carriage drawing to a halt. 

Just another chance for them to be the hero. They’d grab his hand and insist not to worry. Brave eyes as they waited for the guards to tend to whatever nuisance interrupted their impromptu rescue. He’d offer them a skittish smile and curled up besides them, oh so frightened. Next came the familiar pull of the door, a swift but gentle pull of his arm out into another’s old. A jacket draped over his shoulders as he rolled his eyes up his partner. Jack stayed near, always within arms length as the others dealt with the rest. There he cried, pleaded and begged with such accuracy it should have been a crime. Oh, please do not hurt him. Where was his hero? 

Nothing felt better than seeing their reactions. 

It was a hobby. Tucked away in his room, beneath his bed, sat a small journal bound by crimson twine. Inside sat a series of idle ramblings and lyrics that needed years of refining. Each verse held a fear, an ache, or memory from years ago trapped inside ink on a page. Still, no matter how small a treasure might be, its destiny was to be found. The next morning his mentor returned it to its rightful space, tucked between logs in the fireplace. 

You don’t need to create, Darien told him. You only need to read. So he did. He read the books, the scriptures, the psalms, and whatever else he’d find in the cathedral halls. Nose down, ears open, mind focused. Who needed to create when everything was copies of the originals? It’d be better to study them than put any energy into a silly little hobby. Sleepless nights of journaling and doodling turned to study sessions by candle light. A propped up arm with a chin upon his palm. Ink stained fingers skittered across smudged pages leaving short annotations. 

Every morning he joined the choir with a humble song. Each sermon he took his place in the back wearing a pretty face and smiling eyes. Once the preacher stepped aside he walked to the pulpit and held arms out toward the congregation. From youthful song his voice matured into a gentle bellow that filled the pews with joyous praise. There he led those faithful in prayer, as Cantor Soulek had done so many years ago. At least he didn’t have a ruler looming over his fingers anymore. 

Despite the crowds it all felt hollow. 

What was the point of it all? He had taken up scribbling once more in a journal, for studying he insisted. Lyrics, poems, short drabbles of what claimed his mind all torn up and tossed back into the fireplace. Who needed it? Stories? Music? They’d all been written before. So then why did they relish in it? Everyone from children to the aching elderly listened.  Some danced without a care to a beat that, stylistically, never made sense. It went against all the training, the practice, the rules of music. Still the unfamiliar beat appeared and reappeared in his works. In return it fell to ash along with the rest of his pages. They were for no one. So then why did it return?

Once he let the melody flow, let it cover a page without scratching it out. It had to be the way to get it out of the mind. Like an earworm you couldn’t unhear, you had to follow it through. It was an evening of frustration, but an evening of elation. A cauldron of anger and relief settled in his chest. How could he write something so terrible? After all this time could he not write anything better? Had the study of the greats not given him some insight? Still, it felt good to have it off his chest. To have melody out of his head.

Maybe, this once, it didn’t deserve the flame. 

#::Recorded Memories:: #dwc2021 #//weak ending. I didn't have the energy to finish it// #//Small snippets of proper scenes. Maybe I'll flesh them out later? Knowing me probably not.// #::The Gossamer Priest::

[creativefiend19]

The Essential Pynch Fics

(This was requested by an Anon and are in no particular order - also there are many more essential Pynch fics, I’m certain, but I haven’t read them yet, so feel free to add your recs)

what useless tools ourselves - @toast-the-unknowing / shinealightonme ‘s LA-verse has everything you could possibly need in your Pynch content.

Laugh-out-loud humour, infinite romance, incredibly intuitive character building and the sexiest smut (with some absolutely impeccable kink thrown in for good measure) that your heart could desire. Toast writes like she just sat down and dashed it all off, but almost every sentence holds a wealth of thoughtful crafting.

The only problem with reading this series is that it sets the bar so high that you’ll struggle to find other stories as satisfying, both in fic and in fiction.

A Favour Shared EtoileGarden - @etoilegarden ‘s Pynch kid fics are a genre of their own.

Some of the AU stories with Adam caring for his baby brother, others with Ronan's adopted daughter, and (my personal favourite) those with both kids together, satisfy my visceral craving to see Adam and Ronan building a life together.

Arden writes about Pynch taking care of their little charges in a chatty and intimate way, that will immediately draw you in. The little details, Adam’s struggles, Ronan’s daily life, and above all them interacting with the kids, will break your heart and then mend it, again and again. And keep you coming back for more.

A Love Story in Three Acts - @skyermirth has written one of my favourite Pynch AU’s.

Film star Ronan and scientist Adam will reel you in and keep you hooked. Not only is the romance top-shelf, but the depiction of Ronan as a recovering alcoholic and Adam at therapy for his issues is both riveting and realistic, in a way you rarely see in fic. The entire Gangsey are present and perfect, and all of it will leave you wanting more.

seek ye the living charactershoes @charactershoesfic

The language in this Fleabag AU blew me away! Lovely, delicate, gossamer descriptions of an Adam training to be a priest, and a Ronan whose brother Declan is getting married. The hesitant, understated and charming slow burn is a must read for anyone who prefers their fics to read like literature. 

Red Thread Seek_The_Mist @seekthemist

Mist is the uncontested Queen of the Explicit tag (not just for TRC) according to me. This collection of terribly, wonderfully, dirtily erotic chapters - based on Tumblr prompts - places the bar for mind-blowingly sexy (and sometimes filthily kinky) smut so high, that the rest of us are left gazing wistfully up at her achievements. 

Beyond the Edge of Our Hope Seek_The_Mist @seekthemist

This EPIC crossover AU of Pacific Rim and TRC is truly a labour of love. You don’t need to have watched the original film (I hadn’t), but the true genius of this work is how well the two canons are interwoven, not just with Pynch but also with the Fox Way women and Sarchengsey. This fic has the absolute BEST sex scenes, and a certain chapter is the most satisfying one I have ever read. It literally ticks every single box that I ever had for Pynch, and adds a few that I never knew I needed until I read this. I would cheerfully give over my firstborn to see this work filmed.

Time Isn't Real (but you're a constant) SpiritsFlame @spiritsflame

A time-travelling Adam fic, where he is the Magician but doesn’t know how. And he also doesn’t know why his 18 yo self is yanked into a future where he knows Ronan Lynch a little better than he’d ever imagined. This fic takes place in both timelines, which is my fave kind of time-travel fic. It’s a whole magical journey, in more ways than one.

I Don’t Wanna Know About Your New Man boywholivednotdied @dollopheadsandclotpoles 

Excellent AU set in canon Henrietta, where Adam has a huge crush on Blue, except she’s dating Ronan apparently. He gets advice from a friend (an OC) who knows the Lynch family well, and decides to do his best to break Blue and Ronan up. Things start to get very interesting, in more ways than one. I love parts of this so much that I can quote them to you. 

happy anniversary dipshit djhedy @djhedy

Absolutely IMPECCABLE and ultra-romantic Pynch work, that starts around the time Adam needs to move to Harvard. Ronan’s love for Adam is just dialled up to 111 and he’s written note-perfect. This fic kept breaking my heart and then mending it, so that at the end I looked like a piece of  Kintsugi. Holy fucking shit, I wish I could write like this.

when the frightened cattle break dorypop @hklnvgl

This de-aged Adam fic is a must-read, because so much of Adam’s trauma started in childhood. But don’t worry, he’s with Ronan, and snug in the embrace of the Barns and the Lynches and the Gangsey. This fic affected me so much that I had to take a break from reading it at one point. But I gave myself a good talking-to, reminding myself that both Adam and this story were fiction, and then got back to Dory's unparallelled and realistic way of writing children - also checj out her Fifteen Years Later Dads!Pynch series. 

River Town DubiousSparrow

I wanted to live in River Town so bad, I created my own version. Pynch meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after, in this light-hearted and ridiculously funny series. In my dreams, I visit Ronan’s bar and Adam’s [redacted] and pass Seph and Cala in the street. I wave a hi to Opal in her armadillo Halloween costume, and continue to walk along the Main Street, so happy that Sparrow invented this perfect place. This spot in this fic list was almost going to be the pitch-perfect Wondrous Hypotyposis, that I rec every time I open my mouth, but since River Town lives rent free in my mind, it won.

Just To Be Quiet sksai @babzgordon

This fic based on the verse Unspoken by Sarah Rees Brennan, where Adam and Ronan share a strange psychic bond from when they were kids onwards. And, as we know, a lot happens to these two while they were young. Adam then happens to join Aglionby, and things get even more interesting. 

There is a particular scene in this fic that is so brilliantly and unbelievably sexy, considering no one actually touches the other physically, that I need to sit down and take notes about what actually in the amazing writing makes this kind of magic happen. Epic read. 

Ronan Lynch: Nanny in Charge tinyarmedtrex @tinyarmedtrex

Ronan as ex-chef and nanny makes perfect sense to me, and apparently to t-rexes as well, because this is SUCH a good set up (and this is not the only time she’s written a Ronan who knows his way around a kitchen). Trex’s fics Always hit the spot, when you need some sexy, in-character Pynch in a perfectly executed AU. And this fic delivers it in Spades. Also, Adam with his kid is So CUte, y’all. 

#trc #the raven cycle #fic recs #Pynch #Adam Parrish #Ronan Lynch #sarchengsey

[justavulcan]

Backgrounds With Class: Cleric

Some classes and backgrounds mesh naturally, from a conceptual standpoint.  Soldier and Fighter, Entertainer and Bard, Sage and Wizard.  But backgrounds aren’t class-restricted, and so I wonder what it would look like if you paired every class with every background, even the ones that seem at odds, like Sage and Barbarian, or Outlander and Wizard.  So I thought about it, and this is what I came up with. Some character concepts for each class, and each Player’s Handbook background for each class.

Cleric

Not every cleric is a recognized priest.  Actually, because of how backgrounds work, I’d even go so far to say that not even most clerics are ordained, at least not necessarily.  A cleric is just someone who leans into their worship and belief for power, and their god rewards their faith so they can act on their behalf.  Not much else to say here- I tried to get away from their faith being the most important thing about them, from a personality standpoint.  There’s more to people than what they believe and what they do with it.

The Acolyte Cleric knows the dark; after all, her home in the Northern Reach is pitch-black for months at a time during the winter. She always looks forward to this time, when her aerie draws closer together, parroting old tales in their original voices or making new ones with shadow puppetry or sign language.  The dark bespeaks safety and community for her, and when the time came for her to choose a vocation, the priesthood of the Moon Koi was a natural choice.

The Charlatan Cleric walks a tight rope between trickery and help.  Gifted with a healer’s touch to reward her faith in the Fates, she struggles every day with the temptation to sell far easier- and more profitable- oils and unguents that might only maybe help.  She considers her soft-heartedness a liability rather than an asset, but her neighbors know she holds her neighborhood in highest regard- and where to find her for actual healing when she closes up her stall for the day.

The Criminal Cleric knows kidnapping for hire is an ugly business, but it’s the one he’s got.  Kidnapping sacrifices for the small altar to the Gossamer King he has in the sinking basement of a ruined plantation was a gateway into the trade.  However, truth be told, the King has given his more gifts (and, he thinks, inclinations) to see people’s lives end under his hand and blade rather than just taking them for a golden payday.  He’s sustained himself on the pocket contents of his victims for a long time, but bigger thirsts need sating.

The Entertainer Cleric got his start as a speaker; first a street prophet, then a town crier, then eventually as a voice for Indrahni’s faithful as they worshiped in the fields and wild places.  Herald to the rains and the storms and the deepest snows of winter, he knows that a raised voice is as much a tool for the entertainment of the mind as for the enrichment of the soul.  What takes him from his home is a need for more than the seasons to change, and so Eastwall becomes his home, as he wanders, doing the Lady of Storms’ will.

The Folk Hero Cleric was born to a time of war.  His country has been wracked by civil war on and off since time immemorial, and when the enemy’s soldiers came to his home, he cried out to the heavens for whomever would help- and the Queen of Dragons answered. Bearing a flag of five colors, he ralled farmers, smiths, miners, and veterans alike and called them to his side, defending their town with ferocity scarce before seen.  Now, he travels with the war zone, leaving shrines to Tiamat behind him and rallying those he can to defend their homes and persons from invaders- who, he cares not.

The Guild Artisan Cleric keeps giant bees.  A hive tender and mazer by trade, he dons heavy chitin armor dyed calcium white every day and goes to speak to the bees, watching the dance and hearing the thrum of the house-sized beehives to know their needs.  He, too, gives homage to Father Hunter, and keeps the bees as they keep him.  That community-mindedness has stuck with him his whole life, and it’s in his nature to support others as they do him.

The Hermit Cleric owns a bookstore.  Following a life in a monastery and discovery of a secret that tainted his people’s chaos-shaping for him forever, he fled to one metropolis after another seeking answers and wishing for a better way to uncover the truth- and what to do about it.  Thoth came to him in a vision, ibis-headed and regal, to guide him where he was needed best, and now he disseminates knowledge to all who walk through his door- whether from the street in the famed City of Doors, or elsewhere.

The Noble Cleric strove her whole life to join the Order of the Brazen Scroll. In her homeland of Ymez, they keep the law in the name of Moloch, and that calling- the maintenance of order and discipline- is the highest she aspired to.  Her upbringing and squire-ship prepared her well, and now she and her attendants keep the Brazen Bull’s peace wherever they must, whether it’s the streets and chambers of the grandest city, or the dirt roads and empty vistas and deserts of the wild countryside.

The Outlander Cleric was born a wanderer.  Her family always traveled the roads and not-roads of the dry lands in and above the Hope Desert, but her own traveler’s spirit took her further afield, to lands across the Sea Between, even the surface embassies of the Lords of Life.  With her travels her duty, a solemn commitment to seeing the dead put to rest, the new ushered safe into the world, and the knowledge that the Fates might speak at any time- and she, the mouthpiece.  Still, the roaming is a delight, if her duty isn’t always, and her grave commitment is a comfort to those she sees.

The Sage Cleric has studied the language of giants since they were young. First upon the ivory carvings stone giants brought to the town at the base of their mountain, then later on the walls of ruins as their parents explained the fall of the great giant empires. The craft of these ancient peoples and places always struck them, and so they struck back.  Armor, bricks, weapons, and art- all struck with the same runic maker’s mark and runes for strength and timelessness, an act of scholarship and simple faith that brought the attention of greater powers- and the greatest sponsor of any crafter.

The Sailor Cleric has left the most checkered part of their past behind them, but not far.  The hop from pirate to lighthouse-keeper is a short one, but the divide is huge.  In their new post as lighthouse-keeper, they’ve found a new appreciation for the work some put in to keep other sailors safe from reefs and hard shorelines, and their reverence for the light they tend has connected them to the Sun Phoenix.  The time may come when they must leave the lighthouse and take their new light on the road, as their checkered past threatens to give chase.

The Soldier Cleric gives reverence to his divine parent the only way he knows how: by bringing their tempest to the battlefield.  Tasked with defending the hospital tent and ready to drive intruders back by sword, spell, and lightning breath, he reached to the Dragon of Ages to guide his hand and the lightning within him to where he might best be of aid.  Since the end of hostilities, he’s found himself wandering far afield, but his purpose has remained the same.

The Urchin Cleric has always known the truth: that knowledge is power, and both are the life of the city, and the god thereof.  From a childhood in the alleys, rookeries, bath-houses, and taverns of Rojksvik, to an adulthood plying those same venues for every scrap of useful knowledge, she’s made knowing her business.  A quick imitator’s tongue, sharp eyes, and a willingness to intrude or even trespass where her beak isn’t wanted provides her with a vast body of knowledge- all to be used, sold, traded, or hidden, at her discretion.

#D&D #Dungeons & Dragons #Character Ideas #Character Designs #Character Concepts #Cleric #D&D Classes #D&D Cleric #knowledge domain #life domain #light domain #nature domain #tempest domain #trickery domain #war domain #death domain #forge domain #grave domain #order domain #peace domain #twilight domain #Backgrounds With Class