#brass steed

[the-plushie-friendships]

Roleplay session: @floofgryph

A tall woman with golden copper blonde hair and ruddy blue eyes was wandering through an open meadow in Scotland. She's mounted on her bluish-black unicorn steed with a lavender mane and tail, and golden eyes. The meadow is a luscious green with the gorgeous Scottish flowers. However, the sky has been affected by a volcanic winter, making the world around her seem eerie.

The woman has numerous freckles and a jarring scar of hers has its own horrid story to tell. Her cuirass depicts the Ellén Trechend and she has a gilt-brass gorget. Her pauldrons show a human-faced sun on the left and the right is designed like the head of a tarasque without the lower jaw. Her vambraces and greaves mimic serpentine scales, and her sabatons have four draconic claws. Her armour has managed to keep a clean, vibrant reddish-black hue with a blue-green sheen for many years despite it being slightly battle-worn.

She's carrying a blood-letting serpentine dagger, a two engrailed top shield, and a claymore of unknowable metal. Her shield depicts a one-horned dragon with a lance piercing its heart. Her 7 ft (213.36 cm) claymore has three closed eye-like markings in a vertical row above the hilt.

*Meanwhile, in her bedroom at an orphanage, Ames was playing with her life like plushies, unaware of the woman approaching the area*

[darklydeliciousdesires]

She Belonged to the Wild - A Tommy Shelby/OC One Shot Story.

So since Tommy appeared to be quite popular, I think I might add him to the rotation of male muses, besties! Here you are, little bit of smut for you all :)

Words - 1,174

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

She smelled like summer, apples and horses, all the simpler pleasures Tommy had long forgotten drew the most contentment, the longings for the wagon and the brass, the campfire and the open air supressed beneath the thirst for power. 

He was a Blinder, after all. His thirst for more was unquenchable.  

At his roots, in his blood, though, gypsy was woven into his soul with threads that glittered, and he would always be this, would always come back to this. He could never truly sever, and since her, he didn’t desire to. He found himself at her wagon more and more, riding out over his land to find her, smiling at the simplicity of viewing her there in her long skirts, gold glittering her ears and fingers, fingers that lovingly ran a brush over Patch, her beloved horse.  

Her face lit up to see him approach, turning to move the brush over Patch’s flank as he climbed down from the large, black steed he rode. “Come to seek out a little solace, hm?”  

How well she knew him. He dropped his head, a hint of a smile playing his lips as he screwed a cigarette between them, lighting up. “Something like that, Els.”  

He was a man of so few words, his face always so passive. One never knew what lurked beyond the surface of Tommy Shelby, what stirred through his depths. Except for Elsie. She knew because she was the one who stirred them. Watching the storm begin to whirl in his eyes was half the fun, the precursor to the pleasure, her gaze flitting over him as he stood and smoked, waiting for her to finish tending to Patch. 

Once she was done, she padded barefoot through the long grass, casting off her blouse and skirts, revealing herself without a hint of bashfulness to both him and the early morning sun. The dew was damp and sumptuous beneath her feet, and for Tommy, the sight of her nearing him was perhaps even more splendorous than the pink hued dawn itself.  

His wry smile was all praise. “Blimey. That fuckin' figure. You're enough to drive a man out of his mind.” 

Approaching him, she moved her mountain of wavy dresses with the sweep of her hand, reaching for him, nimble fingers beginning to undo his shirt as he shrugged his jacket off. “God put me together well, I like to think.” 

He pulled her to him, his breath hot at her neck. “Mm, god didn’t create you, sweetheart. You’re much too rare for that.” His lips pressed against the silken flesh of her neck, hands wandering up her back as she arched against him. Her nimble fingers pulled him from his clothes, a naked tumble taking them into the long grass beneath, their kisses honey dripped and fever hot.  

Looking down upon him, she relished in the sight beneath her, Tommy moving to clasp her waist and turn her onto her back, her giggle playful as the damp dew met her soft skin in a cooling press. His full lips began to scatter paths of sizzling heat over her body, head dipping as he cupped her breast, his tongue circling the pink peak until it pebbled. Those kisses lowered, her curves tended to carefully, his sensual lips settling at her sex, kissing before parting.  

He took a long, slow lick at her, the taste of her womanhood, the softness of her neat, dark curls pulling a grunt from his throat, hands spreading her wider as he lapped thirstily at her folds. His eyes found hers, shining azure beaming light from the altar where he laid his worship to all that was sacred, beautiful, ethereal, blessings given back by the divinity of her taste, the sweetness of her scent.  

Her hands tugged in his hair, hips rising against his mouth as a tide of sunshine gleamed through her, each lick firm in pressure upon her bud, his fingers moving to stroke at her, pushing within the heavenly, slick clasp of her cunt. Sparks skipped through her, flames catching at her edges as she cried out, feeling him smile against her soaking folds, his full lips wrapping to suck her with pillowy heat.  

“Tommy, please. I... oh!”  

He hummed with laughter, tongue snaking over pink, velvet petals. “I know what you want, my wild beauty. You can wait a bit longer, though.”  

“I can’t!” she gritted, whimpering when he stopped, feeling his damp lips pucker upon her inner thigh. 

He moved to level with her face, kissing her softly, gently nuzzling her nose with his. “Yeah, you bloody can. Stop complaining, alright?”  

Shaking his head at her unimpressed pout, he moved back between her legs, his tongue evoking her wails once more. The pleasure he gratified her with was sharp, digging at her bones, sweeping over her nerves like the kiss of silk, her thighs beginning to writhe against his face as he ate her rapaciously.  

He was like a man half starved, not pausing or slowing, the punch of his fingers against her soaking walls having her mewling in delight, breathless and dizzy, Tommy moving to his knees and finally, guiding what she’d craved deep into the trembling hug of her cunt. Her back arched, her mouth dropping open as the thick of him split her wide, Elsie clutching at her breasts as she watched him intently, the cool fire of his eyes burning just for her.  

The way his cock spread her had stars tingling her insides, lit up and shooting as the pleasure darted through her like a hail of comets. He speared her deep, lean body moving steadily, her hands gliding over his lithe muscles, her walls fluttering around him. He arrowed her steadily to begin with, lowering to his elbows, mouth pressing to hers with kisses of scorching desire, her nails gently raking down his back.

Speeding up, her sob of pleasure made him tingle down to his depths as he drove into her, the lewd sounds of their sex filling the air along with the morning birdsong and occasional snort from the horses grazing closer to the camp, Elsie’s wails loudening by the second.  

“Oh, oh fuck!” she cried, her teeth nipping at his neck, her body feeling molten within the heat of his forge, flames roaring as she felt it reach out and pull her into the fire. Her muscles stiffened as she crested and shattered like heirloom glass around him, Tommy driving into her until he reached the same peak of divinity, breathless atop her as he felt the sun beginning to warm his back.  

He had her once again before riding back to his house, leaving her to her day. He knew there’d be a time where he’d look out of the window and find her gone, so until that fateful morning, he enjoyed his wild beauty all he could, while he could.  

Tommy knew he’d never seek to tame her. Perhaps he wouldn’t love her quite so much if he ever could.  

#tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby x ofc #tommy shelby #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders #cillian murphy

[thirsty-boba-fett-posts]

Y’all wanted Vampire!Boba and I intend to deliver because Boba Bestie solidarity is a surprisingly strong bond of friendship.

gif courtesy of @daimyosprincess 💚💚💚

SMUT-LITE UNDER THE CUT.

Nothing good happens after 2am.

Your childhood pony, ancient and serviceably sound despite suffering from a variety of ailments common to geriatric equines, was finally gone after a heroic amount of banamine and nasogastric intubation. You’d ditched your dinner date and swapped your heels for your boots to be with the trusty steed of your junior rodeo days. You hadn’t even bothered to change out of your dress. Now you’re at a gas station in a $1000 dress and a pair of Ariats that were $150 five years ago with eye makeup running down your cheeks and your dead pony’s halter in your truck’s passenger seat. You just need a few gallons of diesel to get yourself home, then you can sleep.

A car pulls in as you fish your debit card out of your purse. Through the haze of grief you wonder who else would possibly be out at this hour in a late model Audi. He looks no more conspicuous than you do in a cocktail dress and cowgirl boots putting $10 worth of diesel in a dually born the same year you were, but he looks like money and there isn’t a whole lot of that around here.

A handsome, barrel chested man in tailored slacks gets out and begins filling his tank. You can feel him watching you, but you avoid making eye contact. You’re not afraid. You just look like hell. There’s no use flirting when your mascara is streaked down your cheeks and you’ve got mud on your bare knees from kneeling down to be with your pony as he passed.

…

The summer breeze is warm and it carries her scent. A perfume or scented oil perhaps - vanilla with a hint of bourbon. But something else, something familiar. The unmistakable smell of a horse farm like the livery stable of his youth. She avoids his gaze. Her face looks puffy and tear streaked. Her lovely dress flatters her figure, but her boots and muddy knees give her away as a local girl. And her truck - no girl from the city drives a truck like that. It must be older than she is. She’s a pretty little thing. Crying has given her a hollowed, wounded look, but it’s nothing a warm soak in his bath and a night in his bed couldn’t fix, surely. Her boots have seen better days. He imagines taking her to one of the expensive western wear stores in the city. It’s been so long since he’s felt the warmth of a woman on his arm. Or in his arms, for that matter.

…

Your truck’s engine won’t turn over. This isn’t earth shattering. Your truck was in borrowed time 75,000 miles ago. Your cousin owns the station and won’t mind if you leave it overnight - his father-in-law will probably tow it to the shop for free - but finding a way home is going to be a bit of a crapshoot. Compared to the rest of the night’s events, this is a hardly worth fretting over. You shoot a text to your cousin, knowing damn well he won’t check it until the morning. You thumb through your contact to see who might answer a 2am call or text.

A knock at your passenger side window makes you jump. The man with the Audi. You roll down your window.

“Are you waiting for a tow?”

His eyes are kind. Sympathetic. You must look absolutely pitiful in your silly little cocktail dress and your beat up old truck.

“I’ll just leave it here for the night. This is my cousin’s place.”

You hesitate.

“I could use a ride home though.”

You can see the strength in his biceps through his shirt. He doesn’t look harmless, but he doesn’t seem especially menacing either, and you’re too tired to wait around for someone to pick up the phone.

…

He can smell the warm leather and tang of brass on her passenger seat. An old halter, well worn but double stitched with a brass nameplate. He can smell hay - orchard grass and timothy and alfalfa. She must spend more on her horses than she does on herself, he thinks. Her eyes and clear and bright. Her round cheeks have the glossy sheen of old tears. Her heartbeat is soft and slow. Exhaustion and catharsis can have that affect. It would be nothing to lull her to sleep with his voice alone, but the heated seats of his car would speed the process along.

She’s doing an admirable job fighting sleep as she gives him directions from his passenger seat, but she soon settles. His driveway is paved and the long drive to his estate is quiet save for the sound of her heartbeat and her breathing. Her halter and lead rope are on her lap. The brass nameplate says “Bueno Butter Bar” in an attractive script. He suspects that Bueno Butter Bar is no longer in the land of the living.

Under his power, she won’t wake up until he allows it. He takes his time. He hangs Bueno Butter Bar’s halter and lead rope carefully on the coat rack just inside his front door and returns to scoop her in his arms and carry her over the threshold.

He lays her down on the plush comforter on his bed. He smooths her dress and pushes her hair out of her face. He’s not ready to wake her. He wants to admire her first. Her skin is soft. She feels warm and earthy under his touch. Predation is not in his nature, but he can’t resist tasting her. Just a sip from the bend of her arm. It will look like she attended a blood drive or had lab work done. The part of him that scratches at the inside of his skull with claws and teeth and an insatiable appetite whispers that she’s his now. He can do whatever he wants with her. The man that he once was, still is, reminds him that she is a person with hopes and dreams and fears and aspirations. Not meat. Not livestock. The soft rhythm of her beating heart calls to him.

Her blood is perfection, but he limits himself to a conservative mouthful. He’ll wake her soon and tend to her. Perhaps offer her a neat scotch and one of his t-shirts to sleep in. Perhaps a shower. Perhaps a bath with him.

…

You startle awake in a dimly lit, unfamiliar bedroom. His voice is soothing. You remember his name from when he introduced himself. Boba Fett. A Mandolorian name, you remember thinking. That’s the last thing you remember. He’s smoothing your hair and offering you a drink. His hands are so warm. He feels familiar and safe. You sit up and lean forward. His forehead touches yours. Such an intimate gesture.

“You’ve had quite the night, haven’t you love?”

When his lips find yours, you melt into him. This is what you need after a night like tonight. A strong, kind man to put his hands on you and take care of you. His touch feels like fresh aloe over a sunburn. You wrap your arms around his neck and he slides his palms up your thighs.

He pauses and you worry that he’s having second thoughts.

“Take a bath with me, little one. Sleep here with me in my bed. If you still want to do this in the morning, I promise I’ll make you feel incredible.”

You nod and allow him to wrap you in his arms and carry you to the bathroom.

…

Y’all I promise there will be a Part II with actual smut, but I’ve been out in the sun all day and I’m tired.

@daimyosprincess

@acatalystrising

@dukeoftheblackstar

@baufraus

@erinthevampire

@wings-and-beskar

@deewithani

#boba fett thots #the book of boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett #daddy daimyo #boba fett can get it #boba fett imagine #boba fett smut #vampire!boba

[tylermileslockett]

Day 8! 12 days of labors continues! 🤟🏛

Heracles labor 8: "Steal the Mares of Diomedes"

Here's what Diodorus tells us of the 8th Labor:  "The next Labour which Heracles undertook was the bringing back of the horses of Diomedes, the Thracian. The feeding-troughs of these horses were of brass because the steeds were so savage, and they were fastened by iron chains because of their strength, and the food they ate was not the natural produce of the soil but they tore apart the limbs of strangers and so got their food from the ill lot of hapless men. Heracles, in order to control them, threw to them their master Diomedes, and when he had satisfied the hunger of the animals by means of the flesh of the man who had taught them to violate human law in this fashion, he had them under his control. And when the horses were brought to Eurystheus he consecrated them to Hera, and in fact their breed continued down to the reign of Alexander of Macedon."

Thanks for looking and reading! If you share this image ill sail over and wrangle any carnivorous critters roaming your neighborhood for you! xoxo

#pagan #hellenism #greek mythology #tagamemnon #mythology tag #percyjackson #dark academia #greek #greekmyths #classical literature #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #homer #iliad #classics #mythologyart #art #artists on tumblr #odyssey #literature #ancientworld #ancienthistory #ancient civilizations #ancientgreece #olympians #greekgods #hercules #heracles

[hanzajesthanza]

the mishmash of clothing that geralt’s company wear during their journey is delightfully piecemeal. it’s like half-brokilonian, half-stolen from banditry, half-clothes which actually belong to them. ik i made this post as a joke but i actually really love the outfits of the company

geralt and dandelion are dressed in hooden grey elven mantels. later in chapter 4, they’ve exchanged them for homespun cloaks stolen from the guards, which they used to escape the camp. from though he still has his recognizable headband and medallion, geralt is seemingly almost incognito as he wears a leafy-patterned elven jerkin from the dryads. (and for even more brokilon influence, before zoltan gives him the dwarven sihill, he has a sword from col serrai).

speaking of dwarven fashions, dandelion receives a quilted jacket and a ‘swashbuckling’ marten-fur kalpak from zoltan and his company. he replaced his plum hat with the heron’s feather with this marten kalpak, so he as well is almost incognito. as far as accessories go, he has a brass-studded belt and the cruel-looking knife from the dwarves, too; although he immediately lost the knife. after the events of chapter 4 and in the middle of 5, his head is wounded and bandaged.

zoltan tells milva that she “looks too much like a squirrel” to approach humans alone — which is probably a result of her dress and her bow, of course. asides from her mahogany bow with whalebone risers, measuring 5 foot with a 24 inch draw length, shooting grey-fletched arrows… and one silver arrow… she’s likely dressed in some brokilonian or elven garb, owing to her work as an agent for brokilon. but she also wears “human” clothing, a blouse and woolen leggings. her belt is described, with a pouch and a hunting knife with a bone handle hanging off of it (and in the next book, she gives this knife to angoulême as a gift). perhaps most curiously, milva’s not mentioned to be wearing her iconic braid or plait during this book, rather her long hair is described as falling into geralt’s face when she leans over him in tense conversation in chapter 1, tossing her hair with a sudden movement when offended in chapter 5…

cahir is almost unrecognizable as nothing he wears betrays him as nilfgaardian, instead he’s dressed in a hauberk, leather tunic and cloak from the men who were transporting him. but this hauberk becomes ever-so iconic in its own right as it plays such a role in the fish soup… as a strainer.

regis, of course, dresses modestly and is perhaps the only one of the company dressed in his own clothes not signalling affiliation to a larger faction or taken from some roving banditry. black robes, something like an apron tied around the waist. when they meet him, he has a linen bag, but when they leave, he’s exchanged it for a leather one. and also, a walking stick, which is never mentioned again by the writing... he also has his nigh-iconic black, woolen cloak-cape, which he wraps himself up in…

and the horses! do not forget the horses. geralt’s elven roach, a bay mare who rides as if bitted by horseflies. the lazy and docile bay gelding pegasus, of course, remains dandelion’s steed. cahir rides on a chestnut colt, which he loses but later recovers. milva’s black horse, which she tells geralt not to touch in chapter 1, which also becomes the subject of debate in chapter 4. regis rides on a nilfgaardian bay near the end of the novel, by which point they’ve also obtained a riderless grey horse which carries their modest belongings.

these small little details are all just described so wonderfully across the course of the book, the picture is painted for you eventually, over time, your attention is rewarded with an intricate picture at the end…

#the witcher books #book: baptism of fire #c: geralt #c: regis #c: dandelion #c: milva #c: cahir #f: a hansa’s a hansa #txt #hanza #when people say: ‘well sapkowski didn’t describe what they’re wearing so an adaptation should just do whatever they want’ #that’s literally a false statement… it’s right there in the book 🤨 you just didn’t care about it enough to notice #also the way that the settings are painted—turlough. fen carn. the refugee camp. the island of fish soup in the yaruga. #literally in chapter 7 when they move out of the swamps to higher ground and their boots and legs dry out i get so emotionally moved by that #and they eat the barnacle goose milva shoots and cover it in clay and roast it but the seeds of anxiety still germinated!!!!!!! #baptism of fire #geralt of rivia #dandelion #milva barring #emiel regis #cahir aep ceallach #character descriptions in the books

[ultimate-link-project]

Poll Masterlist

Gender (Result: Genderfluid, any pronouns)

Age (Result: Older Teen- around 17)

Steed (Result: Epona)

Triforce (Result: Only Courage)

Backstory (Results: Strange forest creature tied with remembers alt lives) 

Magical Ability (Results: Balanced, though may slightly lean towards more magical due to the vote ratio) 

Mutism (Results: almost completely mute but can be really sassy in sign) 

Popularity (Results: Normal if a little hermitty)

Mental Health (Results: Neurodivergent AND traumatized!)

Transformation(s) (Results: Yes)

Edgy Variant (Results: All three possible but more focus on Shadow)

Scars (Results: Visibly very scarred, noticeable facial scar)

Sexuality (Result: Asexual) 

Hair Color (Results: Dirty Strawberry Blonde)

Companion (Results: All listed- Fairy, Fi, Heroes Shade- wolf edition, Epona, Several versions of their own spirit, Zelda/Sheik and/or whoever their SO ends up being, if we decide they get one)

Hair Length (Results: about shoulder length, maybe slightly longer)

Bangs (Results: Soft Left bang ie. Sksw & botw)

Hair Tails (Results: Long enough to have fun with)

Pink? (Results: Incorporated in a subtle gradient)

Hair misc. (Results: A couple little braids)

Eye Color (Results: blue and green heterochromia)

Eye Shape (Results: Mainly botw inspired with a hint of tp bc they were pretty close)

Eyeshadow (Results: subtle green smokey eye)

Nose (Results: crooked and a little pointy)

Ears (Results: Straight and Long)

Earrings (Results: blue hoops +dragon cuff)

Eyebrows (Results: Tp inspired, a little fluffy)

Lips (Results: hint of sksw but able to do the toon :3 kind of face)

Facial Scars (Results: Magic injuries, small slash marks/claw marks, and lightning feathers, using the multiple because we’ve already established that they’re going to be very physically scarred)

Freckles (Results: Yes, lots)

Scarf/Cape (Results: First Link’s red scarf mixed with a botw inspired cloak)

Undershirt (Results: collared white, slightly unlaced)

Chainmail (Results: yes)

Tunic Color(s) (Results: Forest green but I’m adding a tiny bit of blue out of spite)

Tunic Style (Results: Twilight Princess inspired)

Hat (Results: Also Twilight Princess inspired)

Belts (Results: Three plus a little chest armor, totk inspired)

Belt Buckle (Results: Mostly simple dark brass, but one is the iconic toon swirl)

Pants (Results: Light Brown Shorts)

Gloves/bracelets (Results: TP inspired bracers and fingerless gloves)

Boots (Results: OoT boots mixed with Pegasus boots)

Armor (Results: Alt outfit with heroes shade chest armor and pauldrons)

Belt Contents (Results: Potions, Quiver, Little knife/dagger, Rupee Pouch, Hookshot and/or Lantern, if there’s room the sheikah slate, horse call or various pouches will be added, perhaps it depends on their mood)

Fairy Color (Results: Pink healing Fairy and Navi)

Wolf Dad (Results: Both heroes shade and wolf Link) 

Partner (Results: Ultimate Zelda/Sheik)

Fi Redesign (Results: similar to totk redesigns, a little old and damaged)

Shield (Results: Classic Hylian with hints of the mirror shield)

Family (Results: only their companions/ found family)

Body Type (Results: 5′3, somewhere between soft, muscular, and femboy aka sksw, tp, and botw)

Bow (Results: Forest Dwellers Bow)

#masterlist #ultimate link saga #ultimate link masterlist

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part VIII: Steed

ao3

masterlist

first | previous | next

Please enjoy this chapter, brought to you by my fight for A's in science and quantitative reasoning. Next semester will be easier, so things will definitely be getting back on track.

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre

@kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

@blktooth @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @hungryswampdweller @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles

Content Warning: In a surprising turn of events, none.

#######

“Fresh fruits and vegetables!”

“Fine trinkets for sale!”

“Fresh meat, straight from the wild!”

Bishop sneered at that last pitch. “I bet you ten septims that meat is from last Loredas.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Leara said, looking around. 

It was market day when they arrived in Whiterun. Stalls and vendors lined the streets of the Plains District as peddlers called out sales gimmicks and prices to the large crowd of passersby. Local farmers parked in rows, setting up shop in the back of their carts. Whiterun was alive with shades of green and gold, vibrant in the height of summer. The sun-warmed kiss of ripe tomatoes and the sweet tang of summer apples wafted through the air, just detectable above the muddy scents of crowd and city. The aroma of red gold apples caressed Leara’s scenes as she passed by an overladen stall. The gleam of the fruit under the sun caught her eye, and Leara almost turned back to speak to the saleswoman. 

Bishop’s hand on her elbow drew her back. “Eyes on the prize, sweetness,” he whispered in her ear. His eyes were directed toward the eaves of The Bannered Mare. 

Leara sighed and followed after, Karnwyr on her heels.

The Bannered Mare was much busier than it was months ago when they came through from the Reach on their way to Ivarstead. Leara paused on the threshold, Bishop just ahead of her with the door wide open. If she closed her eyes, Leara could see the barfly buzzing around Bishop’s head, the sour expression on Saadia’s face when the ranger ordered her around, the apprehensive look that grew on Mikael’s face as his eyes slid from Leara to Bishop looming over her shoulder. She could hear Hulda snapping at Bishop, her patience worn thin as he continued to prod at the security of her inn. 

Leara opened her eyes. Her feet had led her to the bar. Hulda was scowling at Bishop. Again. 

“How’s that little break-in problem you had a while back?” Bishop asked.

“Resolved,” the innkeeper said in clipped tones. 

“You sure about that?” 

“Bishop, please,” Leara whispered, cutting in before he got them thrown out of the inn. “Hello, Hulda.”

The woman’s hard face softened, but only just, as she shifted focus. “Hello, dear. Will you be staying?”

“Yes, is,” she paused for a moment. Just one, and then, “Is my old room available?” Karnwyr bumped his head against her off-hand, and absently Leara tangled her fingers in his fur. 

Bishop made a noise. She ignored him.

Hulda’s nod was short, her eyes fixed on Bishop. “Just the one room, dear?” she asked Leara.

“Yes, please.” 

Her lips thin, Hulda shuffled through some keys she kept hooked on a board behind the bar. She perused the rows for a moment before plucking out a familiar brass key. The Bannered Mare was large, serving as the principal inn for the city of Whiterun. Leara never bothered visiting any of the others, though the Bosmer from The Drunken Huntsman was always quick to send her a wave and friendly smile. Before the mantle of the Dragonborn was thrust onto her shoulders. Before that, she’d scraped through the winter while renting out one of the smaller upstairs bedrooms. Nothing as fancy as the balcony suite overlooking the common room, but for a few cold months, Leara called The Bannered Mare home. Leara’s thin fingers folded over the key almost as soon as Hulda deposited it in her palm, its short length and brass loops more familiar to her hand than Words of Power were in her mouth. 

Its weight grounded her.

For a moment. 

“Wait, so you’ve had a room here this whole time?” Bishop’s voice cut in, and again Leara was drifting. 

She swallowed. “You never asked. Last time you were pretty insistent that we sleep on sacks of cabbages.”

Bishop’s scowl did nothing to stop Hulda’s bark of laughter. Leara shot her a small smile as she slipped the requisite ten septims across the counter. Hulda scooped them up. “How long this time, dear?”

“Just a day, maybe two. I have some business with the Jarl,” Leara said. 

Hulda nodded. She didn’t press about the business – she never did, despite being an innkeeper. As central as taverns were for the gossip mill, Hulda always knew when not to ask questions. Her discretion was something Leara always appreciated about her. Actually, it was one of the key reasons why Leara continued coming to The Bannered Mare after all this time. 

It was probably also why Jarl Balgruuf continued to sneak into this particular barroom out of all the rest in Whiterun. Not that Leara knew anything about that. 

“Speaking of which,” Bishop said, “we better be off.”

“Thank you, Hulda,” Leara coughed. Hulda nodded to her, turning back to the ledger behind the counter. “Actually,” Leara said softly as she and Bishop made their way to the stairs. She could feel Bishop’s eyes burning under her skin. “I need you to stay here.”

“What.”

Around them, the barroom bustled. The cheerful song of Mikael’s lute rose and fell above the hum of patrons dining and drinking. It was hardly an hour past noon: Many were catching a bite to eat before returning to the hustle of the market stalls. No one could hear Leara’s soft whisper or Bishop’s hot hiss above the clatter of dishes and mugs and the scrape of chairs that punctuated friendly conversations. 

Her feet planted firmly on the first step, Leara turned to face Bishop. From this vantage point, she could look directly into his eyes without having to crane her neck. It was a little dizzying. She didn’t expect that. Karnwyr darted passed her up the stairs and Leara took that moment to steel herself. “Are you familiar with Jarl Balgruuf’s temper?”

Bishop crossed his arms, shifting his weight back on one leg as he did so. “I’ve heard the rumors.”

Leara jutted out her chin. “Well, they’re true. It is a delicate matter that I have to discuss with the Jarl. I am here not only for myself, but the Greybeards as well—” Bishop rolled his eyes; Leara continued, “—and it may go more smoothly if I went alone to Dragonsreach.”

Bishop stared at her. “There’s a joke in there somewhere about my manners, isn’t there?”

Leara gave a half-hearted shrug. “The joke is my ability to persuade the Jarl to agree to the Greybeards’ plan.”

They walked up the stairs. “And what is this all-important, top-secret plan, anyway? You haven’t said a word about it since we left that frozen hellhole.”

Leara winced. “Trust me, you’ll know soon enough, and when you do, you’ll wish you didn’t.”

“Sounds promising!” Bishop laughed as they crested the stairs. Karnwyr sat waiting for them, his tail wagging. 

“It promises something, all right,” Leara murmured, her feet tracing the old familiar path down the hall to her room. It promised disaster, definitely. Death, probably. Fire . . . Leara cringed, memories of Helgen blazing across her mind as phantom smoke choked her throat and dragon fire scorched her skin. There would be fire, and fire was death. 

Even with the peace conference as an incentive, fear of Jarl Balgruuf’s rejection of the plan churned inside her. 

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Leara jolted, only to find Bishop staring down at her, his face crinkled in perplexity. “You okay there, ladyship?”

No. “Yes, thank you.” 

Slipping by him, Leara made her way nearly to the end of the hall, sliding the key into the lock as she went. It wasn’t a large room by any means. There was a chest at the end of the bed, a nightstand, and a single chair in the corner. It wasn’t much, the double bed comfortable, if a bit worn. The musty smell of hay and horsehair burrowed its way into her nose, its familiarity both a comfort and a pain. Her nostrils were stopped up with it the night after she slayed Mirmulnir. There was no trace on the thin pillow of her tearstains, just as there was no mark left on her body from that raging wind that tore through Mirmulnir’s body, dragging his soul into the depths of her own. 

Setting her bag on the chest, Leara sighed. She couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ll meet you back here for dinner,” she told Bishop. She fiddled with the loose hairs that fell curling from her bun. With a few twirls of her fingers, the loose strands settled into place, appearing as if they were meant to frame her face. 

Sitting on the bed, Bishop watched her. “What are you doing?”

“Making myself presentable,” Leara said, retrieving a cloth to wipe down her armor. A few passes along her gauntlets, chest plate, and war skirt were the best she could do. Akatosh, but she was weary of wearing armor. 

She wiped the palms of her gloves before dumping the now dusty cloth on top of her satchel. “Dinner,” she reminded Bishop. 

He said nothing as she left. Leara couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved. She thought for sure he would press to accompany her, but he surprised her. Ever since they left High Hrothgar, Bishop had been strangely mellow. If Leara didn’t know any better, she would say he was pensive. After their heated discussion before departing the monastery, Leara was sure she didn’t want to unpack whatever Bishop was carrying around that made him of all people pensive. 

Karnwyr rose to follow her as she moved toward the door. Shaking her head, Leara scratched the wolf’s head. “You have to stay here, with your master,” she told him softly. 

“Here, boy!” Bishop called from where he now lay sprawled on the bed. “Don’t be such a chaser.” 

Clearly reluctant, Karnwyr shuffled back to Bishop’s side as Leara slipped out the door. 

·•★•·

“Dragonborn,” the guards at the doors of Dragonsreach nodded to her. Their faces were obscured by cage helmets; Leara wondered to herself if either man had been there when she fought Mirmulnir. Returning their greeting with a soft smile and gentle nod, Leara pushed through one of the mighty doors. 

Dragonsreach was truly magnificent and almost comforting. Especially after attending that poor excuse of a concert in the Palace of the Kings, Leara found herself drawn more to the warm woods and roaring fires of Whiterun’s palace than many of the other great places she visited. Out of everywhere in Skyrim, save perhaps High Hrothgar, whose stones sang with a peace and tranquility that rose above the cares and stresses of the world below, warming her heart despite the frigid air, Dragonsreach had a way of pulling her in, coaxing her with its merry hearth and the heady smells of roasting meat and baking bread. The keep was grand, but not garish, decorated with Nordic carvings in the living wood of its pillars and beams that recalled images of horses in the wind and dragons in flight. If the Palace of the Kings was a frozen fortress of stone and strength, then Dragonsreach was a home, inviting people into its heart to seek comfort in its warmth and plenty. 

Knowing Jarl Balgruuf as she did, Leara wanted to believe that invitation still extended to her. Their last meeting, however, was just one more shadow cast by the ever-growing forest of doubt overrunning her mind. If the Jarl didn’t agree to the peace council for the sake of trapping a dragon and stopping Alduin, then Leara didn’t know what she would do. Figure something else out, certainly, but at what cost? Where else could she turn?

Neither her face nor her gait showed the weeds of her worry as the Dragonborn glided across the sunshine-yellow rug that dominated the keep’s foyer, passing the maids at their chores with a brief nod of acknowledgment before sweeping up the great stairs. The silver of her armor gleamed golden in the glow of the hearth fire, and Leara was privately relieved that she thought to wipe off the dust from the road. She wanted to appear put together before the Jarl if nothing else. Usually, men seemed more willing to listen to women who didn’t look like vagrants. Her thoughts turned to the faded state of her hair, its mahogany shine dulled into shades of chestnut. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She resolved then to buy more hair dye off Arcadia on her way back to the inn. 

The feasting tables stretched before her, already set for dinner, though it was hardly the second hour since noon, and she knew that Jarl Balgruuf and his court didn’t take their dinner until nearly seven in the evening. Leara passed these by, making her way toward the throne dais. Balgruuf himself was seated, hunched to the side with his elbow propped on the armrest and his bearded chin balanced on his closed fist as he listened to whatever his steward was prattling on about. Off to the left, his housecarl, Irileth, stood back with her arms crossed, her ashen face creased at whatever Avenicci was saying. However, more than half her attention was marking Leara’s progress across the room as she drew ever closer to the Jarl’s throne. Few would notice the attention, but Leara was trained to spy slights of eyes and shifts in attention. In another life, she thought Irileth might have made an excellent Knight-Sister. Certainly, a more rational one than Delphine, at any rate. 

“My Jarl,” the housecarl said, cutting off Avenicci’s spiel about road patrols growing too close to the other Holds. Funny, Leara thought, hadn’t he used that same argument to try and dissuade the Jarl from sending aid to Riverwood the previous fall? “The Dragonborn is here.”

At once Leara found the attention of Balgruuf the Greater directed at her, his arm falling from its perch on the chair as he straightened in his seat. As if his actions pulled a lever, Leara dropped to one knee at the base of the short steps to the throne dais, her right arm barred over her chest with her fist over her heart. It was a Bretic stance, but despite being hailed as a Nordic hero, Leara couldn’t persuade herself to adopt their court etiquette. Akatosh knew she wasn’t going to kowtow to Balgruuf like she once did before Lord Naarfin or, Divines forbid, Lord Varlarata. Not today – or ever, for that matter. 

“Dragonborn,” Balgruuf the Greater said, a note of surprise evident in his greeting. “Leara, I did not expect you.”

Dropping her arm, Leara rose to her feet. “I apologize, Jarl Balgruuf, but I’ve been on the road a long time. My pilgrimage to High Hrothgar was only the first of many places I’ve visited in Skyrim since the Greybeards summoned me.”

“Of course,” Balgruuf said, his steel eyes watching her. The last time he watched her, Leara had walked out of Dragonsreach in embarrassment, its comfortable atmosphere blown from around her by a cold wind. “I won’t ask if you have found Skyrim well because, between the dragons and the war, I’m afraid she is in a bit of a crisis.” 

Proventus Avenicci coughed. Leara thought she heard a grumbled, “‘A bit of a crisis’ is putting it mildly,” but she dismissed the comment. 

“Actually, Jarl Balgruuf, with your permission, it’s the dragons and the war which I would like to discuss with you,” she said, concern creasing her forehead and drawing at her mouth just so. 

Balgruuf’s shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh. “It would be the dragons and that blasted war that would bring you back here,” he said, almost to himself. 

From the corner of her eye, Leara saw Irileth roll her eyes in that quick, up-down motion that was almost undetectable in its speed. She imaged the Dunmer’s eyes got as much exercise as her sword arm these days. Goodness knows Leara’s did whenever Bishop was nearby. 

Her arms loose at her sides, Leara tilted her chin up and relaxed her shoulders back. “I won’t insult your intelligence network by regaling you with tales of the dragons’ devastation across Skyrim. The havoc and chaos they leave in their wake is second only to the fear people feel at their coming. The dragon threat needs to be resolved, swiftly.”

“Aye,” Balgruuf said, with a grunt. “As Dragonborn, I was hoping you would have a solution that would solve at least one of Skyrim’s problems.”

A demure smile pulled at Leara’s lips as she bowed her head lightly. “I have learned a great deal with the Greybeards, and in my travels besides,” she said, dancing toward her proposal and leading the Jarl after her. Irileth was watching her, she knew, and Avenicci was biting at the bit to insert some comment. If Hrongar were present, Leara didn’t doubt the Jarl’s brother would take the imitative. “I now know how the dragons have returned.” The still-healing skin of her hands and forearms ached at the memory of her ill-turned battle atop the Throat of the World. At the memory of Alduin’s thundering voice and poisonous breath coiling around her, constricting. “It is Alduin. He has returned and he’s resurrecting the dragons.”

The effect of her words was instantaneous. Balgruuf sat rigid, the steel of his eyes glinting and the line of his mouth dropping. The hand on his lap closed into a tight fist, then flexed open. To the side, Irileth frowned, her mouth pinched, but she showed no other reaction. Avenicci, on the other hand, gaped like a fish, his hands flapping at his sides in a strong imitation of a hummingbird. For a moment, Leara wondered what the Dunmer and Imperial might know about the World-Eater and how their knowledge, being transplanted from other cultures as they were and neither being scholars nor particularly religious, must fall short compared to Balgruuf’s. To hers. 

Fire and death flashed in a blazing wind through her mind’s eye. Smoke and blood strangled her tongue. 

“The World-Eater,” breathed Balgruuf. His eyes were distant, darting back and forth as if reading a memory. “Then, surely this means the end times are upon us.” 

Leara stepped forward, one step, two, leaving the cloud of battle behind her as she drew the Jarl’s attention back to her. Splintering steel and shattering crystal. Good. He knew how grievous news of Alduin was. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” she said. 

The Jarl nodded to himself, “Of course not. What’s your plan? What do you need?”

Help, Leara thought, then, “I’ve spoken to the Greybeards, and in our mediation—” or rather, her nagging, “—we discovered that Whiterun is central to stopping Alduin. It’s imperative that we take the opportunity presented to bring an end to his reign of terror. Without your help, there’s a chance that—”

“Leara,” Balgruuf said, a note of finality in his voice. The Dragonborn’s jaw clamped halfway closed at the flare of temper. “Get on with it, girl. You already know I would help bring an end to this dragon menace if I could. You don’t need to dance around the subject like a damn butterfly,” this last was spoken with a touch of gentleness. “What do you propose?”

Did she know that? The ring of her own laughter resounded in her ears, echoing with disbelief and no small amount of Alinor-flavored ridicule. She brushed the memory aside like an afterthought. “I would like to trap a dragon in your keep.”

Spluttering to her left. A snort to her right. In front of her, Balgruuf was frozen. “I didn’t hear you right,” he shook his head. “Did you say you need to trap a dragon in my keep?”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf.”

Balgruuf slumped back in his chair, his face in his hands. His shoulders shook and for a fleeting moment, Leara feared she actually drove the Jarl of Whiterun to tears. Then a hoarse laugh slipped through his fingers. Leara stood there, stunned. Whatever she did, she certainly drove him to hysterics! “Jarl Balgruuf—”

“You come in here,” began the Jarl, his hands slipping from his face. One hand twisted into the end of his beard as the other fell limp to his side, “declaring that the World-Eater himself has returned and that the only way to stop the end of the world is to trap a dragon in my keep!”

“It’s absurd,” Avenicci sniffed, glaring at the Dragonborn. “My Jarl, this—”

“But you say you meditated with the Greybeards,” Balgruuf pressed on, ignoring his steward. “They do not do things in haste. Surely, they must have shared their reasoning with you.”

Their reasoning was hers, but the Jarl didn’t need to know Leara talked the Greybeards into helping. She nodded. “We know how precarious the war has left Whiterun. Both sides vie for your loyalty while your continued neutrality not only holds both sides at bay but has effectively brought much of the major fighting to a stalemate. But the tension is building. Neither General Tullius nor Ulfric Stormcloak will wait forever. We know your concern,” she said, rushing ahead as Balgruuf again moved to speak, “that should you agree to help me that they will take the opportunity to march on Whiterun should things go south.”

“What do the Greybeards suggest, then?”

“Jarl Balgruuf!” Irileth cut in, and at once she was so much closer, almost between her Jarl and the Dragonborn whose presence threatened the safety of the hold and her Jarl. “You can’t possibly agree to such a breach of security—"

Irileth’s place as Balgruuf’s shield and therefore the bulwark of Whiterun was not lost on Leara. But her hands were tied.

With ice and frostbite.

“Settle down, Irileth! I haven’t agreed to anything yet!” He turned back to Leara. “What do the Greybeards say?”

“It has been proposed that a peace council take place at High Hrothgar. Given the Greybeards’ historic neutrality and the respect both sides hold for them, it is our belief that negotiating a ceasefire would be in everyone’s best interest, at least until the dragons are taken care of. Perhaps,” she added, “such a peace council might open the door to further peace talks down the road.”

Balgruuf looked like he very much doubted that, and Leara couldn’t say she didn’t agree with him, either. She’d never met General Tullius, as she didn’t really count her almost-execution under his nose at the hands of an overzealous captain, but Ulfric she knew. His storming spirit would simmer for a time, a looming threat of rain, but the clouds would burst and sweep through Skyrim again. The Empire, she knew, would rise to meet him with all the tenacity of a house that, being built on a rock, refuses to be swept away in the flood. 

“A ceasefire,” Balgruuf mused. 

Leara nodded. 

“It seems you anticipated me, Dragonborn,” Balgruuf said, back straight once more. “A guarantee of peace would be the one bargain I would accept to agree to such an astounding plan. To trap a dragon in my keep . . . pah!”

Avenicci’s head was shaking back and forth. “This is a bad idea, my Jarl,” he said. 

But Balgruuf waved him off. “Of course, it is,” he said, dismissive. Beside the throne, Irileth looked resigned. “Aye, but it’s the only way, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf,” Leara said. It was the only idea Paarthurnax could come up with, and Blade or not, Leara trusted the withered dragon.

The Jarl drummed his fingers on his leg. “I take it you haven’t brought this matter to General Tullius or Ulfric yet.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I wouldn’t do you the discourtesy, Jarl Balgruuf,” Leara dropped her chin in difference. Still, she could see Avenicci’s scowl on the edge of her vision. Irileth’s eye roll was felt without sight. Leara blamed neither of them. They all knew just how discourteous she could be to the Jarl of Whiterun. 

Silence, the Jarl was in thought, then, “If they will both agree to the council, then I will agree to this plan to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach.” A wry smile curved through his wheat-blond beard. “The Greybeards have been thorough in your studies, then, I wager. Having you read the legend of old Olaf One-Eye,” he chuckled. 

Leara gave a dry laugh. When she visited Solitude, she would have to find a bookshop where she could buy an anthology of old Nordic stories. Maybe then she’d be able to appreciate the humor in this Olaf One-Eye capturing a dragon. It almost reminded her of Tiber Septim and Nafaalilargus. She cast a wary eye on the dragon’s crest mounted high above the Jarl’s throne, suddenly doubting the belief she nurtured upon her first visit that it was fake. There was every possibility that the skull was real and that it once belonged to the dragon that Olaf held captive in this very palace. Dragonsreach. Yes, just like Tiber Septim and Nafaalilargus, with just as tragic an ending. By Akatosh, she hoped that if she managed to capture a dragon his skull wouldn’t become just another decoration in Dragonsreach. 

“Yes, they have,” she said at length. Her gaze fell back on the Jarl. “I will leave word if General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak both agree to attend the council.” Leara bowed her head, her fisted hand over her heart though she didn’t drop to her knee as she did before. “That’s all I wanted to discuss with you, Jarl Balgruuf. I won’t trouble you any longer.” With that, Leara turned to go.

“Leara.”

With a rod fused to her spine, Leara again faced the throne. Balgruuf frowned at her, though to her relief, Leara couldn’t detect any real anger. Only some resignation of his own. 

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?”

“Before,” he said, “when you refused . . . Well, given the circumstances, for Whiterun, especially, I don’t suppose you’d reconsider my offer?”

Her face remained passive, but the question blew through her nerves, biting and chilling them to the quick. “I’m sorry, no. Thank you, but no.”

Balgruuf nodded to himself, almost as if he expected as much. “I thought as much. Well, safe travels, Dragonborn.” And he waved her away.

“Thank you, my jarl,” Leara bobbed her head, the steward’s upturned nose directing her path to the doors like a compass needle. 

No, she couldn’t accept the Thaneship of Whiterun. That was, that was not for her.

At least she didn’t laugh in his face this time!

·•★•·

“You look a bit tired, dear,” Arcadia said, wrapping the bottles of hair dye.

“The road’s been hard,” Leara said. She dropped a handful of septims on the counter and, accepting the wrapped vials, slipped them into a pouch on her belt. 

Pale lips pursed; Arcadia shook her head. “No one should have to hunt dragons on their own. What happens if you get hurt?”

“I’m not alone!” Leara said, perhaps too quickly. The alchemist lifted a dark eyebrow. “I’m not. I have Karnwyr and Bishop.”

“Bishop?” Arcadia repeated. His name sounded sour coming from her mouth. Leara refused to examine how discordant it sounded coming from her own. “Isn’t he that ranger that’s always bragging about his, ahem—” Arcadia made a vague downward gesture. At Leara’s confused stare, she coughed, “his ‘equipment.’”

Leara was still. Then she shrugged because honestly, it sounded so like him. “Probably, yeah.’” 

“And you’re traveling with him?” Arcadia squawked. “Why in Oblivion?”

“I—” Leara swallowed. “I owe him.”

Arcadia’s hands were in the air as if she were singing a psalm to Kynareth. “Leara, Divines have mercy, what could you possibly owe a pig like that to agree to travel with him? Alone!”

The words “I killed him” lodged in her throat like stale bread, dusty and choking. She nearly had, hadn’t she? Bishop never told her much about his experience in Blackreach after she sent him over the cliffside with the blind creatures, save that the water was “nasty as giant piss” and that he woke washed up on a shore like “some kind of rumlogged pirate”, but that was enough, wasn’t it? She almost killed him. And it didn’t bother her as much as it should, either. The least she could do was let him live on in his little hero fantasy where he was “protecting” her from the Thalmor and thugs hunting her. And who did it hurt if she let him? No one. No one at all. 

“He did me a favor a while back,” Leara said at last, recalling the Thalmor agents in the Ratway and his company in the long dark of Alftand. “This is me paying him back.”

A hand stained from years of handling alchemical ingredients hovered near Leara’s arm, then fell. Even on the platform the counter was built on, Arcadia was shorter than Leara, but still, her Colovian green eyes reached across the distance to Leara’s, like Lake Rumare in their turbulence. People like Arcadia made Leara miss Cyrodiil. Oftentimes she missed her homeland of High Rock, but other times, she longed for the sunshine and urbanization of the Heartlands. Once upon a time, Cyrodiil was her home. She once had family there. Arcadia reminded her of that. 

Leara patted the alchemist’s hand and mustered a reassuring smile to accompany the gesture.  “I won’t let him take advantage of me, Arcadia.”

“I know,” she said as if trying to convince herself of that. “You’re the Dragonborn.” 

Being the Dragonborn meant something different to Arcadia – to Leara herself – than it did to the Nords. They saw a legendary warrior hero, while Leara, who spent years studying under Blades masters, saw the incarnation of Akatosh’s divine blessing meant to guide mortals, as once fulfilled through Talos. Arcadia, just like many Imperials, saw the symbol of the Empire, how strong it was and how easily it was sacrificed. 

Leara fought to seal the cracks fracturing her smile. “Quite right.”

·•★•·

It was after six when she finally slipped back into The Bannered Mare. In the morning she would go to the general goods store and sell the abundance of soul gems from the Dwemer ruins. Part of her wished there was time to deliver them to the College of Winterhold to be studied, but her short coffers screamed louder than her inquisitive mind. There was nothing special about these particular samples anyway, she’d decided while still on the road from Mzark. They resembled to the usual light stones used by northern mages. The only significant difference between the soul gems she picked up in Alftand and those sold by shops was when they were harvested – that and the soul captured in the gem, she thought, recalling the brief glimpses she’d had into the souls of the blind creatures lurking down in the underground. Perhaps when she found a bookshop in Solitude, she could find something on those creatures as well. Didn’t Bishop say they were something out of folk stories?

Yes, it was best she sold the soul gems, she thought, as her gaze swept the room for her brooding companion. 

Where was he? She wondered, making her way to the bar. “Hello, Hulda,” she said, sliding onto a stool. 

Hulda, who was jotting some down in the ledger, looked up at the greeting. “Shor’s bones, dear! But you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“I am?” 

“Yeah, that friend of yours, he was getting antsy while you were gone, pacing up and down the upstairs hall like some kind of caged dog. I finally told him to go out back and spend that energy on something useful like chopping wood for the fire,” Hulda said. Reaching under the counter, she lifted a bottle of Surilie Brothers Wine. The cork was dusty, and Leara wondered if it’d been touched since she drank half the bottle the night after slaying Mirmulnir. So distracted was she by the familiar vintage that it took a moment for Hulda’s statement to register.

“You . . . sent Bishop to chop wood? And he listened?”

“Aye,” Hulda said, uncorking the bottle. A glass was brought up next and quickly Leara found her hands full of the sweet wine. “He spat and spewed like a kettle, but one of the Companions was in – Vilkas – and he set him straight.” Hulda gave Leara a look, one the elf was familiar with. While wintering in Whiterun, Hulda frequently suggested that Leara join the Companions and secure a better place for herself than living hand-to-mouth off bounty money in the inn. And if she’d stayed any longer, Leara might have taken her up on the idea. But then the dragon attacked, followed quickly by the Greybeards’ thunderous summons, and Leara couldn’t stay in Whiterun. With the fate of the world on her shoulders, she didn’t think she could just “stay” anywhere, anyway. 

“I’d have loved to see that,” Leara smiled, cradling her glass. With the poised hands of an Altmer mage, she lifted it and took a dainty sip, the kind that always had Hulda shaking her head when she saw her. 

Hulda chuckled, “Anytime you want to see that boy thrown around, just take him to Jorrvaskr. I’m sure Vilkas will give you a repeat performance!” And went back to her ledger.

Giggling to herself, a manic bubble danced in Leara’s chest. She sipped at her wine and turned to watch the room. Folks were trickling in for dinner in ones, twos, and threes. Some were already seated. Speaking of the Companions, she spied Vilkas’ twin, Farkas, and his girlfriend sequestered off at a corner table, making eyes over a plate of red mutton. Fingers tapping along her glass, Leara decided against saying hello. There was something about her that seemed to rub Farkas’ girlfriend the wrong way, but for the life of her, Leara couldn’t imagine what she’d done to make Artanis disdain her so. It was a mystery Leara didn’t have time to unravel, no matter how much she might want to. There was a time when she thought she could make a home in Whiterun, but that time was over. 

Across the common room, Saadia slipped from the kitchen, a bundle of firewood settled in her arms. The waitress settled the wood across the fire and, taking the iron poker of the end of the spit, stoked the embers into a merry blaze. The fire crackled in time with chirps and lilting notes of Mikael’s flute as he played a soaring tune that Leara recognized as “The Dance of Torchbugs”. Not his usual dinner catalogue, but it was a cheery melody that remined Leara of camping under the auroras while the torchbugs and luna moths fluttered across the tundra on midnight paths. 

Someone called for more ale, and Saadia disappeared again into the kitchen, emerging again minutes later with a laden platter of tankards. 

“I’d rather have what you’re having,” a voice commented.

Leara started, and turning, found the stool beside her occupied with by a Breton with curly dark hair and a mischievous glint in his black eyes. He grinned at her, the sort of roguish grin a man delivers when he knows he’s taken a woman by surprise and is pleased with himself for doing so. There was a cherry tint high on his cheeks, as if he’d already been drinking. He had an air of levity about him, and Leara, despite herself, found herself drawn in at once. 

“Hulda, another glass of Surilie, please?”

The innkeeper looked up, frowning slightly when she saw the Breton beside Leara. Shrugging, she poured another glass of the Cyrodilic vintage.

“Put hers on my tab,” the man said, catching Hulda’s wrist with a deft touch, half-gesturing toward Leara with a jerk of his head as he did so. Hulda stared at him, and nodded silently. The glass of wine exchanged hands, and then she went back, drawing her ledger further down the counter and leaving Leara alone with the stranger. 

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that,” she told him. 

He shrugged and went to drink. To her surprise, the stranger’s movements with the glass were as practiced and graceful as her own – hardly the motions of a man already deep in his cups. 

Lowering the glass, he eyed its contents critically. “Not quite the depth of the 399 vintage, but this’ll do.”

Leara stared at him. “Are you a wine connoisseur?”

The man laughed, a golden laugh like the churning of bubbles in a glass of Evermore Doré. “You could say I’m an appreciator of fine things,” he told her, a dimple teasing her from the far side of his face. 

“Would they we could all take the time to appreciate fine things,” Leara said, mock-toasting her glass to him before taking another delicate taste. The wine slipped down her tongue, full of the sweet nostalgia of dead summers long buried beneath the forests of the West Weald in the south. She caught the watchful eye of the stranger, then, and lowered her glass. So cheerful was his appearance that it was only now that she saw the sad light twinkling in his eyes. All the sadness of the world, the thought struck her.

Leara set her glass on the bar. 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Sam,” he said at once, cradling his own glass like a rosebud in his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Quite, I’m Leara.”

He didn’t say anything about her being Dragonborn, for which she was grateful, but he did continue gazing at her with sadness, and somehow that seemed heavier than her mantle of hero. Straightening her spine, Leara felt her vertebrae crack, releasing pressure throughout her back. The pinch was back in her hip, so she slipped her left leg from the wrung on her stool to stretch it toward the floor. Glancing up, she caught Sam shaking his head. 

“You’re fractured,” he said, half to himself.

She’s – what?

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

With his elbow on the counter and his chin nestled in his palm, Sam shook his head. “I can see the lines clawing up your limbs and converging on your heart. Who hurt you, kid?”

“No one!” came Leara’s quick reply. 

He was already shaking his head, mumbling to himself. “When he finds out, I’ll catch flack for it, I know it! Everyone always blames me for this family’s issues. Are they forgetting that’s Bal’s domain?” His eyes cut back to her, jet searching her like an open book. Heat crawled up Leara’s neck, flushing her skin as pale red as the washed-out roots of her hair. “Oh, that sucks.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I hate that for you.”

Striking the counter with the flat of her palm, Leara leaned forward. “What,” she hissed, “in the name of Akatosh are you going on about?”

“Oh, kid!” Sam laughed. “I do nothing in the name of Akatosh. His champion, however, well, you never know what you have until you’ve lost it, yeah? No,” he raised a finger, “No, you don’t know yet. Or maybe you do, but not enough.”

Unnerved, Leara got to her feet, her wine in hand. “You’re mad,” she whispered. 

Sam looked up at her, startled, as if seeing her for the first time. Then the roguish grin returned. “Lea, Lea, Lea, don’tcha know? Only the best people are!”

“Right,” she stepped back. “Thank you for buying my drink. It was nice talking to you.” Not. It was actually rather disconcerting. 

“You too, kid,” Sam waved her off, and Leara, with all the decorum of a Dominion officer escaping an undesirable social function, marched lightly across the room to an empty table. 

Sanguine watched her go, sparing a glance to her lithe hips and the sway of her war skirt. “Oh, Sheo ol’ boy, if you could see the state she’s in, your anger might drive you sane.” 

·•★•·

She was rinsing the excess dye from her hair by the time Bishop finally trudged into the room. The jacket of his hunting leathers was flung over one shoulder, leaving him in the thin linen shirt he usually wore. His shoulders and forehead glittered with sweat. Honestly, he stunk more than usual, Leara thought. Spying Karnwyr cover his nose with a paw, spread out as he was on the bed, Leara knew the wolf agreed with her. And they said dogs were man’s best friend!

“Move over, I want to wipe down,” Bishop grunted, flinging his jacket over the chest. He plopped down on the edge of the bed and began untying his boot laces.

From where she stood bent over the water basin, Leara caught the ripe stench of Bishop’s socks. Her grimace reflected back at her from the rust-colored water. “Give me a minute. I’m almost done.”

She felt more than saw Bishop’s eyes rove over her backside where the fur-lined weave of her trousers hugged her hips and rear. A shiver shuddered down her spine, unrelated to the water she was pouring over her scalp. 

“You know what, sweetness? Take your time. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

“You do that,” she muttered. Setting aside the water cup, she took the ratty old towel she’d got off Saadia and began drying her hair. Next time, she resolved, she was dying her hair sitting down, no matter how terribly her hip cramped! “You were out there a long time,” she began conversationally. “Did you chop a lot of wood?”

“What do you think?” Bishop scoffed. “Every bushel I chopped, that damn barmaid scurried away with like she owned it or something! Really, how much firewood could an inn need in one night? Nah, I must’ve chopped half a forest.”

Leara straightened just in time to catch Bishop flexing his biceps at her. Her nose wrinkled at the disturbed scent of sweat coming from his underarms. “Aren’t you so impressive,” she rolled her eyes, tossing the towel at his head. “Clean up, won’t you?”

“Hey!” he cried, only just catching the towel. “You know,” he began as Leara dumped the basic out the window and filled it with clean water from the pitcher. “I wouldn’t’ve had to chop wood if you’d just come back here after your little ‘meeting’ with Balgruuf the Lesser!”

A muscle in her jaw ticked at the insult. “I took a walk to clear my head. You should try it sometime!”

“I’ve been walking behind you clear across Skyrim, and you want me to take a walk?” He took the basin from her, setting it none too gently on top of the nightstand. “Spare me the health check, ladyship. I got enough out of the bossy healer who was with that damn Companion your little innkeeper friend sent after me!”

Leara passed him the bar of lye soap. “Oh, I’m so sorry she asked you to do something useful rather than terrorize her patrons!”

“You know, I don’t appreciate your tone!”

“I don’t appreciate yours!”

Bishop scowled, the wet bar of soap clenched in a tight fist. Then shlick! It shot out of his hand. Leara ducked just in time to watch it sail overhead before slamming into the closed bedroom door with a thud! Stunned, Leara and Bishop watched it slide down the wood, leaving a sudsy trail in its wake. 

A giggle escaped Leara, followed by Bishop’s own bark of laughter. 

“Gracious,” Leara breathed, hands cradling her face as humor at the absurdity of the scene overtook her. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Bishop snorted. He made his way to the door and stooping, retrieved the soap. “Haven’t had that happen before.”

“I have,” Leara said between guffaws of laughter. “One of my, ah, fellow students was traipsing around the room with the soap,” she said, recalling the atmosphere in the women’s barracks at Cloud Ruler Temple between the knight-apprentices. “She swore it would serve as a talisman to keep the boys out of our dormitory. I made the mistake of telling her that if they were that serious about getting in, a little soap wasn’t going to deter them. She threw it at me, only, it hit the window instead of the door. We were a week without soap. By the end of it, the boys smelled divine in comparison, honestly. Akatosh, but that was decades ago,” Then Leara trailed off, grounded by the peculiar look twisting his features. “What?”

“That’s not the first comment you’ve made about ‘decades’,” he said.

“No, of course not! Haven’t—” here Leara hesitated, “—haven’t I mentioned being in the war?”

“What, you mean the Great War?”

“Yes! What other ware would I mean but the Great War?”

Bishop shrugged, his usually temperamental bravado not in it. Leara drew back, her arms crossed as she studied him. His hair was rumpled, and his face streaks of dirt and sweat. A tired scowl distorted his mouth, drawing lines across his usually handsome face. He mirrored her stance, his bare arms barred across his sweat stained shirt. Lifting her chin, Leara met his pale stare, a crease appearing between her own brows. 

“How old are you?” 

Leara froze, having not expected the question. How old was she? It was summer again – had she really let another birthday slip her by? The years were growing so fleeting now. Here she was, over halfway to her next birthday, and she hadn’t even observed the previous one, had she? Leara swallowed. “Sixty-four,” she whispered. Her fingers sought out the cold moonstone band, enchanted to open her deep magicka wells and regenerate her otherwise stunted resources. The blessing and curse of the Atronach. 

Bishop swore, startling the redhead. “You’re a cradle-robbing saber cat, sweetness! Ha!” He laughed again, wolfish as he wasn’t before.

Leara blinked, then shook her head. This time, her laugh was mixed with confusion. “On the contrary, I’ve kidnapped no one, nor am I part cat. I’m Dragonborn, remember? Not Khajiitborn, or some nonsense like that.”

Bishop sobered. “Yeah, I remember all about you being Dragonborn!” He stripped off his shirt and flung it into the corner. “How could I forget your desperation to help every idiot in Skyrim find their crap, like some kind of damn hero detective service! I can’t, because not only do you not shut up about it, but every sorry place we stop is full of simpletons clamoring for your attention! And where does that leave me, your ladyship?”

She wilted. And they were getting along so well, too, weren’t they? “I don’t know,” she whispered. 

Karnwyr lifted his head, his brown eyes swimming as they met hers. “I’m going to sleep,” she told Bishop, her attention fixed on the comforting form of Karnwyr. Exhaustion seeped into her bones with a growing familiarity. She wanted to bury her face in the wolf’s fur and cry, just as she did that night in Windhelm after the bloody embarrassing performance. After she saw Ulfric.

Her breath stilled in her lungs. The peace council. She had to invite Ulfric. 

“Sweetness—”

Shooing Karnwyr off the bed, Leara scratched the wolf’s ears. Pulling back the covers, she scooted up against the wall, her arms crossed as her forehead met the cool paneling. Guilt over the ruddy letter she never read joined the exhaustion and weariness already drowning her soul.

“Darling—”

“Goodnight, Bishop.”

She dreamed of grey storms and golden liquor. 

#fanfic #ao3 #i didn't know you were keeping count #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #balgruuf the greater #Bishop #karnwyr #sanguine #whiterun #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #mod post

[kharrneth]

@hxnger-unbcund

“You there!”

The voice had come from far off, followed not long after by several hoofbeats. Once eerily quiet, the steppes had come alive with motion and the whinnying of chaos-touched beasts. Warhorses, clad in bloody red armor, sat by equally armored men wielding wicked weapons capable of awesome violence. Their hooves were lava-red, brimming with fell energies that scorched the earth with each heavy hoof-step and a similar hellish glare danced in the eyes of their riders.

Only one of the beasts was no horse, but a groaning thing of brass and iron, looking a cross between a dog and reptilian beast. Atop it was the man who had spoken, if he could be called a man any longer. He yielded his steed to look at Greed, unable to determine which gods he served by appearance alone. His red eyes, glowing within his helm, narrowed.

“ Which gods do you serve, creature?”

#hxngerunbcund #//thar #get to this whenever you're able <3 no rush!

[uphillsky]

Dark Tongue (Warhammer Fantasy and 40,000)

This post isn't perfect, but I'm going to split it into several sections: confirmed, and speculation. This is going to be entirely within the frame of anglicanised spelling, as my conversion of the actual guide to IPA hit a brick wall when my writing software *checks notes* doesn't let me tell it to use a unicode-compliant font.

That all being said, here goes!

OUTRIGHT STATED

Dark Tongue is a phonetic language with many root terms, which uses a mix of specific terms whose origins can be traced to said root words, and complex compound words. Some of those roots are given by my source, the 1988 and 1990 Realm of Chaos sourcebooks for WHFB, WFRP, and WH40K.

Khaos: Chaos / the sea of souls / magic power

Phaos: Psychic essence / soul / will

Dhaos: Psychic Entity / spirit / daemon / power

Tzeen: (the will to) Change

Nurgh: (the will to) live / defy decay

Slaa: (the will to) feel/sense

Khar: (the will to) dominate

Leth/Neth: Lord, master, ruler, source (of)

Kharneth, “Lord of Domination”, Lord/Master/Ruler/Source of the will to Dominate

Slaaneth, “Lord of Sensation“, Lord/Master/Ruler/Source of the will to feel and sense

Nurgleth, “Lord of Decay”, Lord/Master/Ruler/Source of the will to live and to defy decay

Tzeeneth, “Lord of Change”, Lord/Master/Ruler/Source of the will to change

The following are all coloured varients of Magic, that stem from the raw energy of Chaos, and as such while they are root terms for many colours they also have significant culture placed behind them.

Hysh: White / Light / Banishment of Magic/Daemons

Chamon: Yellow/Gold/Metal

Ghyran: Green/Jade/Life [used in all Nurghleth daemon names]

Azyr: Blue/Celestial

Ulgu: Grey/Shadow

Shyish: Pink/Purple/Amethyst/Death

Aqshy: Red/Bright/Blood/Fire

Ghur: Amber/Brown/Beasts

Dhar: Black / Dark / Raw Magic

Qhaysh: All Colours / Rainbow

Now we have the example words given that stem from one these root words:

Aqshy'y: Bronze/Brass

Aqsh: Red

Akhash: Blood

Akh: Battle/Bloodshed/ To slay in battle

Aksha: Battleaxe

Ksy: Key/Solution

Iakash: Lock/Obstacle

Akhshami: Secret (seems to combine Seek and Guardian: guarded from seeking?)

Aksho: To seek

Akhamshy'y: Slayers/Warriors

Akami: Guardians - may include connotations of order?

From now on, we have all of my extrapolation from the terms for various daemons. Be aware this is very incomplete and likely outright incorrect in some places, as my stumbling point occured during major reworking - this is only a first version of what I have.

Q': Common prefix for Slaaneth daemons?

Q'tlahs(i): Common prefix for sentient daemons of Slaanesh?

Itsu: Decadence?

Issho: To Keep?

Ythliss: Unknown, relates to Fiends of Slaanesh

Akaoz: Chaotic/Berserker/Frenzy?

A'a: Beast, connotations of blood? Akh'h: unknown, related to slaying in battle / Battle / Bloodshed, sole indicator of Steed of Khorne - diminutive of battle/bloodshed/slay in battle?

Thashi'i: unknown, sole indicator if Steed of Slaanesh - diminutive of something? lick/lash/whip?

Bahk: Unknown, relates to Great Unclean Ones

Ghuranhi: Unknown, relates to Great Unclean Ones, relates to life?

Aghkam(i): Unknown, relates to Great Unclean Ones and Plaguebearers, relates to guardians? possible relation: creating order?

Ghran'ngi: Unknown, relates to Plaguebearers, root word involves Life?

Gurani'i: Unknown, relates to Nurglings, possibly diminutive, root word is related to life, possibly diminutive of Ghuranhi?

Khan: Unknwon, relates to Nurglings, root word is Khar/Akh???

Gu: Unknown, relates to Beasts of Nurgle, possibly relates to Ulgu? RELATES TO GHUR AS IN BROWN OR BEAST

Nagh: Unknown, relates to Beasts of Nurgle, no known root - possibly relates to decay?

Chi: Unknown, relates to Lords of Change

Khami: Unknown - contraction of akhami? Relates to Lords of Change, possibly relates to Chaos and Magic Power

Tzann: Unknown - Tzeentch? Relates to Lords of Change, potentially Relates To Change?

Kchami'i: Unknown - diminutive of Khami? Little magic? Magicling?

Tsani: Servant of Change

K': Common appellation before non-sentient beasts of Tzeentch

Chamu: Unknown - root is Khaos, relates to Flamers of Tzeentch

Echi: Unknown - relates to Discs of Tzeentch

Tsonae: Unknown - relates to Discs of Tzeentch

Q'tlahs'itsu'aksho: Daemonette / Children of Slaanesh / Debauched Ones / Bringers of Joyous Degredation / Seekers of Decadence / Givers of Indescribable Delight, Name translates to: (Daemon of Slaanesh)(Sentient Daemon of Slaanesh)(unknown - Decadence?)(Seek)

Q'tlahsi'issho'akshami: Keeper of Secrets / Slayers of Slaanesh / Despoilers of the Flesh / Feasters of Pain / Great Horned Ones / Base Ones, Name translates to: (Daemon of Slaanesh)(Sentient daemon of slaanesh)(unknown - Keeps?)(Secret [Seek/Guardian: guarded from seeking?])

Q'qha'shy'ythlis: Fiend / Beasts of Slaanesh / Rams of Slaanesh / Bestials / Unholy Ones, meaning: (Daemon of Slaanesh)(Rainbow?)(Purple/Death?)(unknown)

Q'qha'thashi'i: Steed of Slaanesh / Flesh Licker / Degraded One / Tongue Lasher of Slaanesh / Whips of Slaanesh, Meaning: (Daemon of Slaanesh)(Rainbow?)(Unknown)

Khak'akaoz'khyshk'akami: Bloodthirsters / Fists of Khorne / Deathbringers of Khorne / Drinkers of Blood / Blooded Ones / Lords of Skulls / Guardians of the Throne / Eaters of Gore and Flesh / High-Handed Slayers, Meaning: (Khorne)(unknown - chaos?)(unknown - white/light? HYSH IS USED TO BANISH DAEMONS, IT RELATES TO THEIR ROLE IN SLAYING MAGES)(Guardians)

Khak'akamshy'y: Bloodletters / Khorne's Chosen / Takers of Skulls / Teeth of Death / Horned Ones / Naked Slayers, meaning: (Khorne)(Slayers/Warriors)

Kha'a'a Khak'hyshk: Flesh Hounds / Beasts of Khorne / Hunters of Blood / Flesh-Renders / Inevitable Ones, Meaning: (Khorne)(unknown - a'a may mean beast? connotations of blood?) (dominate?)(unknown - white/light? HYSH IS USED TO BANISH DAEMONS, IT RELATES TO THEIR ROLE IN SLAYING MAGES)

Kha'a'a Akh'h: Juggernauts / Blood/Soul Crushers / Juggers / Feet of Khorne / Blights of Khorne, Meaning: (Khorne)(unknown - a'a may mean beast? connotations of blood?) (unknown, related to slaying in battle / Battle / Bloodshed?)

Bahk'ghuranhi'aghkami: Great Unclean One / Fly Master / Plague Lord / Stench Lord / Nurgle / Father Nurgle, meaning: (Unknown)(Unknown - relates to Life?)(Unknown - relates to Guardians?)

Aghkam'ghran'ngi: Plaguebearers / Tainted Ones / Maggotkin / Rotbearers / Nurgle's Tallymen, meaning: (Unknown - relates to Guardians?)(Unknown - root word is life?)(Unknown)

Khan'gurani'i: Nurglings / Pus Spores / Mites of Nurgle, meaning: (Unknown - relates to domination / khorne or bloodshed???)(Unknown, relates to Great Unclean Ones?)

Gu'nagh'ghyran: Beast of Nurgle / Slime Hound / Nurgle's Lapdogs, meaning: (Unknown - possibly relates to ghur as in magic of beasts or brown)(Unknown - possibly relates to decay?)(Chaos magic of Life / Green / Jade)

Chi'khami'tzann Tsunoi: Lords of Change / Eyes of Tzeentch / Feathered Lords, meaning: (Unknown)(Unknown - contraction of Guardians?)(Unknown - appears Tzeentch related) (Unknown)

Tsani'kchami'i: Horrors, meaning: (Servant of Change)(Unknown - connected to khami?)

K' Chanu'tsani'i: Flamers / Burning Horrors, meaning: (non-sentient beast of tzeentch)(Unknown - root is Khaos)(Diminutive of Servant Of Change)

K'echi'tsonae: Discs / Sky-Sharks of Tzeentch, meaning: (non-sentient beast of tzeentch)(unknown)(unknown)

With that, we are at the end of all the terms I can extract easily from the book, with my next planned stage being to convert the phonetic runes of Dark Tongue written language to IPA, and then convert what we have from this into them and see how that changes them! That being said, I did this in a burst of hyperfixation over the course of three days, and have other things I need to get done this weekend lol. Thanks for the suggestions from the people who reached out to me about my research into IPA, sorry I couldn't apply it yet lol

#me #conlang #warhammer fantasy #warhammer 40k #chaos #dark tongue #I'll continue working and refining later #but I need to take a break lol

[chibi-celesti]

Twisted Tonelico (A Twisted Wonderland x Ar Tonelico Tale) pt. 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4(End of Book 00)

Book-Prologue Phase 00:  Zenva ryushe tes gyas gyenel ciel

A little girl of eight years opened her eyes. She woke up to see herself in her bedroom, surrounded by her favorite plush toys. The room was an off white color, with sprinkles of Mauve colored flowers and butterflies on the walls. There was a mauve colored circle carpet near the bed. Her bed was fairly big for her age, designed a bit off leveled to make her comfortable.

A knock came at the door followed by a voice. “Meryu~. You up?~ Time for breakfast!!”

“Coming,~” little Meryu yawned.

She got up from her bed, and went to get ready for the day.

Meryu came to the dining room. It was a simple styled room, with semi pillar wall protrusions; the color of brass to contrast the pale lavender walls and ceiling. The dining room table was a burgundy set; decorated formally for a well off  family to enjoy. Or in this case, a young girl and her main guardian, one who oversees all of Sol Ciel.

Little Meryu looked to the head and saw her guardian greeting her formally at the table. She was a young girl, who looked no older than fifteen. Her hair was long, down to mid back with two braids on separate sides in her hair. And two golden outlet-like hair pieces protrude atop her head. She may look youthful; however, contrary to her appearance, she’s over seven-hundred and thirty nine years of age. This woman is Lady Eolia, also known as Shurelia. An Origin Reyvateil of  the Tower of Ar Tonelico.

“Good morning, Meryu,” Lady Shurelia said.

“Morning, Lady Syureli,” the little girl replied, rubbing her eyes away from sleep.

“Did you sleep well last night?” A nod was her answer. “Good. Now come and eat, ok?”

Meryu did as she was told, and came to sit beside her guardian and eat. Every morning was always the same. So simple yet so comforting. All Meryu knew of the world was her guardian and the enormous Tower they resided on above the dreaded Cloud Sea. It was lonely at times when Shurelia had to leave for her administrative duties, but she didn’t mind as she allowed Meryu to accompany her in her duties.

The silence slightly bothered Meryu as there is usually commotion coming from the people of Platina in the palace. She didn’t mention it out loud, but she looked up to see Shurelia, only for the Origin to be gone. Meryu, now her age of nineteen, panicked as the world shifted to the garden park within the Tower. She looked around frantically, wondering what was happening. She ran til the sound of galloping hit her ears. The girl turned, coming face to face with an all black chariot and its two steeds ascending upon her-

Meryu jumped up out of her sleep, breathing heavily. Her blood was still ringing in her ears as she woke up from her nightmare.

“MS. MELENAS!! YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN!! FOLLOW MY BREATHING, OK!!”

She took shallow breaths before following along with whoever beside her ordered to do. After a few minutes, Meryu’s breathing had even out enough for her to process where she was.

Despite being nighttime, she appeared to be in a recovery room of sorts thanks to the light of the moon showing through the open windows. Beside her were the Headmage and a… ghost wearing a nurse’s hat? Oh, I’m still in this strange world, She whispered in her mind. Meryu looks down at her hands in her lap, disappointed at not being home with Shurelia.

Dire Crowley sighed in relief. “Thank goodness you have awakened! You collapsed after you sang your little… song in the Mirror Chamber, so I feared that you may have exhausted yourself.”

“...I…collapsed?” she raised a hand to her head.

Rrha ki erra chs diasee yorr sos ciel

Meryu’s head began to pound when she heard that phrase echo again.

Both men beside her panicked. “Ms. Melenas!”

“I-I fine, sir. I promise.” she waved away their concerns. Clearing her throat, Meryu asked: “You said I collapsed?”

“Yes,” Dire responded. “I’m not sure how since it happened so fast. I ordered some of the staff to bring you after to make sure you were alright.”

“I see…” Nervously, the girl asked. “So, what happens now? What will happen to me since I cannot go back?”

“Since you cannot return home at this moment, I will provide you with a living space until then.” This news shocked Meryu. “Of course, since you aren’t assigned to any dorm, you will need to earn your keep.” Oh… so there’s a catch.

She gives the Headmage a nod. “Ok.” And gets up from the bed, slightly stumbling at first. The ghost nurse helps to keep her steady, and she thanks him for the assistance. “So, Mr. Crowley. Where will I be staying for now?”

~To Ramshackle Dorm~

“Oh my…”

Meryu was left speechless, or rather, she was left bewildered. The place Dire Crowley offered for her to stay was a rundown, and supposedly abandoned dorm outside the main building. Webs dangled off tree limbs, wooden door blinds hanging on their last hinges, and splintered flooring as far as the eye can see.

As sweat dropped on her head as Meryu ‘thanked’ Crowley for the housing, she was surprised by him opening the doors to show her inside the abandoned dorm…

Only for Meryu to meet MORE ghosts who live IN the building!!

There were three ghosts, all varying in appearance in size and shape. they zoomed to the entrance, ready to scare. But, they also seemed excited about visitors coming by the rundown dorm.

She jumped at the sight, slightly hiding behind Crowley. “Are you alright, Ms. Melenas?There is nothing to be afraid of. They are quite harmless.”

The ghostly trio halted in their tracks. “Why hello, Headmage! Got fresh meat to bunk with us?~”

Said man cleared his throat. “I do indeed have a new student. However…” He stepped aside for the ghosts to meet Meryu, who waved at them nervously.

“Huh? A girl? In Night Raven College?” the thinly, slim ghost of the three said.

The other two, both round but different in stature, were shocked by their friend's statement. “Well that’s first!” The larger one laughed.

“This is Ms. Meryu Melenas. I do hope you three don’t mind her staying here for now.”

Meryu, still nervous, curtsied. “Hello, Mr. Ghosts. I’ll do my best to be a good roommate.”

The smaller ghost played along and bowed. “Aww! No need for formalities, Miss! I’m Albert, but you can call me Al.” He hikes a thumb to his two buddies. “Big Guy is Benedict, and this is Curtis!”

With introductions over, Crowley guides Meryu through some of the basics of the ‘Ramshackled’ Dorm, with the Ghostly trio adding their own commentary here and there. After familiarizing herself with the dorm, Meryu is shown the only available room that isn’t too messy for her to stay in. The room was-like everywhere else in the dorm- old and covered in dust. There was a bed in the center of the room upon entry, with a partially covered easel with a painting underneath on its right. A huge, rectangular shaped mirror sat high above the wall near the windows. The small rug, while dusty, seemed partially torn on the ground.

“This will be your living space for now,” Crowley said. “While it may not be much, I do not wish to have you alone on the streets. Aren’t I so generous!~”

The place has seen better days, but Meryu is fine with the accommodations- though she isn’t sure a gracious host would let ANYONE live in a place that would fall apart any moment. “Thank you again, sir.”

He and the ghosts bid her good night, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Soon she yawned. ‘Who knew I would get tired again. Then again, it has been quite a night…’ She gazes out the window to the moon above, wondering about her home, Sol Ciel. ‘I wonder if Lady Shurelia knows I'm gone?’ She shook head. ‘I shouldn’t think that! For all I know, this could’ve been a dream!’

Meryu plops down on her bed, dust flying into the air and in her nose. A sneeze later, and she continues to gaze up at the outside, watching the moon and stars shine before falling asleep once more.

Tomorrow is gonna be a new day, and an unexpected start for this lone Reyvateil from another world.

geeow hyma chyet tasyue gasar suwant manaf omnis

~Phase 00:  Zenva ryushe tes gyas gyenel ciel- END~

#twisted wonderland #ar tonelico #twst x ar tonelico au #twisted tonelico #twst

[yeahthatswhatimtolkienabout]

Episode three:

Why the fuck do people wear white?!?

MaN FoR SaLe

MAn for SaLE

MAN FOR SALLLLEEEÈÈÈÈÈÈ

Interesting thing, the horn player in the bar is playing a tenor horn. This fact is brought to you by a person in a brass band.

OMG BLACKBEARD I SHIP THRM ALREADY AFTER .5 SECONDS ON SCREEN.

Also how happy Steede looked when blackbeard recognised him lol

#YTWITA watches OFMD

[kultofathena]

United Cutlery – Lord Of The Rings – Sword of Eowyn

This full-sized sword, which measures nearly three feet in length, from tip to hilt is styled beautifully with a bronze guard and pommel. The handgrip was crafted with a raised middle section of three bronze rings. A wide fuller groove runs down 3/4 of the blade to reduce the weight, yet still retain critical blade strength. Eowyn achieved true heroism as she succeeded in the slaying of the Witch King and his fell steed.

Constructed with a 30 1/8″ tempered 420 J2 stainless steel blade. The handle features a solid metal guard and pommel with antiqued brass plated finish, the hilts are cast in the symbols of the famed horsed of Rohan and the grip is genuine leather wrapped. Includes a 11″ x 10 5/8″ x 3/4″ wood display plaque and a parchment certificate of authenticity.

#Kult of Athena #KultOfAthena #New Item Wednesday #Sword of Eowyn #Lord of the Rings #LotR #United Cutlery #sword #swords #weapon #weapons #blade #blades #Fantasy #Fantasy Swords #New Item #New Items #Fantasy Weapons #Rohan #Eowyn #Witch King

[epikowlofficial]

Telumehtar - Swordsman of the Sky

First image is my first drawing of Telumehtar, the second being a more detailed drawing to work out how armor would work on a 12 ft tall bird.

There’s this running gag in my games that my characters just Hate horses, and so when I created a fighter that needed a mount, my DM suggested an axe beak. As someone who has always been a fan of birds, and after binging most of Campaign: Skyjacks up to that point, I absolutely was going to have a massive bird steed.

Telumehtar (elvish for Swordsman of the Sky) is a 12 foot tall secretary bird with wings far less proportional to his body than a normal secretary bird, meaning he cannot fly in any sense. the tip of his large, long beak points both up and down like the head of an axe, and is sharp to the touch. When armored, he wears a saddle with a number of handles on it, a bit and bridle, an armored plate on his breast, and a brass helm.

#secretary bird #dnd steed #giant bird #bird armor #animal character design #inspired by campaign:skyjacks #urien has big Gable Skyjacks energy #urien #telumehtar #digital art

[angelhummel]

Sort of a weird and random question but what do you think the glee characters’ weapon of choice would be

Oooohohohohoho that's a fun one. I actually made a Clue au post a while back where all my faves had a weapon assigned to them. So definitely check that out for one answer. But those are better for a quick surprise kill. So if we're talking about fighting...

Obviously we know what Kurt's is already

I still want Tina to have an axe bc

Plus she just deserves to chop into some bitches idc. Let her spill a little blood. As a treat?

I want Brittany to have one of those spiky balls on a chain like the girl in Kill Bill. The way Brittany twirls around and throws food during the food fight? Exactly that but with a flail

Puck canonically participates in knife fights/owns knives BUT also has nunchucks so... He can go ham with either of those his knife in s3 was fake but we see him with a real knife in s1 and s5 so

Hm maybe Santana should still have a dagger. You don't even know she has beef with you until it's too late. Sidles up to you all sweet just to poke a lil artery in your neck and watch you bleed out. She was also voted most like to poison someone (love that that was a category you could vote on at their school) but no I think that'd be TOO subtle for her. She'd want to spill blood and would want you to know she's the one that did you in

For Mercedes I would sayyy sword?? Like she's all "haha I'm not good at 1v1 combat I'm not moving park and bark etc" but she gets a sword in her hand and she's swinging it like you wouldn't believe. Plus it's dramatic and classic. Love it

Finn's are brass knuckles bc he's a punk bitch that's gonna jump you instead of giving you a fair fight

Mike.... I would like him to have a bow and arrow. He's super stealthy about it, you never hear him coming bc he's way over there. Could also see Quinn with the bow and arrow but she's also just as likely to yank the arrow out of you and stab you with it until it breaks/she knows you're dead

Kitten Kitty with a whip. Also semi canon bc her supersona had one. Plus it's dramatic and unexpected and she could fuck a bitch right up with it

Sam... I would like to see him launching a spear at someone. He's got the arms for it

Unique should have a Japanese war fan. Kind of a defensive weapon but very very dramatic

Blaine would have a rapier bc we know he's into fencing and that kind of fits the bill. Plus he would be all "we must have an honorable duel about this" but of course he also ends up going ham by the end of the fight. He also deserves it <3

I think Artie should have a harpoon gun. No reason, I just think he deserves it

I'll give Jake a war hammer. I think he'll have fun with it. Bonking people left and right as he rides through the battle on his noble steed (razor scooter)

Marley would use poison and feel really bad about it :( But she wouldn't want to get her hands dirty

Really want Rachel to have a flamethrower. No subtly, just melting your face off. She'd be so cute with it uwu she deserves to have some fun!

#glee #asks #my thoughts #anonymous #ummm #violence tw #gore tw #death tw #blood tw #lemme know if anything else needs to be tagged lmao #and i know i said finn wouldnt give you a fair fight bc hes a bitch and then gave half the others weapons for a quick or far away kill #but whatever those are weapons for killing while finn's are for a fight fight #you know what i mean

[skxrbrand]

Land of the Dead, Araby / Prev

Another day, another upstart to cut down.

This time a Chaos Champion, blessed with a Metal-Steed of Khorne, bedecked in crimson chaos armor and wielding a burning axe. Impressive to a mortal, but Skarbrand had seen scores of such champions. First, the Reaper had stolen the lives of those Skull and Bloodcrushers that rode at his side. Then he had dueled the Champion himself. It was a short battle, one that had ended in the so-called “Champion” running for his life.

Cowardice. Even away from Khorne’s banner, Skarbrand could not tolerate that from a servant of Kharneth and had pursued, chasing the mortal and his clockwork-beast for miles out of the desert. But although he saw only the prey before him, there were yet more beings around, with intentions far more malign that the Khornate Champion’s had been.

The Champion had turned a rocky corner on his beast, but Juggernauts were not slender Steeds of Slaanesh or even sure-footed horses. It was too quick for the bulky creature, who stumbled. The Reaper, in hot pursuit, had heard the scrabbling of hooves and grinned. Soon this little game of cat and mouse would be over.

But then he heard the scream of the mortal, the sound of ripping metal, and the death groan of the Juggernaut. Someone had gotten to the Champion first. Had stolen his kill. Over the smell of blood and burning brass and iron, the scent of vermin wafted up and into his nostrils. Daemon-vermin. Skarbrand snarled. He blasted through the rockface with his strength alone, his eye falling squarely on the culprit.

The Verminlord was massive, with a bearing unlike the many he’d killed before. It had six curving horns, larger than any he’d seen on a Greater Daemon, and two tails lined in barbs. Two long white braids hung down from it’s cheeks and in the center of it’s forehead pulsed pure Warpstone of the brightest green. To either side of it, two eyes that beheld him. Baleful. Calculating. The chaos champion was still alive, squirming weakly at the tip of the Verminlord’s spear. Shaking the warrior onto the ground, the Verminlord silenced his agonized moaning with a firm stamp of its hoof.

The insult was answered with a roar, rage filling the frame of the Bloodthirster. Rage, but also excitement. Even if Skarbrand was unfamiliar with this Verminlord, he could tell from the set of its horns, the magic brimming from it, and the way it regarded him with absolutely zero terror that this was potential challenge. With anger and mirth, he charged after the Daemon-rat, dogging his much quicker steps even as he fled...

#longpost #warhammer fantasy #:3c morning ya'll #plot point

[elsanna-shenanigans]

August Contest Submission #4: Thórduna

Words:  ca. 2,500 Setting: Old Norse AU Lemon: yes Content: mentions of blood

When she hears the roar of thunder, she thinks of Anna. 

The midnight sun bore down on them with the thinly veiled menace of Sköll giving chase to Sól. It was with that same wild frenzy that Elsa pursued her younger sister hotly across the fjord. By far Elsa was the better rider, but Anna’s horse was swifter, more agile. He’d been a gift from Elsa herself, brought back as a yearling from ventures to the Mediterranean Sea. What more fitting a gift for a princess than a fine horse made from the woven dreams of Freyja  herself and the fires of Halogi? A horse so light on its feet it practically floated in contrast to the heavy, unforgiving pounding of Elsa’s own steed. 

She cursed loudly her tenderness towards her younger sister, who in turn laughed in delight of her own power, her voice resonating off the cliffs of the fjord, creating a boom that seemed to draw the interest of the gods. The sky darkened and a storm gathered. If Anna had any fear she did not show a sliver of it, instead urging her bronze horse faster as her dress streamed behind her and she took a sharp right turn towards the foothills.

Elsa smirked, now knowing exactly where Anna was headed. 

She eased her mount from a headlong gallop to an easy canter, following the trail as dark clouds roiled above in the sky. As the terrain got rougher she slowed to a trot, not even needing to really look, her body subconsciously communicating to her horse which way to go.

It was a few more minutes before she arrived to the mouth of a grotto as lightning tore through the firmament with a power that could’ve shaken the entirety of Yggdrasil. She saw the big, elegant dark eyes and the chiseled, dished head of Anna’s horse peering from inside cave and rain began to pour down as she dismounted. 

She heard her sister’s voice before she saw her face.

“Now what will the world think if I tell them I outrode our mighty, ravishing Jarlskona, said to be the greatest rider in the kingdoms of Norway and Sweden combined?”

Anna came into view, her brass mane matching her horse’s, the braid resting around her hair like the crown she was meant to wear. Their eyes locked with one another’s and Elsa’s body felt febrile. They’d played this game many times, with Elsa often managing to snatch Anna from the saddle, until the horse she’d gotten sometime after her 16th winter had grown strong enough to carry her. But something was different today. The power that set the sky alight seemed to be humming within Elsa too. 

“The finest rider is nothing if the finest mount is bitted to another.” 

That laugh again. So large for a body so slight. 

“I guess I have you to thank for, then.”

Elsa pointedly did not go towards Anna, instead turning around to unsaddle her horse, dropping the wood and leather seat to the ground next to them. 

“However I still think I deserve a prize, considering she outran your horse fair and square.” 

It was her turn to laugh as she turned around and a flash of lightning illuminated them for an instant, her throat feeling tight as she saw the ravishing figure and the gaze laced with a certain longing.

“Unfortunate then, that I don’t have anything to give you.”

Her reply was a little breathless as Anna stepped closer towards her and the rain began to fall with unforgiving, unrelenting force closing them off from the outside world. Locking them into the grotto. 

“I don’t need to be given anything. I can simply take what I want, what I deserve… a certain most breathtaking shield maiden taught me that.”

Her heart was pounding like drums of war in her chest and she almost felt the urge to reach for her horn to sound it in, but this… this was an entirely different kind of battle she faced now. 

The distance between them had grown to nothing and she could now sense their bodies nearly brushing against one another. A shiver went down her spine, knowing, sensing that whatever attention Anna had drawn to herself risked quickly turning to misfortune.

Then again, hadn’t the Norns already woven the tapestries of their fate? So she thought, as a fingertip brushed against her lower lip.

She could only surrender when she felt a sweet, soft supple mouth against it instead.

~~~

Where others hear the clash of Thor’s hammer, she finds her sister.

The Völva had foretold of Anna’s seeming ability to call on a storm. A spark of mjölnir within her soul, she’d said. Elsa had just risen to power as Jarlskona then. She’d scoffed at the theatrics, the drama of it perhaps being sufficient to impress men of power before her, but her respect to the gods did not always extend to their servants, they too were mortals in the end.

Yet again and again, Anna would lure Elsa away, and a storm would break on the horizon, and the unforgivable would happen. Eventually the kissing turned to a heated grasp of the waist or the flirting of nails on the nape of a neck and Elsa, ever tantalized would kiss and fall into Anna deeper, thankful for the cosmic display of Asgard’s most beloved son. No one would venture out in such weather, no one would find them like this, biting into the sweet fruit of the unknown.

Midsommar came and went, and the season moved forward, the wolf clan clamoured for a raid. For the first time since she’d claimed a shield, Elsa found herself not wanting to go. She knew not of where this was meant to go, knew that Summer would pass and the storms would ebb away as winter approached yet she could not imagine a life without embracing the princess in her arms, without running her hands over her prone body as their kisses turned from slow, sweet affairs to hot, open, bites. She’d grown a slave to the desire for the taste of her sweat and the faint scent of juniper on the skin of her throat.

It never went any further, after all this too was a game. But a game she’d decided was a little more fun than the equestrian races she was always doomed to lose. Wasn’t it, after all, simply a different kind of chase? 

Today was different however, Anna’s panting did not end when she laced her fingertips with Elsa’s to put a stop to her wandering hands. Instead, as lightning and thunder tore through the firmament, Anna stepped back and Elsa looked at her, lips still parted from their favourite game. She noted a trembling in her younger sister, the sort that moves a body just before the thrill of victory. They held each other’s gazes, their eyes catching what was left of the light outside, making them shine like stars in the darkness of their favourite hide. Elsa stood motionless but for the heaving of her chest, still shorted from her heated chase. She knew this time was different, like the current of lightning in the air shifted directions, like the storm was gathering itself for an even greater display of might. 

She watched, as Anna carefully removed the belt that so aptly emphasized the bite of her waist and the swell of her hip and Elsa’s heart thundered in her chest. If Anna truly had the ability to tickle Thor’s fancy, then Elsa herself stood no chance in the face of the storm she called within her either. Blue held blue as Anna allowed her dress to fall at her feet like leaves fallen from an ash tree, revealing pristine nubility beneath.

The Jarlskona had had her fair share of women, and had turned away more male suitors than she’d entertained, yet she stood before the princess’s tantalizing form with soft knees and the flutter of flames in her loin as though she were herself but a nervous virgin. 

The storm raged beyond the confines of their secret nest and a crack of thunder boomed in time to Anna stepping back towards Elsa, taking her hands, bringing them up to her lips, kissing her knuckles sweetly before she gently brushed her tongue against her fingertips, then placed Elsa’s hands on her waist, pressing their bodies back together. She placed a kiss to the corner of Elsa’s jaw, then tugged at her earlobe playfully with her teeth, a little purr in her voice. 

“Your princess demands tribute, Jarlskona…” 

As if those words unlocked something within her, Elsa let out a little growl, her hands sliding from Anna’s waist to her buttocks, squeezing them with greed, as hungrily - no, hungrier - as she captured raided treasures. Her teeth grazed Anna’s lower lip before parting them with her tongue, gently yet feverishly. 

One of her hands slid back up Anna’s body to find one of her breasts, gently cupping it, humming into her mouth as she felt the weight of it, and felt the pertness against the nook of her palm. She swallowed a quiet moan and short shallow gasps, as she felt Anna grow prone to her touch and she herself shuddered as she felt her younger sister suckle on her tongue with need.

Anna had cupped the sides of Elsa’s face, her nails flirting with the skin on the nape of her neck sliding a little further back to thread at the roots of her icy blond mane. Again it sent sparks flying down her spine and through her entire system, and Elsa had to stop, step back, with fire in her hardened gaze. Hurriedly, her axe dropped to the floor heavily as she unlaced its trappings from her heavy leathers and pulled her robe over her head. Her body unlike Anna’s unmarred skin was etched with battle scars and decorated with inked declarations of strength. 

Her toned, well-muscled form was taut and no doubt appealing to the princess judging by the look in her eyes, and though she knew she looked smaller without her trappings, Elsa was proud of what the gods had given her to forge in pursuit of power for the wolf clan and subsequently somehow felt larger than when she was fully clothed. She stood long enough for strikes of lightning to illuminate her adding to the faint glow of the fire they’d started prior. Briefly, she wondered if the gods had known, when they’d gifted them these forms what they’d be using them for, or if that was a surprise the Nornir had kept to themselves. 

As Anna closed the distance between them once more, skin against skin and placed a hand at the base of Elsa’s throat, kissing her with a demand only she would ever dare out of Elsa, she made absolutely no effort to fight her Fate. 

Their hands sought each other’s bodies desperately, nails trailing thighs, sacral areas; fingertips seeking breasts, buttocks and lips seeking skin. 

“A princess ought to be well prepared in demanding anything from a wolf…”

Elsa found herself hiking one of Anna’s legs around her hip as she brought their centres closer together, drawn to the heat radiating from them both and she allowed the storm - Anna’s storm - to consume her mind, her heart, her body, her soul. Her mouth trailed kisses that turned into love bites, marking the princess’s skin as her own. She felt her sister’s body tense and melt into her at the same time and growled softly against her skin, kissing her way down to her breasts, finding an eager peak and wrapping her lips around it. 

She felt one of Anna’s hands thread fingers into her hair, nails biting into her scalp as she began to suckle ever so softly, feeling the arch of her back with one hand keeping her firmly in place. Anna’s hips rolled against hers and she panted softly as heat brushed past heat. 

Without missing a beat, her tongue flicked at the tip she was currently adorning with ministrations before she let go of it, delighting at the frustrated little whine she heard and she smirked as she pressed her lips to her princess’s sternum then switched to her other breast, repeating the ritual. The hand gripping her hair was joined by another and she added very gentle teething which earned her mewling and moaning between the panting and gasping. 

Her mouth trailed away from her breast, and thunder roared so loudly it almost felt as the world tree itself shook Midgard… or at least, their little corner of it. She smirked deviously as Anna protested but she slowly knelt before her princess - without a doubt the only person, divine or mortal, who would ever see her on her knees. She nipped softly at the junction of her thigh to her hip and pressed hot open mouthed kisses as she trailed her way to the soft patch of red nestled between her legs.

The taste of her was as intoxicating as the frenzied storm that tore through their land. 

~~~

It is her lover’s voice that resonates in her soul when the skies open.

The prow of the drakar barely bobbed with the waves, the water gently allowing it to carry its journey forward. The Wolf Clan’s Jarlskona stood a little forlorn as her eyes surveyed the horizon. She looked up to find the stars as bright as if they were fireflies floating before her and quickly sought Karlvagn the man’s chariot to locate Kvennavagn the woman’s chariot and checked that they were still sailing in the right direction. Elsa had a rare talent for reading the skies as clearly as a map, in large part thanks to Anna who, as a child, would beg her to sneak out with her at night and bear witness to them. Pretty quickly she’d understood they were one of the most effective tools a Vikingr could hope to use. The Wolf clan had become famous for losing few ships and effectively always guiding raids back home, thanks to her skills.

But tonight even as she would normally stand in awe at the majestic dome above them, her soul stood crestfallen as they sailed further away from home and towards their destination. She did not want to sound the horns of war, nor did she crave the taste of blood splashed from her blade in battle. She craved the taste of a nectar known to herself only instead, she craved the sounds of thunder and rain muffling the quiet gasps and moans heard only by her ears.

She knew as a seafarer who used celestial light by day and by night should be grateful for such clear skies…

Yet her heart longed for a storm.

Her heart longed for her storm. 

A sudden flash tore through the skies, clouds gathering ahead of them. 

Her warriors shuddered.

Elsa smiled.

Her spirits soared at the notion of riding that storm. 

#elsanna #August 2022 contest #prompt: Cosmic #lemon #submission #cw: mentions of blood