#dominion regalia

[kingsandbastardz]

Tumblr ate the anon ask I was responding to so I'm gonna paraphrase it here:

what do mean llh gave di feisheng to fang duobing? the letter totally said something else

Yes, it did - but I didn't feel I could comment too deeply on it when it's been retranslated and people who are far more literate than I am have analyzed the contents already. -- The letter itself seems pretty straight forward.

However, what I wanted to focus on was analyzing unspoken social dynamics - so I'm gonna get in depth into my reasoning for my interpretation. And admittedly in previous posts I was playing fast and glib with my responses (they were just insomnia-fueled thoughts I typed real fast) so I wasn't really in depth or anything. Anyway~~~ That means it's time for me to get long winded.

So! First thing - this is the scene: The letter was written from Li Xiangyi and addressed in its entirety to Di Feisheng. However, when it was delivered the fisherman asked for both DFS and FDB. It was then read outloud by either the fisherman or FDB -- I assume read out loud, and loudly, because DFS never left his position by the rocks and emoted his distress at the contents. That means everyone there also was privy to the letter contents.

The letter itself is straight forward. It's addressed from LXY telling DFS that he regretfully can't make the duel and that he respects him both as a martial artist and as a person, and if he wishes, he can go to FDB who has inherited his skills and shows great promise, etc.

The thing IS - I firmly believe that this is not a message meant just for DFS.

Both LLH and DFS code switch between their non-leader selves vs Li-Menzhu and Di-Mengzhu. It's easiest to see based on what they're wearing. Li Xiangyi when he's dressed in the Sigu Sect uniform. Or the Styx flower hand-off scene where he calls him Di-mengzhu (not Lao Di or A-Fei or whatever else) likely as a reaction to his official regalia/red uniform which means DFS was showing up in an official capacity. Both of them know very well the importance of a certain.... how to say.... drama? They're both leaders and they were also very performative in their roles as leaders. They both expected that massive peanut gallery that showed up to witness the fight - the one filled with members of various sects, including Sigu Sect leadership -- because dfs was likely the one announcing it.

Imo - aside from the need to express the full weight of what he felt, part of the reason LLH was so formal in his letter is expectation that there would be other people there - influential people. The very people DFS and FDB would have to deal with in the future alone. FDB would be ok but he's largely unknown to the rest of jianghu and therefore his story is still malleable. DFS is known, but infamous and his narrative is as much of a trap as LXY's was. And now he no longer has the benefit of a sect to act as a buffer.

LLH's last act as LXY was not to save Yun Biqiu but to carve a new path open in the world for DFS and FDB:

Expresses that he bears deep emotion and the greatest and deepest respect for DFS despite a reputation of them being enemies

Informs everyone that DFS is not seeking dominion or 'the throne' but rather, is going the fighter-scholar path of studying and testing martial skill -- aka, this is message from one sect leader to all the others present. Spread the word, this man is NOT gunning for your power. None of you have reason to take him down.

Establishes FDB as his one and only successor - while also stating clearly it's entirely up to FDB to decide whether to continue down this path or not

Creates a pathway for DFS and FDB to maintain their connection with each other - and in fact lets everyone else know that there is a pre-established, legacy relationship between DFS and LLH that FDB will be inheriting.

Gently asks DFS to keep an eye on FDB's development - iterating that if dfs is the one asking, then FDB may make the decision to continue to train - aka help him see his full potential whatever his decision is.

At the same time, he silently wishes FDB to maintain connections with/keep an eye on DFS. In another reply I kinda went on about this: imagine a scenario where your friend's mom pulls both of you in front of her. And the whole time is telling your friend that they need to do, expectations, a list of goals, etc. The entire time she's only focused on your friend - but there is this silent implication that you, as the witness, is expected to act a reminder or even an enforcer if your friend isn't listening. If things go wrong, you're expected to go in there and help them to do the thing they were asked to do. This is the unspoken message I'm getting for FDB. Even though his name wasn't mentioned in the letter, it was explicitly delivered to both him and dfs. He's standing right there while an imaginary LLH talks to DFS. So if after all this, dfs disappears without another word = fdb can feel emboldened to go after him, knocking on doors until he answers. Should he decide to do so.

Entreaty - "These are LXY's (my) last wishes. Please respect my memory after my death."

Conclusion: LLH's last actions were to create a space where both DFS and FDB can make their own decision on their path in the world, without the weight of all those other people in jianghu influencing them.

Note: I also believe that on dfs' side, his clothing choices point toward his plans to publicly step down and leave the martial path with Li Lianhua. But llh sucker-punched him and left him standing on some rocks like a widow waiting for her husband who's lost at sea. They were technically on the same page, but it somehow went wrong because... well. Unfortunately that's DFS' narrative. He never quite reaches his goal without the hero either hindering or helping him. The entire drama was LLH being that karma busting fulcrum for him. But now, should he wish it, it'll be FDB's turn to step up and do the same.

#also as an aside - with all the marriage symbolism and the dead brides in every story arc - both lyx and dfs with red uniforms? #llh stealing dfs repeatedly away from marriages? sgd wanting llh to wear the red for HIM but instead llh wears it for everyone else but him #it's very much giving me sacrificial savior where the hero is for the people and not any given individual #mysterious lotus casebook #my royal ramblings #di feisheng #li lianhua #li xiangyi #fang duobing #lxy's last letter #meta

[atinylittlepain]

congrats!!!! im so happy for u! i love ur writing sm and u deserve every single follower!! for your celebration i'd love to request

I got love in my tummy and a tiny little pain with Joel with Royalty AU! king joel sitting on that throne mmmm lmao

hi my friend, thank you so much! i had way too much fun with this one lol

The Feast

king!joel x f!reader

join the celebration!

warnings | 18+ references to smut

a/n | in my brain, this is set in like, high medieval times, just fyi

............................

“His majesty requests your presence, milady.” 

“Tell him I will be in his chambers shortly.”

“In the banquet hall, milady, he requests your presence in the banquet hall.” Oh, it’s going to be like that tonight. She dismisses the page with a curt nod, finishing her ministrations, rich oils soaking into her skin beneath her shift. Tugging the heavy satin of her robe over her shoulders, she slips out of her bedchambers, candelabra in hand to light her way through the dim, drafty halls of the palace. It had taken much getting used to, the roaming expanse of his castle, the high-arched walls draped in lavish tapestries, threads woven of stories of his conquests. But it is the banquet hall that is the most extravagant room of the palace.

A table that could seat over two hundred guests, richly carved wood beneath the hazy glow of candlelight, glints and glimmers catching in the arcing, stained-glass windows. And at the head of the table, the throne, gilded and glittering, gemstones suspended in imposing gold and silver, spoils of his victories upon which he sits, slumped down, thighs spread wide, his head propped in his hand.

“What took you so long?” She pads silently across the room to him, clicking her tongue at his petulant question.

“Patience is a virtue, your highness, you would do well to remember it.” She steps between his legs, his hands immediately coming to her hips, fingers squeezing just a tad unkindly into the flesh. 

“I have no use for patience, my wife, not when it comes to you.” His wife, his queen, the woman he sent for across many seas. The woman he loves. It’s true what they say, what King Joel desires, he is sure to get.

She brings a hand to his cheek, nails scratching lightly at his scruff as he gazes up at her, dripping devotion and dominion all at once. Her other palm rests on his chest, laid bare by his loose shirt, his regalia long discarded for the evening. She can feel the thrum of his heartbeat, and though his eyes are dark, power in the set of his jaw, she revels in her ability to make his pulse quicken.

“You called for me, and I am here. What is it you want, husband?” She can feel the vibration of the grumble he lets out, more of a growl really, as he pulls her closer by her hips. 

“Something to eat.” His words crackle with his grin, and she can feel her own lips curling as she steps out of his hold, letting her robe fall from her shoulders. Her nipples harden in the cool draft of the room, the sheer material of her shift useless to the chill of the night, and his eyes darken at the sight. She knows how he wants her, and she is happy to give it to him, shifting back up onto the table, resting on her elbows as she draws her feet up to rest on the smooth wood, legs spread wide, her shift rucking up and bunching around her hips. 

Exposed to him, she can’t help the tremble that skitters up her spine as he leans forward, the heat of his breath washing over her cunt.

And now, when the court has all left, dinner long over, the real feast can begin.

#joel miller angst #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller au #joel miller one shot

[wicked-witch-for-hire]

The Artifacts of Karsus and the Crown Of Horns

This post was inspired by several things:

- u/lookitsnichole 's question: if Mystra is melding together with Midnight, why don't we say that Karsus is melding with Gale

- what are the tasks of archmages and Chosens, which made me think about eldritch artifacts thanks to u/Valetheera

- and I would lie if I would say that the situation with Anders & Justice or rather Vengeance was not also in my mind.

What I posit is this:

The idea of Ascension may have been planted in Gale by the Orb & the Crown when he was in close proximity to both of them.

The changes in GodGale are just partly due to ascension and shedding humanity - he is at the minimum greatly influenced by these artifacts. It is possible that they are slowly melding together, or that in time the "Karsus" part can take over completely.

First what are the orb and the crown, and what became of Karsus?

Karsus became a god for an infinitesimally short time, and is considered to be a demi-god. Mystryl sacrifised herself, thus cut all magic and stopped Karsus's spell in the process, and transformed Karsus into stone. Karsus died but he did not go to the Fugue Plane (where souls normally go), but stayed on the Material Plane. His vestige can be called upon by powerful magic users. (Neverwinter Nights: Shadows of Undrentide).

From the Annals of Karsus

My great spell of transcendence is mine alone, not to be committed to ink and parchment, but I have also forged three supreme enchanted items that are the physical embodiments of my wizardry, and of them I shall make record.

There is a Crown, an Orb, and a Sceptre, each night-alive and with its own power and purpose, and these I call the Regalia of Karsus.

The Crown of Karsus: to attract and absorb magical knowledge, and give the wearer dominion over himself so that he remains his own entity apart from the Weave.

The Orb of Karsus: a storage device or battery that condenses mystic power, ever-gathering so that it must be syphoned at intervals of its excess.

The Sceptre of Karsus: an instrument of projection, a focusing utensil for the precise wielding of unimaginably vast forces. (in Mystra's possession)

Know of these items you must, for if I fail to achieve immortality, they will persist, and I dare say, 'live' on beyond me.

The next question is do we have any other example of something created by a god for nefarious purposes, an evil & intelligent artifact which was capable of corrupting and even transforming the minds of its wearers? Even after the death of its forger?

Say hello to the Crown of Horns!

It was very likely forged by Myrkul (or reforged by him from an ancient Netherese artifact).

This artifact is possessed by Myrkul, sentient and it is capable to interfere with the minds of its wearers.

Following the god's destruction, the vestiges of Myrkul could strongly influence the actions of whomever wore the Crown of Horns, making suggestions within their consciousness, possessing them outright, and even altering their moral and ethical outlook to more closely resemble his own (this is fancy D&D talk for "this artifact will change your alignment to neutral evil"). No individual could remove their crown unless Myrkul's essence wished for his artifact to find a new host.

Laeral Silverhand was one of the Seven Sisters - one of the mortal daughters of Mystra (2.0), who was also a Chosen of Mystra. She was an incredibly powerful mage, and she was specifically gifted in creating artifacts, until she donned this Crown. In her own words:

"We found an artifact, the Crown of Horns, and I in my pride decided that my powers of will and magic were sufficient to counter the evil I sensed within it. I wore the Crown, and it claimed me as its own. Years went by, terrible years during which I lost Laeral and became the Wild Woman, the Witch of the North. I remember little of those years, which in many ways is a blessing."

Theorycrafting time & conclusion

When I look at GodGale I see remnants of Gale in him - he comes back for his love - but I mostly see the terrible, unsatisfiable hunger of the Orb personified as a God of Ambition. HumanGale had ambitions yes, but these ambitions had served a purpose, he wanted to achieve something, he had an endgoal in his mind. GodGale might help a follower to achieve something but that follower won't feel any satisfaction - they will endlessly run after the next thing like a little hampster in their wheel until exhaustion & death.

And I don't think this is truly Gale - this is a vestige of Karsus. The Crown was influencing and corrupting Gale from the moment Gale has got close enough. The Orb would act like a homing beacon to the Crown, and it could amplify its effects.

These artifacts are both capable of being sentient, containing the remnants of their forger - we have precedents for this in the lore, and the Annals of Karsus can be interpreted as proof (see the bolded part.)

And when he ascends? I see an amalgamation of them. I think the Gale part of GodGale is still mostly in charge, but this can change.

There is an interesting thought - we know that Raphael can have an ominous monologue about Mystra if she has the Crown. In that case Mystra had the Sceptre & Crown, and possibly the orb too (we don't know if she simply destroys it or pulls it out of Gale - it might still be intact.) I don't think this will bode well for her for the long run, but we'll see...

#gale bg3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #lore

[ddarker-dreams]

description of their abilities under the cut for those who are unfamiliar:

🎀 - 「SCARLET RIBBONS」

Scarlet Ribbons is a natural humanoid Stand centered around her utility to compensate for lacking raw power. Her main functionality is her ability to create red ribbons, manipulating them at the [First]’s discretion. The ribbons have a range from where [First] stands in a radius of forty feet (twelve meters), but grow weaker in power the further they extend out. Upon being rendered unconscious, any ribbons created by [First] will disappear and lose their former effect.

Some usages of the ribbons are but not limited to: constricting opponents, bandaging flesh wounds, blinding opponents by wrapping ribbons around their eyes, creating bridges/ramps, and moving objects within Reader’s strength.

Scarlet Ribbons, while not a fully sentient Stand, will sometimes act on her own volition outside of battle. She’s affectionate and enjoys interacting with others. When she’s not hugging [First], she’ll be looking for other fun things to entertain herself with. Scarlet Ribbons dotes on others by creating them various accessories.

⚔ - gate to the beyond (hell within reach)

Your ability is to draw items from The Beyond, a pitch-black realm that stores equipment; mainly your weapons and armor. Other people may store equipment within but are only able to access it if you will it. Opening a gate to The Beyond summons a thin, oval-like apparatus that hovers midair or on the ground. You reach inside to place/remove items, your arm disappearing to any onlookers in the process.

Each weapon and armor has its own designation: they are called Sets. Sustaining multiple Sets is draining over long periods of time. You can attach armor to other people at will, but this is your most draining technique; since it requires shifting the size of the armor and maintaining it in real time.

Known Weapon Sets

Set A: Summons either a single or double sword depending. The blade itself is slightly curved and the handle embedded with regalia showcasing your home country’s predominant religion. Set B: Summons a lithe and agile spear that can double as a javelin if thrown. This set it both your quickest and has the most range. Set C: Summons a gargantuan double-sided axe that’s slower to attack but packs a hefty punch. It can cut through most material, not counting constructs made of Nen. It weighs upward of four thousand pounds.

Armor Sets

Set 1: Metal-based armor that prioritizes defense, bulky but protective. Each piece weighs around a hundred pounds and can be a pain to move around in. This is best used in situations where you can be stationary. It covers you from head to toe. Set 2: Fabric-based armor that prioritizes agility, light yet incredibly agile. Your go-to when armor is required, as it best aids your combat style. It mostly covers your vitals while remaining loose by your joints so as not to prohibit movement. Set 3: An armor set that is sturdy while still allowing decent movement.

🌻 - cursed technique: ophanim and null

Your ability is versatile if not simple.

You can call forth golden rings that perpetually spin clockwise. Their size, speed, and sharpness are determined by you. At this point in your training, you can maintain two of these rings without sacrificing speed or sharpness. Should you bring out any more, they will dull and slow down for each addition made. Two could slash through steel, four could cut the same slab halfway, six would make a sizable dent, eight would leave a scratch; so on and so forth.

There’s an additional application beyond this.

Cursed Technique: Null — the pinnacle of the innate ability you inherited, Ophanim.

The sorcerer creates three rings around any object or organism. One spins around the target horizontally. The other two slant left and right respectively, all spinning counterclockwise. The closed eyes adorning the ring’s outside fly open. Unblinking, hypervigilant. If what they’re enclosed around is significantly weaker than the sorcerer, it can halt the movements of whatever or whoever is within.

⌛ - god darling, the lord of sand

As Vephar, The God of Sand, Geo flows through your veins like ichor. Your mastery lies in the creation and manipulation of sand. Whether that be forming wicked gusts that erode flesh and bone alike, or the transmutation of sand into glass. Each grain heeds your command with reverence, dutifully fulfilling any order.

🥀 - mastery over synalinks and psionics

The LOTUS-EATER's Exalted Arbiter hails from a bloodline who have uncovered many secrets of the psyche. Your sense of empathy is heightened to such a degree that you can feel other's emotions, or, if you wish, hear their thoughts. Beyond that, you can gaze into their mind itself. Rearranging shards of memories into a mosaic that reflects your designs. It is a delicate art that comes as natural as breathing to you.

#i am very curious . #there's def one i'd want most from these options #lock polls

[late-to-the-fandom]

It felt more, the Dark Prince reflected as he led the mortal into Darkwall Tower, like hosting a foreign dignitary than punishing a penitent soul. Read on Ao3 here.

The ride to Castle Nathria was charged with as many layers of crackling tension as the skirts Elisewin had left back at Theotar’s manor. Renathal knew he was not imagining the way the carriage’s other occupant avoided his gaze - there was only so long one could reasonably inspect the same patch of dark upholstery. Not that he blamed her. He made an equally poor traveling companion, busy as he was beating back the temptation to brush accidentally against her newly exposed knees.

And beneath whatever uncertain current ran between each other were the worries about the reception awaiting them both at the journey’s end. With every rattle of the carriage around another hairpin bend, Renathal’s nerves about what Denathrius would say when they arrived together increased. His Master had not expressly forbidden him from interacting with Elisewin, so technically, Renathal reminded himself, he had not done anything wrong. But his Master knew him too well; knew his predilections, his... weaknesses. He held no hope he could hide - as he had never been able to hide - this knot of inexplicably visceral desire from the Sire who had created him.

As the carriage left the Redelav district and entered the outskirts of the castle grounds, Elisewin’s face twitched in what Renathal assumed was recognition of the landscape, as he assumed the pink pallor overtaking her lavender skin had to do with whatever welcome from the Master she also anticipated. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, remembered his injunction against cultivating additional camaraderie, and closed it again. Anyway, what could he tell her? He had known Denathrius his entire existence, and even he could only speculate how his Master was going to react.

But not for nothing was Renathal the Dark Prince and the Firstborn of the Venthyr, and what he did know was the power of a well-choreographed entrance.

Thus he eschewed any of the castle's convenient - and secretive - side doors, instructing his dredger driver to deposit them at Nathria's more public main gate. There, he leapt from the carriage and, in full view of perambulating courtiers and patrolling Stoneborn, offered a startled Elisewin his hand and helped her solicitously down. He switched his grip to her elbow, gentle but firm, as he led her across the courtyard, under Nathria’s high archway, through the castle's empty vestibule, and up the stairs to the Grand Walk beyond.

The Harvester of Dominion returning the Master's wayward mortal. It was a bold, brave approach, calculated to prove neither of them had anything to hide, and Renathal was confident in its prospects. Assuming Elisewin followed suit - left the talking to him and refrained from doing anything suspicious.

“Really, your Highness,” she said - in direct defiance of his unvoiced plan - wincing as her whisper echoed shrill as a scream off the Grand Walk's high stone walls. She glanced quickly at the Stoneborn bats waiting frozen on their pedestals before continuing, “I'll be alright. You don’t have to do this. I can make my own explanations to Den- the Sire.”

“Can you now?” The booming challenge stopped both Renathal and Elisewin mid-stride. “I would be delighted to hear them.”

The unctuous baritone seemed to come from Nathria itself, but Renathal knew instinctively where to turn his head. Sure enough, across the raised and regal dais at the room's far end, a shadow fell, and a second later, the Sire stepped sedately into view atop it. Bedecked in full, glittering red and gold regalia, slashed cloak held aloft by some invisible, subservient breeze, he put the room’s dim torches to shame, eclipsing their light, and throwing the two smaller beings on the ground below into darkness.

“Well, well, well. At last, my penitent mortal deigns to arrive. And where has she been, I wonder..."

Denathrius waved an elegant hand, as if inviting someone hiding behind him to speak. But the room was silent except for the fading echo of his own words, and the hitch in Elisewin's breath Renathal could just hear as she wriggled her arm from his grasp. Before he could stop her, she had taken two steps toward the waiting Sire, craning her neck to meet his gaze, her flat voice betraying neither insolence nor fear.

“I have been in the Endmire, Sire. As you specifically instructed. It was harder to reach than I expected, and..." Her pause was a fraction of a second too long. Denathrius caught it. Renathal could tell by the gleam in his glowing red eyes. "It... took some effort to escape. I returned as soon as I could.”

“So I see,” the Sire replied languidly. “After procuring for yourself mention a royal escort and new, unapproved attire, but not the anima I specifically instructed. Nor anything else, apparently, unless you are hiding something interesting underneath those new clothes.” He made an exaggerated show of looking her black and scarlet ensemble up and down. “No? Well... come then! I am dying to hear your explanations.”

But Elisewin was either too intimidated to answer or had exhausted her prepared store of words. Her arms were rigid at her side, fingers plucking the edge of her tunic, and Renathal fancied he could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks from two steps away. He, on the other hand, felt the cloak of wary nerves he had assumed on the carriage ride fall from his shoulders.

Denathrius was posturing. Renathal was intimately familiar with this grand, orchestrated display. Granted, it fell a bit flat without Remornia’s enthusiastic chorus, but the implications of the performance heartened Renathal all the same. The Sire was wholly relaxed. He felt in-control and unthreatened. Such magnanimous moods generally inclined him to lengthy lectures and elaborate lessons rather than swift, decisive punishments. This was a Master with whom Renathal could reason.

He strode forward, past Elisewin, his own dark coat catching air behind him as he declared with equally dramatic chagrin, “The fault is entirely mine."

The Sire's head rotated in Renathal's direction.

“I discovered the mortal on her way to the Endmire," Renathal explained, choosing each word with care. “I found her claims of an unsupervised errand on your orders rather suspicious, and decided it would be prudent to monitor her movements. I can confirm she did in fact collect a modest amount of anima, however, I was obliged to … requisition it... after an encounter with one of the Endmire’s more deadly amalgations.”

He paused, expecting queries or comments. Denathrius only stared. Instinct of an older, more primal kind crawled through Renathal’s limbs, bidding his knees bend, his tongue confess every truth, half-remitted, half-obscured. He wrestled it down.

“She did offer to remain in the Endmire and recover more anima,” he went on, now focusing on a point just beside Denathrius' ear. “But I thought it best I return her to you promptly - after having her cleaned so she would not dirty the castle, of course. It is my opinion, based on my admittedly cursory observation, that mortals may be ill-equipped to endure such perils as lurk in Revendreth's wilds."

This presumptuous pronouncement hung in the still, shrouded air like an unaccepted offering before dissipating into laden silence. Renathal dared not move. He resisted the impulse to adjust the fold of his cuffs or the drape of his coat. The Master's practiced pose and sanguine demeanor had vanished, replaced by a palpable menace and a grip on the balcony’s iron railing as hard and unyielding as any of the Grand Walk's leering Stoneborn bats.

“Assisting souls in their atonements is not your purview, Renathal,” he intoned, each overenunciated consonant like the slice of a blade across Renathal's prickling skin. “Nor is it your place to stand in judgment of my express commands. If I sent my mortal to search the Endmire, then the Endmire is where she will stay until her search is complete!”

Behind him came the sound of Elisewin's soft-soled boots shifting in place. Renathal, too, felt the urge to run, or to grovel, but stood his ground. His brain was racing. Of all the reactions he had anticipated, this cold, brittle fury was not one. But why the Master's mood had taken such a capricious turn for the worst was a question for another, safer time, and if they were ever to see one, a new approach was required. Fortunately, he had eons of experience in meliorating his Master. But to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, to agree unconditionally to any demands, meant Elisewin's return to the Endmire, at which that incomprehensible instinct to protect her balked.

Renathal wet his lips. There was still a card he could play. Distraction.

“Of course, Master, my humblest apologies,” he said, a hand to his chest, head bowed; the very picture of contrition. “I merely thought," he lifted his face just enough to see past the loose strands of his hair, "you might find it inconvenient for your new charge to perish under such mundane and... avoidable circumstances. I feared her destruction might be remarked upon - her presence here being such a singular occurrence, after all. Will not someone be checking on her progress in order to escort her back to the mortal realms when her atonement is complete? The Arbiter, perhaps? Or whatever messenger of the Purpose delivered her to Revendreth? I confess confusion on that particular point."

For one interminable moment, the Sire of Revendreth looked speechless with rage, and Renathal straightened, bracing for the blast or the blow, convinced he had gone too far. He took a surreptitious sideways step, attempting to shield Elisewin from view.

Then, Denathrius smiled. Not a cruel smile, or a punitive one. Something had shifted in his face, sliding quick as mercury from fury to fatherly benevolence. He cocked his head, appraising his Firstborn with an almost formal interest, flicked his eyes to the half-hidden mortal, then back to Renathal again. And without warning he was walking, heading for the platform's winding stairs, striding briskly down them, hands folded behind him, wafting a pragmatic, business-like air.

“Walk with me, Renathal,” he commanded on approach, but Renathal could as soon fly; he remained frozen, frantically processing this second unexpected change. At the equally nonplussed Elisewin, Denathrius waved an imperious hand and instructed, "Wait here. Think on your sins.” He added the last as a careless afterthought, passing them both and beckoning Renathal to follow.

Behind the Sire's retreating back, Renathal and Elisewin exchanged glances. She blinked. The cut across her cheek stood out stark red against her lavender skin's pink pallor, but her expression remained impassive, and Renathal’s stomach lurched as he realised this might be the last time he saw it up close. Whatever the Master had in store for him, his earlier resolution remained. The mortal was a dangerous, addictive luxury; one he could not trust himself to indulge in with any degree of moderation. The responsible choice was to quit her, wholly and permanently, and perhaps it was best done this way - no chance for second guessing, no time for prolonged farewells.

Elisewin’s lips twitched at him. Renathal thought she might be attempting a smile. He allowed himself one final, stolen second to memorise its graceful lines. Then, with a masterful exertion of will, he tore his gaze and thoughts away from her, turned, and followed the Sire from the chamber, leaving her warm comfortable presence behind.

They walked single file down the Grand Corridor’s comparatively narrow hall. The sound of Denathrius' heavy plate bootsteps swallowed Renathal's own as they trod the worn stones. Renathal kept a cautious distance, aware the Master's mood might curdle again at any time, but for all his current tumultuous - and treasonous - confusion towards his Sire, it was impossible not to admire his dedication to anima conservation. A promising sign, he thought, that the Master of the realm chose to walk, rather than wend them away to their unknown destination.

Which turned out to be the corridor’s farthest, most sequestered corner. It was several paces past the last of the convenient wooden benches, meaning Renathal was forced to stand as his Master stopped and leaned casually against the wall, but it was also free of echoes, he realised, when the red and gold plate armor met stone with a muted, un-carrying thud.

"Thank you, Renathal," Denathrius began, folding his arms across his chest, and whatever Renathal had expected him to say it was not that. "For returning my mortal guest to me," he continued. "You are correct. Her death would have been an unfortunate blow. I had it on authority from..." He hesitated - an unusual display - his red eyes narrowing as he sought some elusive word. "The parties responsible for her presence," he chose at last, "that she possesses a peculiar resilience to most forms of bodily harm. However, it is entirely possible her reputation has been exaggerated, and it would not do to overestimate her abilities. But tell me," he tilted his head at his Firstborn, "why were you following her in the first place?"

The Sire's voice was level; his tone candid, conversational; everything in his face and posture suggested this was an informal tête-a-tête. A meeting of minds. The two of them, father and son, tackling Revendreth’s problems together. It was such an unusual tactic on Denathrius' part, and such a long-nursed wish on Renathal’s, he could not resist it; could only hope it was as sincere as it appeared.

"It was not my intention," he admitted honestly. "I happened to see her from my carriage as I returned from the Halls of Atonement.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“I had an ... enlightening meeting with the Harvester of Pride. At her request. She has some legitimate concerns."

"Oh?" Denathrius uncrossed and recrossed his arms, but his voice was still perfectly even and pleasant as he asked, “What might those be?"

And Renathal, dizzy from so many rapid shifts in atmosphere in such a short time, found his conversation with the Accuser spilling from him before he could decide if a full confession was wise. Words flowed fast and free like the anima fonts of Revendreth’s glory days: the Curator’s pitiful state of mind, the waning of the medallions, the anima conservation discrepancies and the destruction of penitent souls they were apparently necessitating.

He stopped himself just short of revealing the Accuser and Curator's clandestine affair. It was irrelevant, he decided, shutting his mouth abruptly, disguising his pause as a deep intake of superfluous air. Monitoring Venthyr relationships - and outing them to the Master - was the Countess's purview, not his. No reason to do her distasteful job for her.

"Well," said Denathrius slowly. "This is certainly troublesome news.”

For most of his speech, Renathal's gaze had flicked between the walls, the ceiling, or the narrow castle window overlooking the tops of twilit buildings outside. Now, he focused on his Master, scanning him for signs of disbelief or disappointment or another outburst of cold fury. But Denathrius' face was a perfect depiction of thoughtful concern as he tapped his chin and continued:

"It would appear my new pet project, as it were, has unwittingly caused me to neglect other equally important tasks." He sighed - a great gust of air tinged with a sound like wistful regret - then pushed suddenly off the wall. "A course correction is required."

It took Renathal a moment to recover. Denathrius' equanimity at his own shortcomings was every bit as alarming as his earlier rage. And, while it was the exact sentiment he had hoped for from his Master, it still managed to evade any actual answers.

"Sire," he said smoothly, falling back on basic tactics. "An entire world's worth of responsibilities rest upon your shoulders, and all of them in constant competition for your attention. It is hardly surprising if a few should… slip your notice. And if there is any way I may provide you greater aid, I am, of course, ready to serve. But, may I ask-"

“As a matter of fact," interrupted Denathrius, "I believe there is," and, before Renathal could squeeze in even the bluntest of questions, the Master had turned in a rattle of armor, and clapped his hands. 

In the distance, a door creaked open, followed at once by prompt, measured footsteps. Awaiting his summoned servant, Denathrius faced his Firstborn again with a beatific smile.

"You have done well, Renathal," he announced with solemn pride, "in investigating this unrest, and in bringing it to me. It is most gratifying to know that you, at least, I can trust in all things." He stretched out an arm and placed a hand on Renathal's armored shoulder. "But perhaps I have entrusted you with the wrong task."

"Master?"

The title fell childlike from Renathal’s dropped jaw. He had barely heard the words, every fiber of his being focused on the feel of his Master’s hand. Denathrius was not given to physical demonstrations of affection. The number of times he had offered his Firstborn an unprompted and unthreatening touch were grievously few. Anima tingled down Renathal's arm as if the Sire were imbuing him with it. And all of his musings and mysteries and carefully constructed queries - so important just a few seconds ago - crumbled away like another of Revendreth’s ruins.

"Yes, Renathal," answered the Sire, though Renathal had not managed to articulate a question. “I think it best if I take responsibility for addressing the drought's ramifications myself. The safe keeping of Revendreth and its souls is, after all, my eternal duty. I should never have burdened you with it. Instead..."

Removing his hand, Denathrius turned to the servant observing the scene from a respectful distance and declared, "My mortal guest is waiting in the Grand Walk. Bring her to me." Then, to Renathal, he finished, “Instead, I will give you Elisewin.”

The servant’s satin slippers pattered lightly on the stone as he hastened to do his Master’s bidding. But Renathal was sure the sound must have obscured Denathrius’ words. He could not possibly had said-

“Give me… what?”

“Elisewin. The mortal. Surely, you remember her name?”

Renathal could only gape. Denathrius’ smile grew sharper and wider, as if preparing to take a bite of him.

“This is the second time you have contrived to return her to safety, and both times she has obeyed your commands. You have a…” He hesitated a second time. “A connection. That, apparently, cannot be easily recreated. I shall use it to my advantage. I refer to her atonement, of course,” he added hastily. “Perhaps she will find lessons in repentance from you more palatable. Or at least easier to swallow.”

A rush of distinctly unprofessional images flooded Renathal’s staggering brain. So vivid and visceral, saturated in base desire, his Master must surely smell them on him. Had it been his intention? Ice crept through Renathal's veins at the thought. Was he being punished after all? Had the Sire's displays of affection - his compliments and confidences and rare, extraordinary touch - simply been another well-crafted performance designed to put him off guard?

Denathrius was watching him closely, waiting on his response. Renathal cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry.

"As you command, Sire,” he replied and bowed his head, hiding his hurt and bemusement behind formality and turning the situation to his advantage; a strategy, he thought heartlessly, the Sire must surely approve. “I assume I shall be vouchsafed her relevant history and her Sinstone?"

“Oh, I doubt you will need them," said Denathrius with a dismissive wave. "I have every confidence you will discover all her remarkable sins in time.”

Heat coiled fast in Renathal's gut. He ignored it.

"But without knowledge of her sins, how will I know what acts of penance to prescribe? It is, as is so often noted, not my customary purview."

“Follow your instincts, Renathal!" The Sire's smile had become an unmistakable smirk. "After all, you have such a well-defined sense of what is needed in Revendreth. I trust your judgments entirely.”

After eons spent savouring his Master's every complimentary crumb, Renathal was surprised how little he enjoyed this generous sampling. But footsteps were echoing up the corridor behind him. Two sets of footsteps, and Renathal’s heart affected a faster pace.

"Ah. Elisewin," called Denathrius. Renathal, not quite ready to turn around, watched his Master shrug on his brusque, business-like manner once more. "A change in your accommodations has been arranged."

"Sire?" came the expressionless response.

"You have been remanded into the service of the Prince," the Sire explained, nodding at Renathal. "He will oversee your further education, and you will obey him as you would myself. I expect to see swift and significant progress."

His words were clipped, and the last had barely left him before the Master of Revendreth spun on his booted hoof and strode away. The billowing tails of his cloak were halfway up the corridor before his Venthyr servant gathered himself to follow. And Renathal, still reeling, turned just in time to catch the slow blink of white-blue eyes he had been sure such a short time ago he would never again see.

If the carriage ride to Nathria had been fraught with awkward tension, the journey from the castle to Darkwall Tower was doubly so. It was shorter, at least. A quick trot across the Court of Harvesters, then a lift ride up, the sinrunners champing at their bits as they endured the ascent.

Renathal fancied he knew how they felt.

His nerves were now a living thing scuttling across his skin, and this time it was he who picked a spot of dark upholstery and fixed his gaze, studiously ignoring the carriage’s other occupant. Elisewin had maintained an impenetrable silence since Denathrius' abrupt exit. She had not asked what occurred between Sire and son, had expressed neither regret nor relief at her unexplained dismissal. Renathal wondered if she was unhappy with her ostensible demotion, but there was no time to entertain such self-indulgent fears.They had already arrived.

Drawing to a halt in the courtyard, the sinrunners were, at last, granted their reprieve. Venthyr servants unhitched the beasts and led them away; a task made cumbersome by their slack jaws and open stares as Renathal helped the conspicuous mortal from his carriage for the second time that day. This time, however, he let Elisewin walk unassisted up the cobbled path. She made slow work of it. Her head swiveled curiously, appraising the modest grounds, and Renathal drew his coat about himself self-consciously as he followed her unblinking eyes. The carved front door swung open as they reached it, and there was Breakfist with a proper greeting for his Master and a professional indifference at the unexpected addition.

It felt more, the Dark Prince reflected as he ushered the mortal into Darkwall Tower, like hosting a foreign dignitary than punishing a penitent soul.

The front door closed firmly behind them, and they stood in the circular foyer, Renathal more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his own home. Taking pains to avoid actually looking at the figure beside him, he cleared his throat and introduced her to Breakfist and his coterie of dredgers as - in imitation of Denathrius - his guest. 

“And shall I h'ave a coffin prepared for h'er, your H'ighness?" asked Breakfist, his little round chest swelling with pride at every careful H.

Renathal shook his head.

"Our guest is a mortal," he explained. At the chorus of muddy, uncomprehending blinks, he elucidated, "She will require a bed."

That prompted a few curious mutters, snuffed out quickly by the butler's well-trained glare. 

"O' course, your H'ighness," said Breakfist solemnly. "I believe there h'is still a bed in the guest room across from the Master's soo-eet."

It was Renathal’s turn to emit a low noise of consternation.

Briefly, he debated alternatives and found none of them satisfactory. Coffins were a Revendreth standard for servants and the Venthyr lower class, but Renathal knew from his reading, and the historic reticence of most souls, mortal beings generally found them distasteful. And to move a bed to one of the rooms on another floor would require more dredgers than he kept on staff.

"That shall do," he conceded, unsure if the writhing in his stomach was excitement or dismay at this final blow to his crumbling resolution, or simply a call for much needed anima and rest. "Have the room prepared. It will have been centuries since it was last used."

Breakfist bowed, his round, earnest face free of even the shadow of a sly or knowing expression. Any Venthyr servant worth their place would have leapt to the most obvious and salacious conclusion, and rumours that the Prince and the mortal's beds lay opposite each other's would have run the rounds through all of Revendreth within a week. Exactly why his house was staffed by dredgers, thought Renathal smugly as Breakfist straightened and began barking orders at his underlings who trundled into immediate action.

Renathal allowed one dredger to take his coat and another to retire to the kitchens to prepare a spot of tea, remembering only after it had shuffled away Elisewin's expressed distaste for the drink. Face twisting at his own faux pas, and unable to reasonably put it off any longer, Renathal let his gaze wander to the spot in the entryway where Elisewin had been -

- and found her missing.

Alarm surged through him like an anima current. He whipped around, checking the entrance to the parlor, the kitchens, the front door - surely, surely she would not attempt escape? Not after everything he had done for her. But a splash of lavender and scarlet moving across his vision as he turned full circle cut his panic short.

There - behind his grandfather clock, wrapped in the enormous arms of the winding staircase, Elisewin was craning her neck to peer up at the distant ceiling and its elaborate candle-filled iron chandelier. Light and shadows played across her as she spun slowly in place, eyes following the wind of the stairs and its numerous floors and landings, like so many paneled and wall-papered veins branching from the tower's central artery of dull, dark stone. Not that the base building material of the staircase was much visible. The Dark Prince had seen to that. The walls practically sagged under the weight of the tasteful tapestries, pictures, and paintings he had spent millennia collecting and curating for every spare square inch of his home. 

As he watched, Elisewin lowered her gaze, examining the voluminous tapestry on display behind the clock. A particular favorite of Renathal's. It depicted the forest of the Banewood, embroidered in moody blues and blacks, complete with delicately stitched fuchsia widowblooms and a frenzy of yellow-fanged, red-eyed bats. She traced the air above one of the creatures with a trembling finger, and Renathal's eyes were once again drawn to the cut marring one smooth cheek. Did the memory frighten her? Or were her wide eyes and shaking hands more to do with her existence's abrupt upheaval? An understandable response, he grudgingly conceded. Unable to remember her own realm or people, Nathria would be the closest thing to a home she had. 

Elisewin dropped her hand, and Renathal shook off his dispirited reverie. Whether the Master had sentenced her here as punishment for one or both of them, it was no excuse for him to neglect his duties as a host. 

Gathering himself to his full, not insignificant height, Renathal spread his arms wide and called across the foyer: “Welcome to Darkwall Tower!"

Elisewin looked up swiftly. Renathal attempted his most ingratiating smile. But perhaps he was out of practice. Her face remained unusually clouded. While he waited, her gaze flicked again to the stairs, the ceiling, the tapestry, then back across the foyer as if searching for something. Renathal felt another prickle of self-conscious nerves and busied himself tucking his cuffs more securely under his bracers.

"I know it is not the castle to which you are accustomed," he said more stiffly. "I suppose it will take some time to adjust. Darkwall is certainly smaller than Nathria, and nowhere near as grand, however-"

"No."

Elisewin's voice was soft and distant, barely carrying across the space between them, but the word cut through Renathal's deprecations like a knife.

"It's not... like Nathria," she went on thoughtfully. "It is.. it feels different. I can't explain it. I like it," she added quickly, catching sight of Renathal's face. She stepped hastily around the clock and put a hand on the staircase's carved banister. "I do! It's just... I don't know how to describe it." She cast a final searching look around the room, then on Renathal himself who waited tensely for her verdict. "It feels very much more like... home."

All offense Renathal was preparing to take melted away. 

"I see," he said, restraining his pride like an eager gargon. "Well, that is... most gratifying. And would you prefer to be shown directly to your room, or shall I give you the tour along the way?"

Elisewin blinked.

"I get a tour?"

"Certainly," Renathal replied. "Darkwall may not be as extensive as Nathria, but there are still enough halls to get lost in if one is unfamiliar with them."

A faint twitch of her lips revealed Elisewin's amusement. She tapped the banister's carved orb finial, remarking dryly, "No one ever gave me a tour of the castle."

"Really?" Renathal lifted an eyebrow in his own surprise. "How did you find your way about, then?"

"I figured it out. Eventually."

Her shrug was careless, but Renathal noticed her grip on the finial had tightened. Perhaps her experiences in Nathria did not engender nostalgia after all. This time the smile curling past his fangs was as easy and thoughtless as his stride across the foyer.

"A creditable approach," he said wryly, joining her at the foot of the stairs. "But suppose we make it a bit easier on you this time."

With the charming ghost of a formal bow, Renathal offered Elisewin his hand, enjoying her warmth as she took it and the colour in her high cheekbones that accompanied her genuine smile.

The next hour was spent lazily perambulating every room of Darkwall Tower. They wandered the kitchens, the formal and informal dining rooms and parlors, the ballroom, the breakfast room, lunarium, even Renathal's private study. The music room was of particular interest to Elisewin - "Do you play?" he asked, indicating the clavier, to which she laughed, "I have no idea," - as was the library, where she spent nearly half an hour perusing the floor-to-ceiling shelves, running her fingers across the ancient books' crumbling spines - to a parallel shiver down Renathal's - until Breakfist appeared at the door with the news her room was ready and Renathal, reluctantly, led her away.

On the landing outside, the dredger butler stood waiting for them, uncharacteristically wringing his hands.

"If the preparations require more time, there is no rush," said Renathal magnanimously, glancing covertly at Elisewin who smiled as she caught his eye. 

She had done a lot of that in the last hour. And to Renathal's surprise - and weary cheekbones - so had he. Showing off his home to such an interested guest was the most enjoyable thing the Dark Prince had done in longer than he cared to remember, and he was not quite ready for it to end. But Breakfist was shaking his hairless head.

"It... is ready, yer 'Ighness," he admitted, and Renathal raised an eyebrow. If his conscientious butler was dropping his Hs, something was dreadfully wrong. 

"What is the matter, Breakfist?" he asked, not unkindly, but the dredger did not seem capable of articulating his distress. He only bobbed a series of plaintive bows, begging his Master to follow, and when they had climbed two flights of stairs, crossed a hall, and reached the open door to the guest bedroom across from his own, Renathal immediately understood.

Dredger, venthyr, and mortal stood in the doorway, each one hesitant to enter, as if what they saw inside might be a mirage. Surprises on surprises, it was Elisewin who spoke first.

"This is beautiful!"

It was the most open display of enthusiasm Renathal had yet heard from the implacable mortal, and it went a long way to soothing his current tumultuous state of mind. He managed to shake off the worst of his astonishment, close his hanging jaw, and follow her inside. The room was of modest size and furnishings; a four-poster bed, vanity, wardrobe, and mirror occupied most of the space. A thin layer of dust and cobwebs clung to the higher surfaces the dredgers could not quite reach. But it was not the items in the room that bothered him. It was their distinctive shade.

Had this room always been so purple?

It was an unusual colour scheme - not at all Renathal's style. He watched as Elisewin ran a bare hand along the bed's heavy coverlet, her skin disappearing into the plush lavender-hued faux fur. 

As if reading Renathal's thoughts, she tilted her head and asked, "Were you expecting me?"

"No," he assured her honestly. "A... happy coincidence."

Which statement was technically true. Elisewin's face flushed with excitement was an exact match for the gauzy curtains behind her. And, on turning and spotting the room's other extraordinary feature, she gasped in unfeigned delight.

"Is that-" She rushed forward, hands outstretched, then stopped, and glanced back at Renathal, teeth tugging her lip. "May I?"

Renathal nodded regally. At least, he hoped it appeared that way. But if Elisewin saw confusion in his face, she let it pass unnoted, her attention focused on the glass-paned doors set into the room's far wall.

They led to a balcony. An impressive one. Had it been anyone else's, Renathal would have had many admiring compliments to impart. As it was, he was too bemused to appreciate its dramatic shape, like the swell and point of a leaf; or the low balustrade, sculpted to obscure none of the glowing Ember Ward's boundless view; or the wind whipping pleasantly about them as if it, too, had somehow been crafted specifically for this magnificent space.

When had he built this? Why had he built this? He already had a balcony on the uppermost floor. This room had been abandoned for centuries, and even before that its occupants were infrequent. Renathal was positive he would remember commissioning - and paying - for something this elaborate to be constructed somewhere so strange. It was a mystery almost as unsettling as the windows in his study. And one equally impossible to comment on without giving his alarming lapses in memory away.

Staring vacantly into the distance, a sound that was not the wind whistled past Renathal's ears. Then a gentle warmth flickered up and down one arm, pooling in his fingers and shoulder. He twisted around. Elisewin's hand was on his elbow, her face just beneath his, peering up in apprehension. Had she said something?

"What?" he blurted, aware as the word left him it was too gruff. He winced as she dropped her hand, the lines of concern in her face rippling smoothly back into impassivity.  "My apologies," he added in a more appropriately measured tone, shuffling in place to face her fully. "I... did not hear you properly. What did you say?

Elisewin wet her lips. She was close enough Renathal could see every bead of moisture before her mortal warmth melted them away.

"I just wondered," she repeated tonelessly, "if I would be allowed to use the balcony... whenever I want."

Renathal considered this for exactly half a second before declaring, "Certainly! You are free to go wherever you like within the tower." As her blink and his better sense caught up with him, he hastily amended, "Assuming, of course, you are not engaged in some other set task. Naturally, your atonement must come before pleasure. It is, after all, the reason you are here."

It was the first time the events precipitating Elisewin's arrival at Darkwall had been mentioned, and the memory trampled like a dredger big'un over the last hour's easy rapport. Elisewin shifted a little in place, hunching her shoulders as if cold.

"And, what will those be," she asked warily, "my... new tasks?"

Wind whistled across the balcony, but it was not the cause of Renathal's own unfeigned chill.

Follow your instincts. Those had been the Master's instructions. But the instinct aroused within Renathal was not one in which he could safely indulge. Doubtless, Denathrius expected him to lean in that direction. Sending Elisewin here had most likely been punishment for them both. Only they did not punish in Revendreth, they educated. This was a lesson, the final exam of a class in which Renathal had never excelled. But this time...

The Dark Prince drew himself into a more appropriately royal stance. He crossed his arms securely behind his back... this time he would not fail.

"Your tasks shall be determined on a case-by-case basis," he intoned at last. "But largely similar to whatever the Sire set you before. Domestic endeavors. Assisting in preparations for my upcoming court. Perhaps a few household errands, though not quite so many excursions to the Endmire. Assuming you behave."

Violet pinpricks blossomed on Elisewin's cheekbones. Renathal grimaced. He had not intended the words to sound so prurient. Clearing his throat roughly, he put his back to the twilit view and strode purposefully for the glass doors, Elisewin's footsteps padding swiftly behind.

"You understand," he called over his shoulder as they walked, "this is not a reward, nor a reprieve. You are here in Revendreth to atone for your sins. You are simply continuing your atonement under a different master."

"Is that what you want me to call you, then?"

A last burst of errant wind whipped Renathal's pale hair into a wild frenzy. He retreated into the safe, unmoving air of the guest room, waited for Elisewin to step over the threshold, then shut the glass door.

"If you prefer," he said, without the least trace of flirtation, tucking his hair back into place, impressed at his own masterful control. "However, Your Highness or Prince Renathal are also sufficient. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." He gave her a somber nod, then all but bolted for the door." Should you require anything, you may ring for a dredger." A careless wave indicated a little bell on the bedside table as he passed it. "But for the moment your only task is to rest. This has been a long day, even for Revendreth."

Two long strides and Renathal gained the doorway. One last step would grant him the safety of the hall. He lifted his foot-

"Thank you," Elisewin called politely from somewhere in the room behind; it sounded just far enough way he might turn and offer farewell without undue risk. "Your Highness," she added, and Renathal could hear her smile.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder.

She was standing by the bed, her skin such a match for the silk satin pillows she looked like another of the room's permanent and inexplicable purple fixtures. Her face was set in an impassivity Renathal knew by now meant nothing. It was her eyes one had to watch. The indistinct sclera like sheer, drawn window shades disguised the thoughts within he was sure were currently racing to understand his rapid change in demeanor.

"You should get some rest, too," she said, cocking her head as she appraised him. "You look... tired."

"As soon as is feasible," Renathal replied, and closed the door on her before she could glean any more from him. 

He was tired. He was exhausted. His brain's need for reprieve echoed plaintively in his every tissue and bone. Renathal knew his body would shut itself down eventually, force him to sleep, but a few hours unconsciousness could hardly count as rest. Rest was something Renathal doubted he would ever have again while the mortal he craved just as desperately waited for him nearby. 

Read Chapter 6: Home Improvement | Visit the Masterpost

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#renathal x maw walker #renathal fan fiction #prince renathal #fanfiction #wow fanfiction #world of warcraft #shadowlands #elisewin #the maw walker #nightborne #wend in the shadows #slow burn romance #amnesia #revendreth #venthyr #breakfist #sire denathrius #darkwall tower

[mareenavee]

WIP Whenever~

Hello <3 I was tagged by the most esteemed @thequeenofthewinter and, though I have shared some of this already, I am about to share more of chapter 27!

Tagging the lovely: @paraparadigm, @changelingsandothernonsense, @thana-topsy, @snippetsrus, @rhiannon1199, @rainpebble3, @elfinismsarts, @friend-of-giants, @archangelsunited, @inquisition-dragonborn -- and anyone else who wants to share what they're up to this week! Tag me back so I can see!

Below the cut, 1100 words re: Varlais, since I know you guys seem to love the poor bean.

Teldryn was interrupted from his thoughts by Varlais, who had wandered up from the other part of the settlement. He was currently complaining once again over the Levitation Rune. To be perfectly honest, he was lucky Neloth hadn’t cut the rune the second he stepped through the door.

Teldryn sighed and looked over at him. Varlais’s Thalmor regalia had been shredded by the Stalhrim just as badly as his own armor had been, yet the man still wore the coat over a plain linen shirt Talvas had been forced to give up. Old habits, maybe, or something more disconcerting.

“I’m leaving. I don’t have much choice in the matter,” Varlais said, sullen as per usual. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he’d barely slept. “I don’t know why, but I wanted to tell you.” He scrubbed the straw blonde stubble that was growing in on his chin. “I’m likely going to be sent back to Alinor for this whole situation. But�� I’ll do all I can to get back after that, if it’s at all possible.”

“For Nyenna?” Teldryn asked. Varlais’s eyes went navy, darkening with some kind of swirling discomfort.

“Partially,” he said. He sighed and crossed his arms. His coat tugged and ripped at the seams a bit more. “I might not be the best at what I do, but I have made a difference now and again. It’s too much to explain now, and my colleagues wouldn’t approve.” He ran a hand over the scars on the side of his head. There was stubble growing around those, too. “All I do is for the good of my people, ultimately, though at the moment we’re focused on keeping Nyenna out of the Dominion’s hands.”

Teldryn’s stomach flipped and he frowned. He stood up carefully — not that Nyenna would be disturbed at this point, but still — and led Varlais away from her room. She wouldn’t hear in her condition, but…it seemed somehow rude to talk about her past without her while she was within earshot.

“Do you have any idea why they are after her? She doesn’t know.”

Varlais swallowed hard and, almost as if it was a nervous tick, ran his hand over the scars on his head again. Each time he did this, his youth faded away under layers of stress that weighed heavily over his brow.

“I don’t have all the information,” he drawled, “because as you can imagine, I can sometimes be a bit of a liability.” Teldryn snorted and, despite his nervousness, Varlais managed a half grin, which fell again just as quickly. “Her family was a target. They’d been one of the prominent families purged in Valenwood, and apparently she and her step-brother escaped. Officially, they think she died in Helgen, technically.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “Some agents have postulated that the Dragonborn in the songs is Nyenna, and if it gets back to certain people who were part of the purges, the hunt for her could absolutely resume. Right now, they haven’t connected the two halves.”

Teldryn wasn’t exactly shocked. Nyenna has theorized something similar during one of their conversations. She was always hesitant to speak on the topic; the Thalmor had already sent her running from her destiny and the subject was like acid for her, always eating away at her resolve. They were, after all, relentless. If he hadn’t disappeared, he’d have been hunted to the ends of Nirn as well for all he’d done on Vvardenfell back then. The thought occurred to him on a semi-regular basis, when he allowed his mind to wander. It wouldn’t do to let it now. He looked back over his shoulder. She was still sound asleep.

“Who else is working with you to protect her?” Teldryn asked. Varlais made a conflicted noise, as if he almost spoke automatically.

“I, er, shouldn’t say exactly. Just…another friend. He’ll look like an enemy, like me. But he means well. He’s rescued me a thousand times already, and we’re not even from the same — no. Never mind that,” Varlais said. He shook his head. “Look. Just. Not everything is going to be exactly as it seems on the surface. She has some of us in her corner.”

“I don’t understand why, though! And how are we supposed to tell?” Teldryn asked, unable to hide his frustration.

Varlais shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a leather strip and tied his hair back away from his face, stretching the silence on into something less than comfortable.

“She is important. Obviously. But there’s so many facets to that fact alone, and it means something different to every one of us,” Varlais said with a shrug. Teldryn wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to be included in a group of Thalmor double agents, even if the sentiment was true.

“And what about you? Why do you stay mired in all this nonsense? You could disappear. They’d come to check on the little outpost, see the damage, and assume you’d all perished. You could be free. Why stay?”

Varlais went totally still and silent for a moment before he crossed his arms over his chest in a way that looked more like he was holding his ribs together, trying to keep something from escaping.

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. Not with everything that’s at stake. I couldn’t abandon the cause. Not with what it has cost me so far.” He let out a shuttering breath, looking rather crestfallen. “It would be impossible to be part of the cause in any significant way if I ran away. So I’ll suffer. There are people I love that I need to free from their claws.” Another pause. He let go of his ribs long enough to scrub at his scars again. It seemed like the next words were stuck in his throat behind an old terror. “I cannot abandon them. I won’t. Not with how far we’ve come.”

Teldryn had suspected that the spy situation Varlais had told him about before had some dire consequences underpinning all his decisions, but he hadn’t revealed just how close to his heart this work was. To be fair, he hadn’t thought much of Varlais. But the man was determined, even in the face of so much danger. Or chaos, caused or caught up in. He could give him that point in his favor, at least.

“Then you had best get back to it, however you can. Is there…is there someone we can get a message to?” Teldryn asked, though he wasn’t sure what use he’d be at trying to identify friendly Thalmor while still at Nyenna’s side.

#MareenaWrites #The World on Our Shoulders #Nyenna #Teldryn Sero #Varlais #Linare Varlais #tes #tesblr #skyrim #elder scrolls #skyrim fic #WIP Whenever #WIP wednesday #WIP #fanficblr #writblr #writeblr

[bigfootmountain]

t's Sasquatch Indian day, and no place for skeptics. You either take the sasquatch or leave them alone. There is no middle course. Many Indians take them straight. To hear tell, the Sasquatch were great hairy legendary creatures that maintain their reputation with an occasional presentation day swoop down from the mountains to peek in windows or smack a lone tribesman. Others, Indian Agent J. W. Burns explained, take a milder view. “Despite their great size of seven feet in height the sasquatch are timid and harmless. Burns said the Indians believe. "They were believed to be covered with a growth of hair and to live in caves and hollow trees. The legend probably came from the actual existence of some primitive race. I believe in it myself.” Legend or not, the celebration today and tomorrow will see braves, squaws and their papooses living again as their ancestors did before white men came. Against a background of historic Harrison Lake and river, an Indian village of 20 lodges bright with traditional ochred drawings and totem symbols occupies a square mile of cleared brushland. Dressed in full tribal regalia, Indians prepared to start the day's celebration with a parade. Night events will include forbidden torchlight for which special permission has been granted by the dominion fisheries department, ceremonial dances and camp fire recitals of Indian folklore…

May, 1938, Reading Eagle

#cryptozoology #cryptids #bigfoot #bigfootmountain #bigfootsighting #bigfootisreal #bigfootsightings

[tempestforged]

@lunaetis made a wish upon a star for: Capitano.

Travelling

Desert winds lashed against his exposed skins, taunting him as his travels brought him closer and closer to Natlan. Scorn filled every corner of his frayed soul at the thought of that accursed place, fool's folly had doomed countless villages all for the cursed ambitions of that detestable Archon. His contemporaries thought they knew all there was to know of war, how short-sighted of those fools to think they could even match Murata's domain.

After all, it was her that doomed that village, her ambitions cursing its people to spread to nations near and far. Spies long thought by that fool Pulcinella to be his had sent stories of the boy found in that accursed place in an effort to curry favour with the famed Capitano.

'Only fools wish to be noticed by the one cursed with recognition by the element that willing answered the call of that accursed Archon.'

His ire fuelled the flames that lurked amongst the depth of his soul, a boundless flame that threatened to consume all and anything that ventured within its tempestuous reach.

Here in the desert where the regalia of the 4th Harbinger would serve little in the way of protection, flowing cloths allowed his vision, his ambition, to hiss against the winds, as if challenging the gods themselves for dominion over the endless heat.

None had been spared the wrath of the blades that lay restlessly upon his hips, their speed gained in return for sacrificing the tempest held within the great sword that usually adorned his weary facade. Ruin guards and wyverns strung a path behind him, desert winds whispering of the prodigal son of Natlan's sands, of a pilgrimage through the sands of Sumeru and songs sung with blade and fury.

Weary hands reach to adjust the cloth covering his mouth, eyes taking in the carnage his mind screamed was not his own. A breath, willing the tempest within to quiet as his senses reached outwards in an attempt to find the source.

How long had it been since he, since Il Capitano who once been Nikolas, had done this? Perhaps in the pages of that frayed one would find record of the last time he had attempted to use elemental sight, to atone for his actions as he searched and searched for any signs of life in the scorched wastes of Mare Jivari.

A spark, winds shifting and igniting a blaze in his mind, screaming at he who was once Nikolas to interfere. Slowly, the sparks of ambition blossomed into flame, guiding his feet towards the maelstrom of steel and emotions crashing against the empty shell of Khaenri'ah's misshapen drakes.

The hint of recognition danced across his mind like a blade, even as his hand closed round the silver adorned sword, barely registering the sensation of its bite snagging against hands oft adorned in ceremonial gauntlet.

"ENOUGH!"

#with your every choice your voice rejoices ;; [lumine] ;; lunaetis #verse: memories woven like cloth upon a tapestry of emotions #honour above all surrounded by the squall ;; il capitano

[xasha777]

In a time when the cosmos had been charted and star lanes were as common as trade routes of ancient seas, there lived an entity known only as Morven. He belonged to the Equites, an ancient order of stellar guardians who had watched over the cosmic balance since galaxies were mere whispers of dust and light. Equites were beings of significant power and wisdom, forged in the heart of dying stars, embodying the eternal struggle between chaos and order.

Morven was unlike any of his kin, with sunken, ageless eyes that glowed like twin novas, and ears that stretched high, tuned to the frequencies of the universe. His visage bore the marks of eons, each wrinkle a tale of a star born or extinguished, every scar a testament to battles fought in the void between worlds.

The order had sent Morven to the backwater planet of Terra, where a perilous artifact had been unearthed by a coalition of human and alien archaeologists. It was a sphere of untold power, capable of bending reality to the will of its bearer. Such an object could not be allowed to fall into the hands of those who sought imbalance.

Morven arrived disguised in the tattered regalia of his order, the opulent cloak and medallion a façade to conceal his timeless power. The medallion at his neck, pulsing with a red gem, was the heart of a neutron star, a source of energy that powered his ethereal abilities.

He found the dig site under a dome of energy, as the scientists marveled at their find. With a flick of his elongated fingers, Morven unleashed a silent command to the artifact, seeking to return it to the vaults of the Equites. But the sphere, sentient and devious, had lain in wait for a mind as ancient as Morven's, seeking the knowledge and power it could siphon.

The artifact pulsed, its influence reaching for Morven, aiming to corrupt his mission into conquest. It whispered promises of universal dominion, a temptation even for a guardian of his resolve. Battle ensued, not of flesh, but of wills, as Morven's intellect fenced with the malevolence of the sphere.

The humans watched, unknowing, as a war raged in silence. Morven's medallion glowed hotter, its crimson light becoming a beacon against the creeping darkness. With a supreme effort, Morven channeled the epochal energies of the medallion, encapsulating the sphere in a prison of light.

He could not destroy the artifact; it was as eternal as the Equites themselves. Instead, he shifted its existence to a dimension of null-time, where it could no longer influence the corporeal universe.

With the task complete, Morven turned to depart, leaving no trace but the memory of his presence in the minds of the witnesses. The Equites' sentinel walked back into the shadow, his form fading like a ghost as he stepped between realities, his duty to the cosmic balance upheld once more.

And so the tale of Morven, the guardian from the stars, wove itself into the tapestry of legends whispered among the stars, a story of vigilance and power, and the eternal watch of the Equites.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 36: The Swordmaster Approaches

In the opulent Farfield Throneroom, Prince Rode sat regally on the ornate throne, flanked by his mother, Queen Alys. The room echoed with the murmur of concerns and requests from both nobility and commoners, each seeking the ear of the heir to the Farfield throne. As Rode attentively listened, his gaze was drawn to Ionia entering the room, gracefully taking her place amidst the crowd. His eyes, however, betrayed a more carnal interest, subtly wandering over her form.

A nobleman of the town of Bingfordge, draped in rich attire, entered the throneroom and bowed deeply before addressing the prince. "Your Highness, I beg your indulgence in seeking clarification on the recent infusion of serpent imagery into the religious practices of the Old Dominion. It has left many of us perplexed and, dare I say, uneasy." The nobleman, Count Hoste, asked. Rode, with a dismissive wave of his hand, responded curtly: "My lord, the Old Dominion evolves, as should your understanding of it. These changes are not for you to question but to accept as I speak for the Old Dominion as their chosen representative." Count Hoste, undeterred, retorted with accusing words, questioning the sanctity of such changes:

"Accept, Your Highness? Surely, there must be a reason for such alterations. The traditions of the Old Dominion have sustained us for generations. Why tamper with the sacred?"

In response, Queen Alys let out a sharp shriek, vehemently expressing her disdain for any perceived blasphemy. "Blasphemy! These changes are a divine revelation, a transformation guided by the sacred serpents of the Old Dominion. Embrace the gift of renewal." She screamed. Her hands traced the sign of the serpent in the air, a gesture of devotion to the corrupted form of the Old Dominion. Prince Rode, ever calm spoke, "Your concerns are duly noted, nobleman. However, questioning the divine wisdom is a perilous path. You are dismissed from this audience. May you reflect on your misguided inquiries."

While Rode's ruling seemed final, Ionia, keenly perceptive, sensed the undercurrents of vengeance. She knew that, under the prince's direction, vengeful cultists would visit the nobleman in the shadows of the night, ensuring his dissenting voice would be silenced in a way far darker than mere words.

As Isolde gracefully took her place beside Queen Alys, she presented a mysterious cup filled with an ominous, dark liquid. The queen accepted the cup with a sense of reverence, and as she drank deeply, the liquid seemed to ripple with an unholy energy. Ionia, observing from her place in the court, felt unease settle within her as the dark alliance between the queen and Isolde became increasingly apparent.

As the court proceedings continued, another nobleman, adorned in the regalia of the Old Dominion, stepped forward with a plea for military aid against pirates plaguing the Pignar Islands. Rode, bearing the serpent sign, accepted the request, casting shadows of suspicion among the courtiers. Dark whispers lingered, recognizing the intricate web of favoritism entwined within the prince's judgments.

Suddenly, a mysterious figure emerged from the crowd, clad in a green hooded cloak. The clink of armor beneath hinted at a formidable warrior. Rode's command for the figure to reveal themselves echoed through the hall, and with a deliberate motion, the hood was drawn back.

The tall man, with piercing eyes and a strong jawline, stood before them. A faint scar traversed his cheek, and the court fell silent, an air of uncertainty gripping the room as the stranger's presence unsettled the delicate balance of power within the court.

The stranger spoke with a measured tone, "I come seeking justice for the oppressed and the forgotten in this realm. Your decisions, Prince Rode, bear consequences that echo beyond these walls." His words hung heavy in the air, casting an ominous veil over the court, leaving all to ponder the implications of this unexpected arrival.

Rode snorted derisively as the hooded figure identified himself as Gramherth Rock, Swordmaster. "Swordmasters," Rode scoffed, "aren't you a band of outcasts and human supremacists? What business do you have in my court?"

Gramherth's sneer betrayed a hint of disdain as he retorted, "We Swordmasters are knights errant, pledged to the service of humanity. I am here on a mission that concerns the very souls of your people."

Rode, unimpressed, observed the Swordmaster's gaze lingering with disdain on the non-human members of the court—dwarves, centaurs, and halflings who had found a place in Farfield's diverse realm. "Speak your purpose, Swordmaster," Rode commanded, his impatience evident in his tone.

Gramherth, his voice grave, spoke of peasant families whose loved ones, employed within the castle, had mysteriously disappeared. Rode shifted uncomfortably in his seat, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense. Peasants lose their kin all the time. It's not our concern."

The Swordmaster's eyes, however, lingered on Isolde, and with a cautious tone, he warned, "Dark influences may be at play, my lord. Beware."

Alys, unable to contain her fervor, screeched, "Blasphemer! Your kind practices unholy techniques. Leave this sacred place!"

Unfazed, Gramherth replied, "I pray to no one but to honor the soul of humanity." Rode, growing increasingly agitated, commanded, "Leave, Swordmaster, before I have you thrown out."

As Gramherth bowed to depart, his eyes met Ionia's, a meaningful exchange that hinted at undisclosed intentions.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #SongsofPower5

[7r0773r]

Time Without Keys by Ida Vitale, translated by Sarah Pollack

Iceland, 2000

Ceibos, ceibas, only one letter marks their clear distinction. Red ceibos and green ceibas reign, also elderberries, willows, and cypresses, in the blessed incandescence common in the south awash with songs and colors. In Iceland, the blue and white island, there are no songbirds, only seabirds, no music, except that of hands, hands moving stones, but not every stone, so moss can grow and the green can begin singing, ever softly.

*Author's note: "Not every stone," because those that could be a home to an elf, which many believe in, are respected.

***

Nostalgia for the Dodo

I'm nostalgic for the dodo. What I miss isn't fictional, almost a myth, even if dictionaries do forget it. It appeared as real as old age and death, in a display case at the Victoria and Albert, astonishing me with its existence beyond my childhood readings, the immense and innocent companion of the waistcoated rabbit and his haste.

Akin to a goose, its aggressive beak was of no use to save its sympathetic race from extinction during a time of savagery, maybe worse, when I wouldn't have wished to live. I imagined its feathers swan white, now the yellowed ivory of abandoned pianos or lace from a venerable wedding. I imagined its strange tarsal gait, the deserted guardian of a truth transformed into dim fantasy.

Yes, I'm nostalgic for the dodo, and more, for the countless extinctions it condenses, for the time of crossing the looking-glass to discover that evil could be vanquished, being nothing but an absurd figure escaped from a deck of cards.

***

Between Yeses and Noes

In the beginning I was sweet, obedient. I later discovered a surfeit of motives for No. Then later, much, much later, Yes was possible, when harnessed to love, to trust earned within faithful walls. But, unhappy arc, alone now, Yes decays. Outside the windows and from a distance, No bares its sharpened teeth at the world's obtuseness and its conspiracies.

***

Fortune

For years, to relish errors and their amends, to be able to speak, walk freely, not endure mutilation, to not enter churches, or enter, to read, listen to beloved music, by night be a being as well as by day.

To not be married off in a transaction, valued in goats, to not suffer the dominion of relatives or legal lapidation. To not parade ever again or allow words that inject iron filings in your blood.

To discover for yourself another unforeseen being on the bridge formed by a gaze.

To be human and woman, no more no less.

***

To Translate

Someone overflows at the center of the night. Facing the order of another's words, subjugated rebel, she offers the song of her whole memory, she sheathes them in new skin and lovingly puts them to sleep in a new tongue.

Lights off, the wind trumpets in the trees and there's a chill close to the window and the certainty that every landscape is disrupted within like a sentence that reaches the lair of formidable meaning. There is no benevolent guide waiting in the wasteland.

Steps are taken blindly, starless the sky. And thought anticipates wild beasts.

***

Starling

As if the starling left nothing to wonder but his name. For in whom but him is the auric at work? First it's his beak, in proximity to everything. And those flecks of gold in his feathers? Even dressed this way he bustles about the grasses of the earth. Like a medieval knight, he's ready for a tournament or a siege or the dust from the road in his clothes of a noble vagabond. Experienced and aloof, with him there's no room for dialogue or oblation. Perhaps the eye of Ahura Mazda contemplating in Persepolis the dark satin of his regalia left him spangled with brilliance and of that he is not unaware.

***

Snail

The snail moves with expedition though people don't believe it and think he only transits the wall in search of warm sun.

On the contrary, if you happen on his chalky bubbles in the umbra, know: he neither mates nor slumbers. Desiring better days to come,

he's resolved to swap his home. It's not a skyscraper he eyes with iron and mortar overblown

but the nest where the ovenbird abides. Soon you'll find him crossing ice in search of an igloo just his size.

***

Tiny Kingdom

1 Words: vacant palaces, city half-asleep. Before what knife will the thunder arrive —the flood follows— that awakens them?

2 Vocabularies, errant vocations, stars that irradiate light before their birth, or debris from distant marvels. Their eternal dust floats. How to become their mother liquor, even a wound on which to pause, how to go from arid to arable field  with their celestial mulch?

3 Sometimes words form a chord, the waterfalls ascend, break the law of gravity. Poetry, a powerful moon, gathers desolate tides and lifts them up where they can hazard the skies.

4 Field of fault lines, halo without a center: words, promises, portion, prize.

The past dissolved, no support for the present, crumbled the inconceivable future.

5 Prose under pressure used as deadwood prose without live coals, face down on the page,  no longer wind, barely breeze. Fear its turbulence like one who can't swim fears a reckless boat.

***

Dark

Like this bird that waits until the light dies to begin singing, I write in darkness, when nothing shines and calls out from the earth. I commence in the dark, l observe, I burrow within myself, as I am the darkness, toward  what's darkest of all, down the well of time of being-almost-nonbeing, after the seed, gem, origin, birth of myself, of mother, grandmothers, unattainable ocean of time and lost, swallowed-up creatures.

Patinir, magical and depraved, his otherworldly cave. The rower in the background thinks he's making headway.

***

From Tiger the Leap

From tiger the leap, from tiger, the ambushed hideout. Life lightning fast leaves, after claws swipe, the gash from which perseverance drips.

Then come the reasons to forget; tamed, we lick the new, dark scar when it aches and oblivious to the forest, we cross it again for our daily minimum.

***

The Word

Expectant words, fabulous in themselves, promises of possible meanings, artful, aerial, irate, Ariadnes.

A slight error makes them ornamental. Their indescribable exactitude erases us.

***

Step by Step

All at once wind will come and it will be autumn. Summer leaves and a memory falls and life descends another rung without being noticed, from one yellow to another. Farewell, behind, the step I haven't taken, friendship uncertain, barely a dream. All at once it will be autumn. There is no more time. I lost a magic double of my name, a passing sign that could render a more exact world. I lost the peace, the war. Perhaps I lost my life and haven't yet earned my own death.

In the empty space someone plucks a string, little by little. It is autumn already, so soon. There is no more time.

#book quotes #ida vitale

[machinesimp]

A part of my story "The Empyrean Retribution." (Work In Progress) Art by @lavellyne

Dina is an angel with a captivating aura, as if the heavens themselves were always shining upon her. Her wings were a breathtaking spectacle, like a peacock in full regalia; each feather glistened in the sunlight. But despite appearing so ethereal, divine, and gentle, there was a mysteriousness about Dina that kept people at a distance. Even her fellow angels found it difficult to connect with her. Perhaps it was her quietness or the shadow of sorrow that hung over her that pushed people away. Dina had an important duty within Heaven; a dominion angel whom shared wisdom and knowledge with many. However dominion angels had another purpose, destroying evil by any means necessary. Her kind were known for leaving cities in ruin, perhaps this is what made Dina so distraught. She carried out orders that seemed so cruel to her without question.

#original story #angel #angel oc #heaven #The Empyrean Retribution

[deathinfeathers]

Strip @infernal-dominion

"Now we're getting to the good stuff."

she moves on to loosen the underbust corset cinching her narrow waist like a vice. Suffice to say this regalia isn't exactly commodious nor convenient, but she's always been happy to sacrifice a little bit of comfort for appearances sake.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“LOCAL INDIANS APPEAR IN FULL DRESS IN THE BRITISH COMMONS,” Brantford Expositor. June 24, 1930. Page 1. ---- Deputation From Six Nations Headed by Chief Garlow ---- INDIAN LEADER ---- Wish to Discuss Grievances With Great White Father ---- Chief Chauncey Garlow, one of the hereditary leaders of the Six Nations band and now head of the Mohawk Workers, accompanied by a group of chiefs from the reserve near Brantford, appeared in the gallery of the British House of Commons yesterday, where their colorful full-dress Indian regalia presented a picturesque night and attracted much interest.

They had come on the same mission that brought the late Chief Deskabeh, (Levi General) some years ago, to discuss certain alleged grievances with the government of the Great White Father.

A number of Commoners are a ranging a meeting at which the Indians will be given an opportunity of stating their case. A deputation of the visitors will also call upon the Right Hon. J. H. Thomas, secretary of state for the Dominions.

A party was given tea on the Westminster terrace yesterday, and the historic pipe of peace was produced and handed around. Before the tea came to a close Chief Garlow gave to the Commoners present a document containing an expression of thanks to the Great Spirit for the privilege of landing on Britain's shores, as their Iroquois forefathers had done to discuss the misunderstandings which arose between the British and their allies the Iroquois.

The deputation was sent from the local reserve by the Mohawk Workers following a series of meetings in which the old issues that brought about Chief General's trip were re-discussed and the present course of action decided upon.

#parliament of the united kingdom #house of commons #brantford #six nations of the grand river #haudenosaunee #iroquois #canada in the british empire #british empire #indigenous history #indigenous rights #indigenous people #first nations #mohawk workers #great depression in canada

[prju77]

The In-Between! - Your Lion Bite Word For Today!

What do you do when you don’t know what to do? Stand. Stand, rest, and wait for me to show you the next step. In the liminal space, or the place that is in between where you were and the place where I am sending you, there is an incredible amount of blessing and growth happening within you.

On the eve of taking dominion in Jericho, I came in full armour and regalia as the Commander of the Army of the Lord. My answer to Joshua’s question was I am not for him and I am not for his adversaries. As I prepare you to take dominion, allow the same message to permeate through you and your current earthly circumstances: my ways are higher.

Activation: Be still and let me complete the work I have started in you. Stand, wait, and rest in knowing there is relational growth and power in the liminal place. As I bring the understanding of your next steps, remove the shoes from off your feet and reverence me.

Proverbs 16:1-2 (NKJV)"The preparations of the heart belong to man, But the answer of the tongue is from the Lord. All the ways of a man are pure in his own eyes, But the Lord weighs the spirits!"

Ephesians 6:13 (NKJV)"Therefore take up the whole armour of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand!"

Joshua 5:13-15 (NKJV)"And it came to pass, when Joshua was by Jericho, that he lifted his eyes and looked, and behold, a Man stood opposite him with His sword drawn in His hand. And Joshua went to Him and said to Him, “Are You for us or for our adversaries?” So He said, “No, but as Commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” And Joshua fell on his face to the earth and worshipped, and said to Him, “What does my Lord say to His servant?” Then the Commander of the Lord’s army said to Joshua, “Take your sandal off your foot, for the place where you stand is holy.” And Joshua did so!"

[designbyraido]

6 "Comprised of an orb topped with a cross, Globus Cruciger is a Christian symbol that has been used since the Middle Ages to emphasize the dominion of Christianity over the world. The cross is representative of Christ and his sacrifice, while the orb or globe represents the world. Together, they symbolize the triumph of Christ over the world. This composite symbol is also known as the Cross Triumphant and has been used in iconography, coins as well as royal regalia"

#Graphic #graphic design #poster #costa rica #occult #occultism #symbols #symbology #poster design #globus cruciger