#gossamer cloak thread

[lotro-tooltips-daily]

#lotro #item rarity: incomparable #barter items #swanfleet #gossamer cloak thread #a spool of rare thread. it could be used to begin repairing a tattered cloak

[poetryinsilence]

A Wish for Eternity

Astarion x gn!magical!tav

A/n: am I madly in love with this elf? Yes. Do I wish to bring him everything he hoped and dreamed of? Also, yes. Hence, here I am, thinking about what happens after the epilogue, did he search for a way? If you play as a sorcerer or wizard, once you are at a higher level (not in the game), there is a certain spell that could achieve your hopes and dreams. So, what if…? Anyway, happy fluffy valentine's day!

Synopsis: a long journey of travelling through every corner of Faerûn for what seems to be an eternity. Luck sure isn’t on your side in your quest to find a mythical item, a cloak. Rumoured to be special, you are determined to find it, with your nightwalking partner, Astarion. But, fate has other things on its mind.

Word: 2,344

6 months after you reunited heartfelt celebrations with inebriated companions; the night never seems to cease with boundless alcohols and dancing to lively tunes until your feet refuse to leave the ground. Through thick and thin, nonetheless, such an adventure weaved you all together at the stake of Baldur’s gate.

At the right place, at the right time.

In a blink of an eye, another 6 months had gone by. On your quest, you trek through the marsh terrain on your journey and strangle a few swamp things; scorched and burned under the dry heat of the sun and almost meet your fatal death by getting swallowed up inside a giant sandworm; and almost, almost, stepped into the fey realm by no fault of your own. Suppose it wasn’t for a certain trickster. A very lovable trickster, mind you.

The relentless quest to acquire an article of clothing—a rare magical item; enchanted with each woven of threads. A cloak, to be exact, that was once said to have been created by drows of the Underdark. To allow one that’s weak in sunlight to walk freely under the blistering sun.

You first heard about this mystic item from none other than Gale. The wizard was lost in his recent reverie of taking upon the role of teaching, to no surprise. One night, while holed up in his tower, flicking through weathered pages of tomes, when he came across the wonders of this cloak. Intrigued, as he may be, wanting to study the magic behind this unique fabric. After all, a little more knowledge wouldn’t hurt.

But, it seems others require it more than him. Lo and behold, he appears when you think your luck has run out. Seems like Tymora has finally blessed you with a pat on the back, who would say no to divine intervention?

Although this is a solution to your current situation, it all just seems too good to be true. A flimsy piece of garment is your answer? You could swipe a black cloak from the market and enchant it yourself. Though you are well-versed in magic, enchanting items aren’t really your forte. Nor are you of drow descent to know such ways of crafting.

You had your doubts about this cloak, however, you do not doubt the reliability of Gale. If he said such a thing exists, then it must be credible.

Month after month of tracking your journey—based on one rumour that gossamer across Faerûn. With every possible lead, you travelled across the continent of the cityscape to the underworld. This endless journey may be gruesome, but you didn’t do it alone. Your lover, Astarion, walks amongst your shadow. By day, you are his shield protecting him under the blazing sun. At night, he swore as your sword to cut through the lurking dangers of the dark.

The Sun and its Moon.

He is the reason why you’re on this journey in the first place. To bring him the sunlight once more, to breathe in the life of the Pelor over the vast lands that were taken from him when he was still young. But the chances of finding this cloak are getting slimmer by day—like water slipping through the cracks of your hand. 

Astarion’s hope is getting dimmer, too. You tried to reassure him that you were certain the both of you were getting close; maybe you were just not looking at the right places.

Of course, he brushes you off with a smile and jokes that he’s not that interested in it because ‘cloaks cramp his style’. He persuades you not to mind it so much. Or, hoping you’d be the mirror reverberating back to him instead. But you can see right through the facade. Pride. Shame. Disappointment. All too familiar.

The guilt is rubbing off on you. When you talked him out of ascension, you believed that it would be the best decision for him. You were no better than the others.

No. This shouldn’t be the answer. If the cloak’s got you nowhere then you just have to look at this situation from a different perspective. Take matters into your own hands, even if danger is on deck. At the very least, you have to try.

You made camp for the night; a quaint spot overlooking the horizon that joins the sky and the sea, with the moon taking stage in a cloudless canvas. The pale elf took charge of the campfire with a stick in his hand to poke the flame. Next to him, you lie down with your hands weaving through the air, connecting the stars together, making a revelation to your own understanding of your magic. It flows through you like the air that you breathe; like calm waters gliding your hands.

This might be the perfect time to ask, though wyverns gnaw at your stomach, you’ve run through this scenario millions of times in your head. You’re prepared, you think.

The lavender and turquoise hue dissipates from your fingertips, you steal a glance in Astarion’s direction and sit up amid his distraction.

“If you’re getting tired, you should sleep first. I’ll join you in a little while.” He chimes out.

His little ritual, you’ve noticed. Whenever the two of you opted to camp in the arms of nature instead of paying for a tavern’s night and listening to drunk patrons shouting till the break of dawn. He would lay with you in your bedroll until you fell asleep, then as quiet as a mouse, he’d get up an hour or two just before sunrise. You’d caught him once, just as curiosity nips at you, slipping out of the tent and finding him sitting in the open field with the blades of grass swaying to its own rhythm. Just watching, waiting. Waiting to catch a glimpse of the sun, as it slowly casts life back to the lands, before the ray decays him. The light sears his skin and cracks like dry paint, biting down the pain as much as possible until he’s bound back to the shadows. Then you’ll find him in bed again like nothing ever happened.

“Astarion?”

“Yes, darling?” He hummed.

“What if…” you hesitated, “what if we stop looking for this cloak?” Your voice wavered at the end of your sentence.

The stick in his hand stopped. You can see it, the thoughts forming in his mind like a potion. Stunned, confusion and a drop of anger concocted in muddy colour. But like a cork on top, he bottled it up when he soon turned to face you, the warm glow lit up his plastic grin.

“Oh, heavens! I forgot about that until you’ve brought it up.” His voice is in a higher octave. A string of vicious mockery disguising his lie, in all honesty, stings more than you think.

“No, that’s not—let me rephrase this. W-what I’m trying to say is, how about we look for a different method?” You asked, hands fidgeting more than usual.

His crimson gaze pierced in you, they engulfed and tangled like flames, wanting to swallow you whole till you’re nothing but a pile of ashes. “Vampirism isn’t an illness or a wound. If a person dies, they could be resurrected. But I’m too far gone beyond the point of living now, darling. There is no other way.” He snarled, snapping his gaze away before he could say something he truly regrets.

“But..there is another way.” Your voice comes out with nothing short of a whisper. Astarion’s shoulders slumped as he perceived your words, now fire in his eyes had extinguished and reflected with the solemn of moonlight.

Hope.

You spring onto your feet and take his hands into yours, thumb gently caressing his skin.

“Don’t give me any hope. 200 years of hoping for hope has tormented me endlessly that I do not want to be part of it again. Please…I do not have the heart to take this…” Astarion whimpered. You can hear the sob suppressed in his throat for the last 200 years as his hands tremble, emotions so vulnerable and unravelled right in front of you that he so desperately tried to hide. It shouldn’t be like this. It breaks your heart to see the man earning his freedom, yet the illusions of shackles are still tying him down.

It is unfair.

You grip his hands tighter to your heart, biting down the tears threatening to spill. “When there’s a will, there is a way,” You smiled. “Astarion Ancunin, what is it that you wish for?”

“What? But—I don’t understand—“ his brows furrow trying to make sense of your words but failing. Yet, he can feel a tingle at the back of his neck. A sign.

“Please, Astarion. Tell me your wish.”

The warning bells in his mind are telling him to run, to end this conversation right here, right now. But the fluttering feeling in his gut is saying ‘This is it. This is the moment you’ve been desperately trying to find’. Now the sparkle in your eyes is drawing him in, things that he had been longing for, and the love you are showing him. The sign he’d desperately prayed to the gods for all these years.

“I wish…” he trailed off, “I wish to walk in the sun again. I wish to see this world in the light that I was created in; I wish to take back the life that was ripped away from me for all these years, in darkness and torment, to have what is rightfully mine.

I wish to live again.”

The soil beneath your feet vibrates and crackles, the fabric of your clothes softly ripples in the air; a lavender beam emerges through and etches your runes, circling a gateway around both of you.

“Then, your wish is my command.”

Statics channelling in the air as you tune yourself to the weave. You can feel it. You can feel it all—the dark musk of ember, the evergreen blades rustle, the crashing of ocean waves. Magic tying deep into the burrows of the Earth willing to your command, feeding brighter into your rune as you hold on to its reins. But, the power of this spell is not without a cost, like gravity dragging you down. Your face breaks into sweat with the force burning in your gut.

“Stop that! You’re killing yourself!” Astarion struggles to break free from your grasp.

“Don’t—I’m almost there!”

A sinking pressure presses in Astarion’s chest; it’s warm, then burns aflame but it does not hurt; the pressure pushes deeper, searing through his organs and scratches at each porous of his rib cage. And then, gone.

The sound of silence.

Your legs give out as you crumble onto the floor, ready for impact. With a swift motion, Astarion catches you in his arms and carefully lays you in his lap. His mouth opens, ready to protest with his snarky remarks but closes it again, brushing away strands of stray hair from your battered face.

You chuckled breathlessly, reaching your hand, heavy as it may, and cupped his face. “Your wish has been granted.”

The sky begins to transition in lilac as dawn breaks, the ocean glimmers on the horizon and songbirds sing their tunes again. The red flaming ball peeked through the crystal water, bringing out the soft glow of orange. As the first ray of light shines, the warmth of it carries. Hungry, delicate, a sign of life.

“I’m…alive.”

A gentle breeze picks up and brushes against his cheek; hot tears spew from the corner of his eyes. So naturally warm. So, very warm. The silvery strands swayed to the rhythm of the wind, and he inhaled deeply, as much as his frail body could hold, the nostalgic scent of sunshine, like a spring afternoon.

Then, an unfamiliar familiar sense came. A thud. And another. Something rattling endlessly at his ribcage threatening to come out and yet staying in its place, a rhythmic humming coursing through his chest to the tips of his fingers. A sound so loud thumping and yet so quiet as a whisper in his ear. A sense of jamais vu. 

“You'll always be who you are. No matter what you've become—a vampire or not. I will love you as long as life continues to breathe on these vast lands. And till the end of time."

Astarion squeezes you into a tight hug. He’s trembling in your embrace, and catching you off guard, he bursts into a fit of laughter. Maybe even your first time to hear him laughing with such carefree manner but the heat of his tears travels to your shoulder. Your hand finds its way to his soft locks, petting him as you melt deeper into his touch.

He pulls back, eyes frantically searching your face. “I-I don’t—I can’t—“ he clears his throat, “thank you, my love.”

He cups your cheeks and gravitates towards your lips. Sweet and velvety, your lips curl at his kiss. He pulls away just enough to admire your features; cheeks flushed rosy and eyes bright and confident. Everything about you is love-touched, that after centuries, someone could cut through the world to bring him back into the light.

“Now, are you going to stare at me all morning, or are we going to get some breakfast?” You teased.

“Actually, I was thinking,” Astarion eyes you up and down. Whenever he has some brilliant idea, it’s never a good one. “The tent’s been empty all night, and I think we should, um, keep our bedrolls warm, at least.”

His hand slithers its way under the hem of your shirt, running a hand at your soft curves. You sigh in defeat, knowing you could never say no to his lovable face.

“Fine. I guess breakfast can wait.” You smirk.

Hands flew to the collar of his shirt as you yank him down to your lips. You parted them slightly, an invitation for him to deepen his kiss, teeth included. It might be a long morning, but there are plenty of mornings yet to come.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #⭐️.doc

[twilight-lavender]

"When we were getting married"

one shot

The hall was a canvas painted with the most exquisite flowers from around the world. Roses, peonies, and hydrangeas cascaded down the walls like waterfalls of petals, their scent a sweet symphony to the senses. The fairy lights, now like a constellation of stars, twinkled above, casting a celestial glow on the guests who were whispering in awe.

Sheer curtains, the color of the softest dawn, billowed gently, dancing to the silent music of the evening breeze. They framed the panoramic windows which unveiled a scene so serene, it could only be the work of nature's finest artist. The rolling hills, cloaked in emerald, dipped gracefully into the tranquil lake, its surface a mirror reflecting the ballet of the skies.

The guests, adorned in their finery, took their seats on chairs entwined with ribbons of ivy and blooms, their eyes reflecting the golden hour that bathed the world in a warm, amber light. The air was alive with anticipation, every heart beating in harmony with the quiet rustle of the leaves outside.

Taehyung stands resolute at the altar, his hands clasped in front of him, betraying a hint of nervous energy. The tailored beige suit he wears is a testament to his impeccable style, fitting him like a second skin. The white shirt underneath is pristine, its top button secured, giving him an air of formal elegance.

The soft strains of a violin fill the room, wrapping the guests in a blanket of tender emotion. Taehyung's eyes, usually a gateway to his playful soul, now reflect a depth of feeling, a mixture of excitement and the weight of the moment. His gaze is unwavering, fixed on the entrance, where any second now, Y/N will appear.

As the members of BTS stand by his side, they can't help but notice the subtle shift in their friend's demeanor. Jin: "Who would've thought? Our Tae, all grown up and stealing hearts." Suga: "Just don't trip on your way to forever, okay?" J-Hope: "Remember to breathe, Tae. In and out, just like we practiced." RM: "He's only the second most nervous person here. The first? The guy who has to follow this act." Jimin: "If you get cold feet, I'm ready to step in. Just kidding, you got this!" Jungkook: "Hyung, your hands are shaking. Need me to hold them for you?"

Taehyung, amidst the laughter and light-hearted jabs, feels a warmth in his chest, a mix of gratitude and the slightest hint of anxiety.

Taehyung: (with a soft smile) "Keep it up, guys. Your turn will come soon enough."

As he waits, a gentle smile plays on his lips, and his eyes well up with love. Every passing moment seems to be an eternity, yet he embraces the anticipation with a sense of joy. Friends and family observe Taehyung, recognizing the depth of emotion etched on his face as he eagerly awaits the moment when Y/N will step into his life forever.

The moment the doors open, a collective breath is drawn, and time seems to stand still. Y/N steps into the threshold, and the room hushes in reverence. She is the embodiment of a dream, a vision that transcends the mere beauty of the physical world.

Her gown, a masterpiece of design, flows around her like a river of moonlight. The fabric, a symphony of lace and silk,is adorned with intricate patterns that tell a story of timeless elegance. Each step she takes sends ripples through the air, the waterfall of fabric cascading behind her in a trail of pure grace.

A delicate veil rests upon her hair, a gossamer web of finery that catches the light, creating a halo around her. It trails behind her, a whisper of tradition and the promise of the future, all woven into its ethereal threads.

The venue's lights, soft and warm, seem to find their purpose in accentuating the radiant smile that graces Y/N's face. It's a smile that speaks of love and hope, a beacon that shines brighter than any jewel. Her eyes, alight with happiness, scan the room until they find Taehyung's, and in that gaze, a silent vow is made, more powerful than any words could ever be.

As she glides down the aisle, every step is a note in the melody of the wedding march, her presence a chorus of beauty and joy. The guests are captivated, lost in the moment that will be etched in their memories forever, a tale of love that they will recount for years to come.

As Y/N makes her entrance, a hush falls over the crowd, but for Taehyung, the world narrows down to the vision of her walking towards him. His heart, a steady drumbeat in his chest, seems to sync with each step she takes. The emotions welling up inside him are a tempest, a whirlwind of love, awe, and a touch of vulnerability.

Taehyung's eyes, always a window to his soul, shimmer with unshed tears, the joy of the moment crystallizing in their depths. He watches her, this woman who has become his everything, and feels the gravity of their journey together, the paths they've walked to reach this singular point in time.

"Y/N," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the music, "you are the most beautiful dream I never want to wake up from."

The corners of his eyes glisten, the tears held back by sheer will, not out of fear of showing emotion, but from the overwhelming desire to keep his gaze clear, to not miss a single detail of her approach.

Jimin, standing beside him, leans in and murmurs, "She's breathtaking, isn't she?"

Taehyung nods, his throat tight with emotion. "She's the melody to every song I've ever wanted to sing," he replies, his voice thick.

And as Y/N draws closer, the space between them charged with the electricity of their love, Taehyung reaches out a hand, a silent invitation to join him in the dance of their lives.

"Come, let's write our forever," he says, the promise in his eyes more eloquent than any vow spoken aloud.

Y/N takes his hand, her smile a mirror of his own heart, and in that touch, they speak a language only they understand, a language of hearts entwined, of souls united under the banner of love.

In the midst of the enchanting setting, Taehyung and Y/N stood facing each other, surrounded by the soft glow of fairy lights and the sweet scent of flowers. The air was filled with anticipation as they prepared to exchange vows, expressing their deepest feelings for one another.

Taehyung's Vow:

"Y/N," Taehyung's voice resonated with a depth of emotion that the very walls of the hall seemed to absorb and echo back. "The day you entered my life, the universe shifted, painting my world in vibrant hues of love and joy. Now, as we stand here, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, I offer you my solemn vow."

He took a gentle breath, his eyes never leaving Y/N's. "I vow to cherish you, to hold your heart with the tenderest care, and to support you in every endeavor. You are my confidant, the keeper of my secrets, my partner in every burst of laughter that fills our days, and my comfort in the quiet moments of reflection."

His hand reached for hers, a physical manifestation of his words. "With you, life is an endless canvas, each day a stroke of color in the masterpiece we are creating together. I promise to walk beside you on this adventure, to build a tapestry of memories so beautiful, so vivid, that even time itself will pause to admire its splendor."

"As we embark on this journey, hand in hand, heart in heart, I look forward to the lifetime ahead of us, a lifetime of discovering new horizons and cherishing each precious moment. With you, Y/N, every day is a gift, and I am eternally grateful for the love we share." Y/N, her eyes shining with emotion, responded, Y/N's Vow:

"Taehyung," Y/N began, her voice a soft echo in the grandeur of the hall, her eyes glistening like stars in the twilight of their special day. "You are the melody that has given rhythm to the song of my heart. As we stand here, enveloped in the beauty of this moment, I pledge to be by your side through every season that life brings our way."

Her hands found his, a tangible promise in their gentle clasp. "I vow to be your steadfast companion in every burst of joy, your unwavering comfort in the face of challenges, and your devoted partner in the creation of a future rich with love."

A smile, radiant and full of hope, spread across her face. "With you, Taehyung, I have discovered the true essence of home. It is not a place, but a journey with you, a journey where we will grow together, learn together, and evolve as one."

"Today, as we stand on the threshold of forever, I look forward with eager anticipation to a lifetime of shared dreams, a lifetime where each day is a new chapter in our endless story of love." As they exchanged these heartfelt promises, the room seemed to hold its breath, embracing the profound connection between Taehyung and Y/N. The vows were not just words; they were a testament to the depth of their love, resonating with everyone present in the ethereal atmosphere. The soft music played like a gentle melody, underscoring the beauty of this moment where two souls pledged their love and commitment to each other amidst the cascading flowers, fairy lights, and the warmth of their shared dreams.

The world seemed to hold its breath as Taehyung leaned in, the distance between him and Y/N diminishing with each heartbeat. The room, wrapped in a gentle hush, was thick with anticipation, every eye fixed on the couple, every heart sharing in the silent crescendo of the moment.

Their eyes closed, and as they inched closer, drawn by the invisible force of their love, the air around them seemed to shimmer with the promise of their union. The guests leaned forward, captivated by the intimacy of the moment, the very essence of romance hanging delicately in the balance.

And then, just as their lips were a mere whisper apart, a jarring blare of alarms sliced through the serenity, a stark, discordant note that shattered the dreamlike veil. The room erupted into a chaos of sound, the spell of the ceremony broken as heads turned in confusion.

Taehyung's eyes snapped open, his expression a mix of concern and surprise. The tender moment lost, replaced by a rush of adrenaline as he instinctively reached out to protect Y/N, drawing her close.

"What's happening?" Y/N's voice trembled, her words barely audible over the cacophony of alarms.

"We'll find out, just stay close," Taehyung assured her, his voice steady despite the uncertainty that now clouded the once perfect day.

As the reality of the situation set in, the guests rose from their seats, a murmur of concern spreading through the crowd. The fairy tale scene had taken an unexpected turn, and now, all awaited the unfolding of events with bated breath.

In an instant, the serenity shattered, the sound of alarms slicing through the dream like a knife through silk. Taehyung and Y/N, their moment of unity interrupted, turned in shock as the idyllic world around them began to crumble.

The alarms grew louder, more insistent, a stark reminder that reality was calling. The guests, once statuesque in their admiration, now moved in a blur, their forms dissolving into the ether of Y/N's mind.

With a start, Y/N's eyes snapped open, the tranquility of her room a stark contrast to the chaos of her dream. The wedding, the vows, the kiss that almost was—all of it had been a figment of her vivid imagination. The alarms, now identified as the mundane beeping of her alarm clock, continued their relentless call.

For a moment, Y/N lay still, her heart still racing from the dream's intensity. The images, so clear and so beautiful, lingered in her mind's eye, a tapestry of what could be. A smile, small but genuine, curved her lips as she pondered the whimsical nature of her subconscious.

And there, in the quiet of her room, Y/N allowed herself one last fleeting thought of the dream. Taehyung, her heart's chosen companion in a world spun from the threads of dreams, remained a sweet echo in the silence of the morning.

As she silenced the alarm, the smile remained, a secret shared between her and the breaking dawn. The dream was over, but the day was new—a blank page on which to write her own story, perhaps one day as enchanting as the dream itself.

Author’s Note:

Hello Readers,

I wanted to share a little story with you, one that came to me in a dream. It was so vivid and beautiful that I felt the need to write it down and Keep as memory.

I apologize if at any point the story doesn’t quite capture the magic I experienced. Dreams have a way of being grander and more vivid than any reality we can construct. But if you find even a fraction of the joy in reading it that I found in dreaming it, then I consider my mission accomplished.

Thank you for taking the time to delve into this narrative, for walking with me through the landscapes of my mind, and for allowing me to share something so personal. Your engagement with my words is the greatest gift a writer could ask for.

Thank you!

#kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung x reader #kim taetae #taehyung #bts imagines #taehyung imagine #Taetae #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fluff #kim taehyung imagine #bts #bts x you #taehyung x you #taehyung x y/n #taekook

[actual-bill-potts]

Re: your post about how elves should be weirder

I actually headcanon the elves as having a very different hair texture to humans, kind of thinner (as in like the individual strands are thin) and more like the hair of some other animals, like it has the kind of texture that makes it possible to spin into thread better than human hair (my understanding is that you technically can spin human hair if you really want to, but it's more difficult than with most kinds of animal hair, and the texture of the resulting yarn and anything done of it just isn't gonna be as nice and soft). Maybe it depends a bit, like some elves may have hair that's very woolly, and others have a texture that isn't quite as good for spinning but still works pretty well

Obviously in Lúthien's case which is the only canon case (iirc) of elven hair being used like that, her whole project of spinning and weaving a magic cloak and rope out of her own hair was a matter of necessity, but even so I think it's fun to imagine that elven hair has a texture that makes it nice fiber for all kinds of stuff. Imagine Lúthien's cloak just being absolutely wonderfully soft, like it's made of really fine wool!

But imagine also the elves spinning and weaving their hair. Maybe to giving gifts made of your own hair is considered a thing for very close friendships, romantic relationships, and between family members, like it's kind of a very intimate thing to do in a way? (...Imagine Míriel spinning and weaving a baby blanket of her own hair while she's pregnant with Fëanor. Imagine Fëanor keeping that blanket with him pretty much at all times for the rest of his life because it's one of the few tangible things he has that he knows for a fact she wanted him to have.) Maybe among some of the elves of Middle-Earth it's a common practice if you know you're about to go do something dangerous, to give loved ones some items made of your own hair as keepsakes, in case you don't return...

sorry, i got a bit carried away, i just had Thoughts :D

No no don’t apologize this is GREAT

Elves having gossamer-thin hair so it floats like a cloak around them anyway…the texture like eiderdown…some elves having very thick hair that feels safe and warm (Fingon)…some elves having thin light hair that flies about their head (Aegnor!!!)…

Elves growing their hair out for years so they can make a gift of suitable magnificence for one they love…short hair in Elves signifying either great love or great grief (or both)…Elves weaving burial shrouds for loved ones in Beleriand out of their own hair…

Míriel having woven a baby blanket for Fëanor out of her own hair broke me btw

Everything about this is fabulous

#elves #asked and answered #the Silmarillion

[lunastrophe]

Drow Fashion 🕷️✨ About Spider Silk - Part 2

Part 1 can be found here.

In this part, you will find information about spider silk fabrics used by drow, as well as about their colours and their meanings (based on sourcebooks and novels).

🕷️ Black Silk – very popular among Lolth-sworn drow who use it in various temple and ceremonial textiles – wrappings for sacred items are traditionally sewn from high-quality black silk, as well as robes worn by adepts and priestesses of Lolth, garments and purses of noble drow, and robes of wizards. They are usually solid black or emblazoned with red or purple spidery motifs, or delicate, silver spiderweb tracery or embroidery.

Black silks, especially black mesh fabrics, are also widely used in interiors of wealthy drow houses as domestic and decorative textiles for bedclothes, curtains, draperies, tablecloths and so on.

🕷️ Special kind of black silk known as ebonsilk is a rare, lightweight and high-quality black silk cloth, and it is said to be woven from silk threads extruded by Lolth herself (A. Collins et al., Magic Item Compendium, 2007, 3.5e).

🕷️ White Silk – somewhat less popular among Lolth-sworn drow, maybe not counting intricate white fabrics that resemble spiderwebs and similar high-quality materials fitting for nobles. Lightweight white or grey silk is often used for good-quality garments, thin shifts and shirts, and for sheets and bedcovers. Some noble drow carry small handkerchiefs made of white silk, hidden inside inner pockets of their garments. Such handkerchiefs are sometimes embroidered or have lace trim.

Transparent and semi-transparent white gossamers and mesh fabrics that look like spiderwebs are often used by drow in curtains, draperies and other similar decorations, especially in temples and shrines dedicated to Lolth, and in chambers of priestesses and matron mothers.

In contrast to Lolth-sworn drow, priestesses of Eilistraee seem to favour white or silvery, shimmering silk fabrics in their clothing – especially fine, flowing, transparent silks that imitate or reflect radiance of moonlight.

🕷️ Coloured Silk – in many regions of the Underdark, including Menzoberranzan, drow typically favour plain black or dark-hued garments, but coloured silk is often used for trimmings or can be combined with black silk to create more interesting effect. The most popular colours mentioned in descriptions of drow clothes (almost exclusively nobles or wizards) are deep, saturated purple, mauve or red.

Some colours and their combinations are associated with noble drow houses. They are displayed on house banners and on outer garments of house members - for example, on piwafwi cloaks of nobles. In Menzoberranzan (and probably also in many other Lolth-sworn drow cities) falsely wearing colours of another house is punished with death.

Colours typically worn by servants of drow deities: Selvetarm – blood red; Ghaunadaur – purple or reddish purple, often with black accents; Lolth – black, often with red or purple accents; Kiaransalee – black with silver accents; Vhaeraun – black, Eilistraee - silver, white.

🕷️ Quilted Silk – quilted silk fabrics, usually with middle layer made of wool, are often used in travel clothes of wealthy drow, as well as in garments worn under heavier sets of armour. They can be also combined with other materials to produce light armour. They are soft, durable and warm, and mostly much thinner, more supple and more elegant-looking than typical quilted fabrics made by surfacers.

🕷️ Lace Fabrics – silken lace fabrics, usually black and with web-like and spidery motifs, are extremely popular among drow nobles and they are usually very expensive. The most intricate, top-quality materials of this type are used in robes of priestesses of Lolth, as well as in gowns (and nightgowns) of matron mothers of noble houses – they are often designed to be light and flowing.

Lace fabrics that resemble spiderwebs …are restricted primarily to the wealthy, and are often partly transparent – these provide little protection or modesty, but rather serve exclusively as a surface on which to hang jewels and other adornments (A. Marmell et al., Drow of the Underdark, 2007, 3.5e).

🕷️ Metallic Fabrics – spider silk is also used to produce cloth of gold, brocades and other luxury fabrics woven with metal-wrapped or spun weft of gold, silver, mithral, darksteel or other metal. Such fabrics are usually thick and heavy, and they are typically used only in the most opulent garments of noble drow and lavish robes of wizards. They do not seem to be very popular among Lolth-sworn drow who may prefer less heavy fabrics.

🕷️ Magic Threads - some spider silk fabrics are made with help of drow magic and within the reach of emanations of faerzress (magical radiation present in the Underdark). Such magic-infused fabrics may start to fall apart after being transported to the surface and exposed to sunlight.

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

#drow #drow lore #lolth sworn drow #seldarine drow #drow culture #drow fashion #dnd lore #dnd drow

[bellaj1977]

Moments with you Captivate my sentiments Halting time in a bubble beguilement Effecting us in the vacant interim Blips on the radar screen Exhibit drops of gray rain Sighing our subtle resonance Trickles of stoic air Keep our purpose imminent Hovering clouds highlighting Our footprints in shadowed diligence Emerging from the translucent cocoon Our wares of tranquil unanimity Appear on a cloak of weaved divinity Aspects of our world in sky blue threaded tears Woven in amongst strings of daffodil colored cares Our resilience pushing past a blackened silk patch Winding along the edges of brown braided denial To touch the dreams of the emerald Nile Crafted in a delicate cashmere slash Soft pink gossamer intermingles with lavender shields Heaven's Creator fastens the clasp In the canary haze of the cape's demeanor Spreading love across fractured believers Painting hope in emblazoned letters

#my poem #original poem #original poetry #original poets on tumblr #poetry #photographer #poet #poetry community #poets corner #writers and poets #photography community #rainbow #rainbow photography #nature photo art #photoart #uplifitng #spiritual journey #spiritualgrowth

[ladderofyears]

Gossamer.

Draco stitches the collar of Harry’s cloak. Each is a tiny thing, scarcely visible to the eye. The thread is gossamer, so Draco needs to be careful. The magic won’t work if it snaps.

“I bind you,” Draco whispers, the needle sliding in and out. “I bind you to me.”

~~

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt of gossamer. 

Have a great week lovely people xx

#enchantments #husbands #binding spell #drarry microfic #fifty words

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Floating on by like a butterfly for the 🐉Wings of Fire aus' names lists are...

The 🐛SilkWings🦋!

The X-Men Members:

• Charles Xavier/Professor Xavier: Xerces

• Ororo Munroe/Storm: Silk

• Logan Howlett/Wolverine: Lemon

• Scott Summers/Cyclops: Cecropia

• Jean Grey/Marvel Girl/Phoenix: Grayling

• Hank McCoy/Beast: Beauty

• Anne-Marie/Rogue: Rose

• Remy LeBeau/Gambit: Gossamer

• Kitty Pryde/Shadowcat: Sphinx

• Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler: Nymph

• Jubilation Lee/Jubilee: Gypsy

• Evan Daniels/Spyke: Skipper

• Bobby Drake/Iceman: Io

• Piotr Rasputin/Colossus: Peacock

• Illyana Rasputin/Magik: Marble

• Rahne Sinclair/Wolfsbane: Woodwhite

• Samuel "Sam" Guthrie/Cannonball: Comma

• Roberto da Costa/Sunspot: Sulphur

• Danielle "Dani" Moonstar/Mirage: Mint

• Laura Kinney/Wolverine 2.0: Lime

•Tabitha "Tabby" Smith/Boom-Boom: Burnet

The Brotherhood:

• Erik Lehnsherr/Magnus/Magneto: Metalmark

• Raven Darkholme/Mystique: Miner

• Victor Creed/Sabretooth: Viceroy

• Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver: Silverspot

• Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch: Witch

• Mortymer Tonybee/Todd Tolanksy/Toad: Tortoiseshell

• Fred "Freddy" Dukes/Blob: Blue

• Lance Alvers/Avalanche: Argent

• St. John Allerdyce/Pyro: Pinion

(Tied up that loose end, didn't I? But there is one more thread to add to this tapestry of words, the...)

• Reader/Bby: Ghost, Imperial, Polyphemus, Bella, Tiger, Leopard, Dagger, Esther, Regal, Emperor, Sable, Swift, Heart, Heath, Lappet, Looper, Blush, Gold, Pink, Brass, Crimson, Burgundy, Orange, Yellow, Emerald, Azure, Purple, Copper, White, Black, Gray, Cream, Monarch, Lady, Queen, Page, Ulysses, Adonis, Satyr, Hairstreak, Malachite, Pavon, Velvet, Flambeau, Doris, Argus, Glasswing, Cloak, Pearl...

#honeycomb thoughts #platonic yandere marvel #yandere platonic marvel #platonic yandere marvel x reader #platonic yandere xmen #yandere x-men #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #🐉Wings of Fire AU #🐛SilkWing🦋 AU

[auburniivenus]

So she says—and nears his abrased forearm wielding a folded scrap of cotton doused in cleansing spirits. Astarion forces an ungracious little sigh, at the verge of labelling her a busybody. “I could do this myself, you know…”

The subsequent sting (and stink) of her ointment impedes further complaint; he grips the edge of the table between them, torn between yanking away and letting her finish, one eye painfully winked. “A-are you sure this isn’t just some ploy to lure me into a game of ‘doctor’? I promise you, we can skip all these unpleasant steps, if that is your aim—” @estarion

Luminous   forms   whirled   like   specters   upon   them.   Orihime   anoints   the   cotton   bud   with   the   spirits,   its   potency   a   silent   offering   to   the   unconscious   assault   against   the   microscopic   foes   that   lay   in   wait.   With   the   delicatessen   of   a   foliage   caressing   the   coat   of   a   stagnant   pond,   she   maneuvers   the   terrain   of   his   wound,   a   crimson   crevice   tilled   into   the   tissue   of   his   forearm,   attempting   to   purge   it   of   its   indiscernible   invaders.   His   countenance,   a   disguise   carved   from   the   pure   essence   of   endurance,   reveals   the   subtlest   grimace,   alchemy   of   pain   and   alleviation   mingling   at   her   touch.

"You   wouldn't   have   dared,   or   perhaps,   dared   only   to   falter."   She   whispers,   her   voice   a   gentle   chorus.   Her   palms,   architects   of   salvatioun,   manipulate   the   textile   around   his   arm   with   the   elegance   of   spiders   twirling   their   gossamer   threads,   binding   him   not   just   in   linen   but   in   the   intangible   promise   of   care.   Laughter   emerges   from   her   lips,   a   cascade   of   light   in   the   dense   atmosphere,   and   her   mirth   an   echo   of   defiance   against   the   poignancy   of   their   condition.   "Never   that.   I   endeavor   only   to   keep   you   from   the   abyss's   edge."   Declares,   her   demeanor   imbued   with   a   blend   of   jest   and   solemn   vow.   "Yet,   I'm   not   averse   to   the   enticement   of   a   different   game   under   the   cloak   of   nightfall."   An   undertone   of   provocation.   Her   palms,   completing   their   task,   secure   the   knot   in   the   cloth,   a   barrier   now   forged   between   his   dermis   and   the   world's   myriad   threats.

#°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ threads #ooc; not sorry at all :3

[whereonceiwasfire]

to do with as you please: dracula

OHO, HECK YES! I uhm, I did get a little carried away and think it turned out a bit niche, but I had so much fun with it anyway lol! Thanks for the request!  

Madeline Walker’s Journal 

Harriet has been in ill spirits since her restless fits of sleepwalking begun but a fortnight ago, and naught I have done to rest her anxious heart has seemed to make any difference. I worry for her, and though our idle conversations as we tarry along the cliffs offer fleeting distraction, I oft catch her gaze turning out toward the horizon, as though she is searching for something. At these times, I find, etched upon her features, something caught between yearning and fear.  

If I’m to write with complete candor, and why shouldn’t I, for who but I shall ever read the words inked upon these pages, I must confess it disquiets my soul. I fear there is something dark at work, something which my own comprehension cannot yet make sense of. 

Despite how it offends my sensibilities, sending cold threads of unease deep into my very marrow, I find my thoughts returning more and more to that first night when Harriet, within the throes of sleep, did wander out upon the moors. I found her in our favorite seat, where afternoons we passed trading fanciful exchanges; I, with dreamy sighing as I expectantly look toward nuptials with my beloved Jack—from whom I still have not received word—and Harriet, with delighted laughter as she recounted the very many suitors that await her back home. 

But that night, shadows cast upon the silvery moon, there was naught but dread within my chest as I looked down upon her. The gossamer threads of her laughter were nowhere to be found, just her ever-so-reclined posture on our seat upon the pier. It set something so unsettled within me when, at any other time, the sight of her there would have been such a comfort. 

It was then, though brackish, that the light broke through the cloud and revealed what seemed a form—man or beast, I could not be sure—hunched about Harriet’s delicate figure. 

The cry that escaped me could not have been much louder than the distant trill of birdsong, but the form started, turned a glance upward, as though it had heard. I saw, for but a moment, illuminated by the cool, unfeeling touch of moonlight, the perverted vision of a demon, masquerading as a man. His pallor was unnatural, like that of a corpse fished from the quietly lapping waters, his eyes a burning crimson where they seemed to train on me from so very far away. The white of his cloak billowed about Harriet’s vulnerable form, her half-lidded gaze staring up at him, as though in an enchanted rapture. It was this that woke me from my petrified state, the ever-pressing sense of danger suddenly pervasive. 

Just as my lips parted to cry for help, a dark cloud fell over the moon once more, obscuring the grounds in shadow. I could no longer see my dear, sweet Harriet; I could no longer be sure the creature hadn’t set upon her. 

I thought naught of my own safety as my feet carried me toward the pier, stumbling in my haste. But as I neared, a slash of silver lighting my path, I realized that Harriet waited upon our seat in solitude. 

My thoughts were a torrent of confusion, but I gently roused my friend from sleep once I had reached her. She awoke in disorientation, brow knitting while she drew her dressing gown more tightly about her throat, as though she’d caught a chill. Even so, she responded in good humor when I asked after her; she said that her mind had been caught within the most peculiar dream, but elaborated no further.       

I suspect it was a combination of the hour, the twisting shadows upon the pier, and my concern for my friend that painted such a nightmarish vision as I thought I saw. Nevertheless, I am seized with fits of trembling when I consider that perhaps it was not my own ill temper that caused the specter to appear. I cannot bear to think that he might be more than the product of a frightened imagination. I cannot bear to think that he might return, that—no, it is too horrible a thought. I mustn’t commit it to paper. 

And yet. 

I cannot help but feel as though the truest, kindest soul, my dearest companion Harriet, has been waiting for him to return…

#drabble requests #phanfic #ficlet #danny phantom #maddie fenton #harriet chin #vlad plasmius #dracula #twennywan #thanks for the request!!

[truth-and-sun]

Secrets Wrote in Crimson

The sky was a widow’s sky, bedarkened and empty, dressed in an ebon gown whose hem trailed along the fringes of eternity. A vastness that swathed him in momentary quiet broken only by the drill of his heart; a hummingbird cupped in the hands of a god.  Shadows writhed at his feet and churned in the mist. Shades dulled by the ambiguity of time manifested in them. Their long, slender fingers caressing the crevices of his soul as they whispered in nearly forgotten voices. Bittersweet and soft. They spoke of fear. And they spoke of hate. He closed his eyes. Allowed the great gouts of hurt poured from their amphora to settle at the bottom of the glass. Then, armed with the faintest of smiles, he extended a hand out to the darkness.

“What are you,” -his voice flickered, straining to be heard- “Afraid of?”

The silence which answered him coaxed his eyes open. The whispers and the shadows stilled. Somewhere in the near distance were footsteps falling over the darkness like the hush of rain. A strange light flickered in the veil; someone had pricked the black, releasing a slow trickle of crimson warmth. The shadows receded from his feet as the light grew and a figure took shape. He drew in a sharp breath - the flame in his chest leapt from its wick.

She was a picture of the past. Hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of fire, fathomless eyes piercing the shadows, and a smile that hinted at the secrets stashed in her pockets; she was exactly as he remembered. His sister stood before him, shades clawing at the halo of warmth cast by the candle in her hand. Beckoned by fire. Tempered by smoke. She held the candle in one hand, and in the opposite, a book- either’s fingers stained with crimson down to the knuckle. Her gaze drifted with unhurried ease until it met his.

“The rain is speaking quietly…” she whispered, lips curled in a disquiet smile, “You can sleep, now, Little Brother.”

Then, she blew out the candle. And the dark was silent and empty once more.    

The crackle of parchment against his cheek. Patter of rain against the window pane. Then quiet- but a strange quiet, a different quality of quiet.

A’gust opened his eyes just a sliver, still clinging to a dream that was already starting to fade. The details, diluted and dull, drained away like water. The memory was all but gone when he tried to scoop it up in his palms. Reluctantly, he peeled his cheek from the desk and blinked into the gloom of dust and waning light. The floor of his meager space was made into a minefield of discarded notes and empty mugs still rimmed with coffee.  Books ranging in study -from Aetheric Theory to Horticulture, Astrology to Bio-organic Decomposition, and everything in between- lay in a sprawling heap at his feet. And what space wasn’t occupied by a still-born brew abandoned on its burner was filled by fresh parchment yet to be christened with more cluttered thoughts. With a tired sigh, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

The night had been a long one. Or, so he assumed. He wasn’t quite sure how long he slept. It somehow felt like both an instant and an eternity. Carefully, A’gust rose from his chair and made his way to the window. Fingers stained with alchemical residue curled into dense, velveteen fabric. Lingered as he listened to the flutter of his heart. Slow. Wavering. Touch uneasy. The why to it escaped him; he was never a fan of storms, so he figured the rain was to blame. A quick flick of the wrists and he cast the curtains aside, ushering it a thin channel of grey light. He winced at the sudden onslaught, pupils drawn into thin slits. Morning, after all.

Sharlayan woke just as the rain eased into a gentle mist, droves of scholars passing under A’gust’s window as they made for the Studium. Idle chattered carried on the wind like gossamer thread and hid beneath a distant growl of thunder. He watched them pass -weighed down with their school books and heavy cloaks- with a wistful smile. While they toiled away in their lecture halls, he���d be here. Free to sift through documents and tomes at his leisure. Such was the benefit of being an alchemist of independent study. Though, for every onze of reward came an equal measure of hardship.

A’gust turned from the window and cast his gaze about the room. Much of the night had been spent chasing threads to their fruitless ends. Misguided tangents and off-topic fixations. He flitted from topic to topic only to find himself running around in circles. A torrent of chaos kicked up by his own thoughts and curiosities. And when all was said and done, he ended up searching the same place he started from- the black paged volumes of his father’s research. A’gust pursed his lip as he found the stack of books still waiting for him on the desk’s corner. Their pages darker than the room’s shadows.

“A penchant for theatrics,” was what he said to Serai when she asked about the ominous color. Not a lie. Not entirely.

The chair groaned with protest and age as he deflated into it. A fresh piece of parchment was drawn from the stack, placed next to the inkwell. Then he stole another glance at the black books. And once again felt his heart quiver inside his chest. In truth, the black pages were due to their alchemical composition. The parchment enchanted twice over, leaving behind a glossy film that only a certain aetherically infused ink could penetrate. An ink invisible to the naked eye lest paired with a blend of sulfuric powder, bomb-ash, and a pinch of lime. Such precautions made A’gust wonder why Father felt a need to guard these secrets.

From the desk drawer, he procured a straw-string pouch. A translucent powder glimmered without the aid of light from inside when he worked it open. Only a pinch was needed. 

The first volume he knew intimately well, the initial read possessed of optimistic vigor that devoured the breadth in a matter of hours. Thus his reflection cast along the dark pages when dusted with powder came as little surprise to him. Father was man before his time; an ingenuitive mind unabashed to break a few rules for the greater good. His research began with an idea; it began with a seed of hope.

A’gust fished a matchbook out of his vest pocket. Struck a single stick. Watched tender flame lick at the air before setting it to the page’s edge. Crimson letters crept from its dark depths. Eddied by the warm brush of fire, words of a now dead man followed after the match’s head: 

 “While she is dead, her memory will live on in my research. Nary a soul will suffer in the same way again. She was of the few plagued by a distinct lack in aetheric density, and for that her corporeal form grew more fragile with the years. If I had known sooner; been gifted more time, perhaps I might’ve devised this theory before she met her end. Nonetheless, I will press forward. See that her love for life and for people extends to the furthest reaches of this star.

On this day, I begin my proposal of the Amphora Theory. Consider a body the glass and aether the wine. A glass can only hold a definitive volume. No more lest we overfill- that being aether sickness. Some of us are blessed with deep steins for glasses: their aether  strong, their reservoir  undiminshable. Others are less fortunate. Theirs is but a flute. Sips of aether taken. So easily depleted. Easily drained.  If the corporeal form, the spirit, and the mind are as interconnected as Sharlayan scholars predict then would it not be plausible to bolster one’s physical form with an influx of aether?

Just as a flute would shatter from a flood wine, so would a vessel with aether. Aether in high concentrations greater than vessel capacity causes profound mutations. The likes of which warp and twist the body into unrecongnizable aberrations. Let it not be the amount of aether that is the problem, but the vessel which contains it. Thus sets the stage for the Amphora Theory, and with it I plan to concoct a tincture that pushes the corporeal  form in catalysis of aetheric consumption. By doing so, it allows the imbiber to consumer greater quantities of aether and in their gluttonous state begin pushing the boundaries of their vessel.

My initial draft starts with two key reagents found in the aetheric rich region of the Shroud: Tinolqa Mistletoe and the life essence found in crow’s blood. The color it renders will be my inspiration for its name - this concoction I shall call Crimson…”

Then the match went out and the page gone cold. The crimson letters seeped back into the black parchment, hidden once more.

A’gust licked his chapped lips. The Amphora Theory was everything he wished to learn and more. It had sparked hope in his chest that he may, too, find a way to reverse the damage wrought by the Final Days. Though, he learned that such good came at a distinct price. One which laid in shadows.

He flipped through the dark volume until he found a dog-eared page. There the book and its theories shifted in focus. Once more, he dusted the page and lit another match: 

“Mhach was an ancient city of magic that existed during the Fifth Astral Era. These magi utilized the void to power their sorcery, using voidsent to bolster their militia. While these advances were made for one reason and one reason only -destruction of grand proportions- I believe there to be potential in their reasoning. A connection between their methodology and the aetheric manipulations cultivated by Allagan Empire.

My theory is this: should an imbiber receive a sudden influx of aspected aether, then their vessel will shift in polarity from Umbral to Astral. There the vessel will begin to morph and change, expanding by minimal degrees to accommodate this shift. And the very aspect which might invoke such reactions would come from the malignant essence of voidsent. I speak in miniscule terms- mere milionzes of voidsent blood administered over years. The exact ratio may take time to master; however my current results have been more than inspiring.

For the last several months I’ve been administering micro-doses to rodents. They’ve taken kindly to them and I’ve yet to see any lasting side effects save for a bit of aggression.  Perhaps a counter balance is required to temper their growing rage…”

The match’s life flickered out. Again, the page went cold. Though his blood seemed to grow colder as he flipped to the last few pages. It was here that Auggie met a roadblock. He read those concluding pages more times than any other. Their words lingering in his mind like sunspots: 

“With this newest draft of Crimson, I will begin my first test of a living mortal. And I have been fortunate enough to be given the perfect subject…”

And to that, Auggie set the books aside and dove into every other form of study he could get his hands on. To truly understand the star and its structures- that was the reason he gave for this long, arduous tangent for which spanned for now weeks. That was the reason he spoke out loud when asked. The one he gave to himself even when it was only him and his shadow in the room. But it was not the one his trembling heart whispered. No. For it spoke nothing but truth, just as it always had done time and time again.

Just as it did now. Slamming itself against the cages of his ribs as he stared at the volumes with bated breath.

“What are you…” -his voice strained to be heard in the dusty room- “Afraid of?”

The silence which answered him coaxed the second book into his hand. His eyes reflected along the glossy, black pages teemed with uncertainty. The price to pay was his ignorance; his denial that Father would ever experiment with taboo arts.

His hand trembled as he withdrew another match.

He could continue to see his adopted father as a radiant man. A figure which burned bright in the night- the proverbial candle that guided him through much of his life.

It took three strikes before the match caught.

Yet there was much he didn’t know about the man with the deep shadow and the fathomless eyes. The man whose crippled form merited hushed, urgent whispers in the streets. Whose potions and remedies were both praised and scorned in every city state.

A sudden tremor made him lose grip of the match. It tumbled to the floor, extinguished of its flame. He muttered a curse under his breath and reached for another.

No. Auggie knew the man who poured him a cup of tea every evening. Who stilled the thrum of his heart when it threatened to steal his breath and break through his chest. The man who taught him to hold the threads of creation and weave concoctions born from his own imagination. An eccentric man who told stories of ancient civilizations; taught him the constellations; praised him and loved him and looked upon him with pride when he called him son. He knew much about Father. But he knew so very, very little about the man named Parkhurst. The author of the Amphora Theory. The creator of Crimson. The man who insisted he remain in the dark and quiet.

The match finally caught, its warm halo spreading across the black pages as tender flame beckoned shadows.

He was tired of being left in the dark.

He brought the fire to the page’s edge and watched as crimson scrawl seeped from the depths: 

“Crimson Trial #205 - This will be the first test upon a sentient being. A Miqo’te to be specific.  They have no knowledge of what we are about to conduct; I will humor no risk of a placebo effect. Only thirty ponzes, the subject will be administered only half doses twice a day. We will see how Crimson effects their malformed heart over the span of the next decade. Today I begin the case study of A’gust Tia.”

#The Alchemists #A'gust tia #| Secrets Wrote in Crimson | #character writing

[violetvaughnart]

In an ethereal realm of softened charcoal hues and misty horizons, a solitary figure stands poised at the verge of a towering cliff. The precipice, a jagged crescendo of rock and earth, breaches the fabric of the morning fog, reaching high as if to whisper secrets to the dawning sky. The person, cloaked in the ambiguity of shadow and light, is etched against the vast, pale canvas that stretches into infinity.

The atmosphere around them breathes with the stillness of a paused heartbeat, the world beneath laying quiet and contemplative. Strands of delicate grass ripple gently at their feet, tickling the edge of eternity, bending to the will of a breeze as soft as a sigh. The air itself seems to hold its breath, infused with a tranquil pensiveness that seeps into the soul.

In this moment, time transcends its own construct, weaving the past and future into the gossamer threads of the present. The figure, bathed in the subtle glow of the infant sun, turns their gaze across the waking lands, seeing not just the vision before them but peering into the mirrored pools of their own thoughts.

A whisper of melancholy clings to the air like the remnants of night's last dream - a poignantly beautiful reminder of the solitude that shapes us. But in the quiet stands this being, the embodiment of introspection, their silhouette a testament to the resilience that hums in the marrow of humanity. Here, the echoes of their silent contemplation touch the corners of a world unspoken, a soundless dialogue between spirit and the essence of nature.

The cliff's edge, where the earth dares to kiss the void, beckons a dance of risks and revelations. A step forward could mean a fall into the unknown, yet their stillness suggests a powerful rootedness, as if the rock and soul have melded into an unbreakable bond. In this breath between moments, the possibility of flight endures within the grasp of hope, a flickering flame that defies the damp of doubt.

Here, in the clarity of this secluded expanse, the figure is both everyone and no one, a vessel of every dreamer's fears and aspirations. The breathtaking drop, the leap of faith, is the infinite potential that lives within the caverns of every heart, pulsing with the promise of what might yet be. In the hushed serenity, the figure is the sculpture of contemplation, an anchor within the fluid sea of existence.

As the mist begins to lift, revealing the uncharted depths below, the majesty of the universe unfolds, and the soul of the viewer intertwines with the tranquil beauty of this timeless scene.

#solitary figure #cliff #misty horizon #charcoal hues #morning fog #precipice #tranquility #introspection #melancholy #resilience #timelessness #contemplation #nature #ethereal atmosphere #infinite potential

[ageoftheenforcer]

Chapter One - Recruited

Human Realm; Evening of the same day Sparta:

His name didn't matter and has long since been forgotten. He was from Sparta. His days were battle-filled and his nights were devoted to solitary wanderings. During one of his evening rambles he traversed the crest of a hill that overlooked his beloved countryside. The sun was setting and a silver smile of a moon rose in the east.

His long brown hair stirred slightly with the cool evening breeze. With his typically Greek nose he caught a whiff of the balsam of the Cypress trees as the wind sifted through them. He contemplated the humble dwellings in the large valley that stretched out below. The smoke of the distant cook fires was a subtle reminder that things could change. He would grow old and fade into obscurity, or die in glory on the battlefield someday.

He was dressed in sandals that covered his feet and he wore shin guards on his lower legs. He was wearing a simple tunic that fastened at the side and his cloak hung loosely at his back. It's red color was more of a deep wine in the fading light of day. He closed his blue eyes to block out the view in front of him for a few moments.

His Kopis; a three foot sword, hung at his belt. The heavy weapon was deadly in his skilled hands. As luck would have it he found an immediate need for it, as a whisper of footsteps approached from somewhere on the hill behind him.

He turned, a wary hand now resting on the hilt of his sword. A dark figure stepped out of the night. The Spartan didn't recognize the man. The stranger's long jet black hair and dark cape shrouded his face and hid his form. The man's hands were preternaturally pale, which made the soldier less trusting of the stranger. To his eyes it seemed that the area directly around the personage was murkier than the surrounding night that fast approached. The warrior drew his blade in one fluid motion; alarmed by the shadowy apparition.

The figure stepped closer but remained out of striking distance. The soldier growled; "Who are you?" he lifted his blade and it glinted in the half-light of dusk. The figure reached up pushing his hood back which in turn also opened his dark cape to reveal a fine set of midnight black clothing sewn with a silvery gossamer thread. He also had midnight wings that vaulted from his shoulders. The stranger was a foot taller than the Spartan; making the soldier's five foot eight inches seem short by comparison. The soldier stared at the man's face, the man's eyes were pools of black midnight.

The soldier challenged the man, his voice booming in an effort to hide the sudden fear that gripped him; "You're dressed in the finery of court. But which court? The royal court of Sparta wears bright colors and you wear the colors of night. And do I spy some wings?" His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his sword arm went taut. "What do you want of me?"

"You don't need that. I mean you no harm. I have a proposition for you." The man's voice held a depth that reminded the soldier of a distant roll of thunder.

"I'll listen as long as you remain where I can see you. No tricks or I'll gut you." The soldier spoke, his voice was even and betrayed no emotion. Still, the stranger could sense the fear beneath the calm exterior of the warrior.

"It's funny, actually, I'm ready to offer you the world; and like a fool, you've taken me for some common thief." The stranger's voice rumbled his irritation at the lack of trust. The man went silent for a moment then after a brief moment of thought he exclaimed; "So be it! I'll recruit you first, and explain it all to you later." His icy tone sent a wave of fear up the soldier's spine.

His decision made, the man advanced slowly and methodically. The soldier waited ready to strike; "You won't take me alive, you fiend!" The soldier swore, lifting his sword and shuffling his feet into a solid stance.

The dark figure laughed maniacally. "That's exactly the point." With lightning speed the figure moved his right hand forward and tapped the Spartan in the center of his forehead with a skeletal-thin index finger.

The warrior meant to strike back at the creature, but at the touch, the Spartan's sword arm faltered and his grip loosened. His sword slipped out of his weakened grasp and clanged dully on the rocks at his feet. The air around him turned thick as pitch and he gasped for breath. His muscles became leaden and immobile. He tried to rally his defenses but the more he struggled, the weaker he grew. The earth heaved and rolled beneath his feet as his vision blurred.

"Stay alert." He chided himself. His voice struggled to find expression.

"I suggest you stop resisting." The man said in a clipped manner. "You have a transitional period to go through and the more you fight it; the longer the transformation will take."

"Wh...wh...what…did…"

The warrior's tongue tripped over itself as he attempted to form the sounds that now felt like foreign objects in his mouth. Words flailed around in his head seeking release then drained away before he could voice them.

"What did I do to you? I changed you into an immortal. You're going through the accelerated throes of death." The man answered. The stranger's words resonated deep into the soldier's soul as a slow fire sparked in his body. It burned him up, eating away at his bones while at the same time spikes of molten iron knifed slowly through his veins.

His will to live was extinguished by the heat that roiled under his skin. He collapsed into a helpless mound. Visions of blood and death raced through his mind and ripped away his thoughts, splintering them into fragments that flared for a moment, bright as meteorites before being engulfed in the black depths of his agony.

After what seemed an eternity of dark solitude and twisted nightmares; the warrior awoke. It was full night. He lay sprawled on his face and his mouth held the slight taste of blood and dust.

He should've been in pain from lying amongst the stones, yet he felt comfortable as if he'd awoken on a soft bedroll.

He turned over with a huge sigh and stared up at the stars. "I must've fallen asleep out here." He stretched enjoying the sense of satisfaction and well-being that he felt; "Nothing like a well needed bit of sleep, I guess."

Life as a soldier meant that he often wore the injuries of constant battle, but for once the ever-present scars and wounds gave him no pain. "Ha, I guess the night air fixed me right up." He laughed. "Now, why the Hades did I decide to sleep on the ground?" The last solid recollection in his foggy brain was that he'd taken a stroll. And had there been an encounter? Fragmentary images trickled back into place re-assembling the mosaic of his memories.

A dark figure had said something about killing him. But how could that be when he felt fine? "I'm alive, aren't I?" He spoke the question aloud.

The stranger stepped out of the shadows in answer; "No, Marcellus you're now eternal. You died and were reborn. You are changed."

The warrior barely reacted to the sudden reappearance of the mysterious figure, he merely shook himself and sprang up on his feet and began a debate with the dark figure; "I'm not dead. You're wrong, because I feel very much alive!"

"Being changed into an immortal doesn't make you feel any less alive. Although, I can't say the same about the actual metamorphosis, that's always been viciously painful. I'd say I sympathize but it wouldn't be sincere." The man winked, a half-smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The soldier suppressed an involuntary shudder at the vague memory of fiery pain.

"So...I died? Why kill me, or change me, or whatever you did to me?" He shook his head in disagreement and confusion.

"I chose you as my new Enforcer, Marcellus. I'm the God of Death and despite the unpleasantness of earlier you'll soon learn of the strength that comes from immortality."

"Um...okay." The Spartan shrugged still not sure what to believe. He flexed his muscles and stretched; "I certainly feel more powerful. If this is being immortal then I like it. It feels great!" He spied his sword and bent down to retrieve it. He slid it back into it’s scabbard wondering off-handedly why he'd even bothered to brandish it at the God of Death.

"I knew you'd like your new body Marcellus." The man's tone was self-satisfied.

"Why do you keep calling me Marcellus?" The warrior asked.

"A new name for a new creature. If you don't like it, you can change it." The man smirked.

The warrior thought for a moment trying to recall his own name. But he couldn't, he shrugged and gave up, knowing it had died when he had; "I think.. I would prefer to go by Marcel."

"Marcel it is then." The man laughed. "Not that your name matters much. You'll be too busy with your duties to care about such trivial things."

Marcel perked up; "Duty. Now that's a concept that I understand." He was already adjusting to the strange new way of things. "And now for the rest of the introductions; I know you're the God of Death, but do you have a name?" Marcel asked.

"Ahem, his name is Thanatos." A heavy voice from behind them chimed in. Marcel turned to see a figure emerge from a grove of Cyprus trees. "Thaumaustus!" Marcel exclaimed. "What the Zeus are you doing here? And why can I still remember your name and not my own?"

"I'm doing the same as you, actually." Thaumaustus had a self-congratulatory smile on his face, as he chose to answer only the second question. His light brown closely cropped hair curled around his visage, making him appear a fresh-faced youth and not the scoundrel that Marcel knew him to be.

Thaum had wider shoulders than Marcel, but in height and physical strength they'd always been quite similar. Now in one quick glance, Marcel surmised that both he and Thaum had grown more muscular and nearly a foot taller each. Marcel was now six feet tall and Thaum had grown as well, though Thanatos still towered above them both.

Other physical changes wrought by their new immortality were none too subtle; Marcel's eyes were now a silver gray. Thaum's had gone a dark shade of red. In the moonlight, Marcel could see that his own hair had changed from brown to silvery white.

"Hey, how many Enforcers do you need?" Marcel turned back to Thanatos seeking the answer.

"Only one, Thaumaustus is the Watcher." Death replied with a yawn, already bored by his new minions.

"And, what exactly will we be doing?" Marcel wondered aloud.

"Bringing rule breakers to justice." Thanatos replied as if Marcel should know the answer already.

"What rule breakers?" Marcel raised an eyebrow.

"Enough questions, you'll soon learn your place and what's expected of you. Follow me." Thanatos waved him forward, then pulled his hood up over his head to conceal his face.

"Lead on, sire." Thaumaustus replied with deference. Marcel glanced sideways at Thaumaustus and wondered why Thaum hadn't been given a new name? 'He may be immortal now, but he's still the same scoundrel that he's always been.' Marcel thought. The fact that Thanatos had chosen Thaum made Marcel a bit uneasy about his new master's judgement.

Death smiled, his teeth sharp and his black eyes glinting with excitement; "Time to show you the Underworld."

He headed north towards Mount Olympus with Marcel and Thaum trailing behind as Artemis's silver moon bow sank below the horizon in the pre-dawn hours.

As they entered the Underworld, Thanatos recounted a brief history of why they now found themselves as Enforcer and Watcher.

"In the beginning there were only the gods. Then there were humans, and humans, being what they are stole knowledge from the gods. To punish them Zeus sent Pandora as a gift. She brought a container with her. Her curiosity got the best of her and she unleashed the plagues, creatures of the night and even myself; Death.

Over time, the plagues and night creatures got out of hand so a tribunal was held. A council to decide on a course of action now that the worst had been unleashed. Gods, Demi-gods and such convened for weeks. They labeled the event Pandora’s folly.

We born of Pandora's box call the event Pandora’s blessing; as it was a gift of creation and freedom, but with our freedom came a price.

We have to follow the rules that were defined. As the God of Death, I'm in charge of ruling all vampires and plagues and creatures of the night.

It seems a sad state of affairs to be restricted and regulated like this but it's the only way that we're allowed to live our lives now. However, every once in a while a few vampires or a plague gets out of line so it's now your job, Marcel, to see that this doesn’t happen.

Mostly, the vampires are the ones you'll need to keep an eye on, as the plagues are only ever allowed out of the Underworld one or two at time and they're easily controlled.

As for the Underworld, Queen Makaria is in charge there, though I'm the master, I choose to live in New Olympus."

"New Olympus?" Marcel asked a bit confused.

"Yes. You think that there's only one Olympus? The Underworld is everywhere, so Zeus found it prudent to create a New Olympus on the other side of the world so that there would be at least two places for the Gods to reign from."

#my writing #the enforcer #writers #vampires

[rohanelf]

Flying across the plains, the greens blurred to streaks, boulders turned to dots and the wind cascaded around. Gracelings’ hoofs dug into the soft grass flicking divots of mud and blades into the air as they traversed East Emnet, across the Anduin towards Mirkwood. It had taken her a few days after finding a safe place to cross the river to make it to forrest. The darkling trees always seemed to welcome her home, most feared the gloom within but Ezri relished in the obscurity that the trees held, once through gateway and onto the path both rider and horse slowed to enjoy the dappled rays. Many became lost upon these paths but those who knew the way could wonder the woods happily to the other side without fear, this trip however they were not going to the far side, stopping at the halls of her Uncle happened to be her destination and a glad one at that.

Passing through a rare bright shaft of light brought a glistening golden gleam cast to the gelding Gracelings coat, pushing the hood back upon her cloak Ezri looked up to see the bridge and guards in sight. Home, or rather her second home rose up before them, swinging down from her companions back, whispering into his ears while leaning her head to his as they hit the stables. “Meld mellon, post hi.” (Dear friend, rest now.)

With hardly an upward glance or even an interruption of thought the sunlight had been replaced by the slightly dimmer lit cave systems that had become the home of her kin. Dark walnut curls danced along green riding clothes as the maiden headed towards the great halls, the throne and her uncle Thranduil who sat upon the seat.

Once respects had been paid, belongings had been placed into her rooms Ezri took little to no time in joining the next detail out to hunt orc and spiders hiding in the shadows. Sword, bow and a full quiver filled with arrows strung across her back found the peredhil slipping between the trees almost as nimbly as elves themselves.

It was deep into the Forrest before they came across any creatures of darkness, not far from the foot of the Mountains of Mirkwood down past the Enchanted River. The webs appeared first, giving heed as to what was to follow, the others had mentioned that they had cleared this section only a week or so before but the spiders were relentless. Slipping the bow from her back, pulling an arrow free from the quiver and notching it in the string ready to aim they stepped toward the towering nest. The labyrinth of fibres looks like gossamer entangled between almost every available space, only one path left to travel, straight into beating the heart of the vermins lair.

Upon the first step inside the maze the spiders knew nothing was encroaching, light footed they moved swiftly without even the slightest of vibration down the strands that would of alerted the creatures to food or intruders. Finally under the belly of the beast as it were they started up into the trees, swinging from branch to branch, leaping. Ezri shifted her weight as her arrow and bow slipped deftly into they’re home at her back, right hand reaching out first as she leapt to swing around, using her full body weight to propel her higher. Letting go to flex in midair and land a hand perfectly upon the branch up, swinging round this one fully before letting go to righting herself in midair landing balanced on her feet. Hands darted straight back to the bow, arrow notched, aimed and fired within seconds.

Once the first arachnids fell the remaining knew what was happening, threads started dancing, the leaves began to rustle, branches creaked and snapped as the heavy, eight legged, black, monstrosities headed in their direction. Arrows wizzing through the air, hissing could be heard and some form of animalistic screaming, if it could be called that could be heard throughout the white bellowing curtains. From the vantage point and depleting the arrows Ezri swapped to her sword, sliding it free from the scabbard right hand wrapped around the hilt to swing out and take off two front legs reaching out towards her. The body doubled in on itself between the branches, curling up and falling to the forrest floor below. Stepping from the branch and dropping after it, sword tip pointed downward upon impact as they landed upon the abdomen of the hairy writhing creature. Pushing down until it stopped moving, she removed the blade, turned and slid down the side of the beast to find a member of their company laying beside her quarry.

As she neared him, it wouldn’t be long, it could be seen in his eyes. The torso had been broken not just by a bite but maybe a fall from a height or perhaps the beast had even landed on him too either way he would not last. Kneeling beside him, sword close to hand, battle noises drowning out behind the words spoke seemed to fill all her senses.

“I didn’t think it would end this way..”He whispered..

Smiling softly back and shaking her head. “End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. This is only the beginning.” With her last word the light faded in his eyes and the battle above became silent…

#Mirkwood #lord of the rings #the hobbit #roleplay #the fellowship of the Silmarillion

[hellcnas]

♱ @severyanin.

The tapestries that adorned the stone walls were worn, sparse where moths had nested and consumed of its once magnificent threads, woven into a dull depiction of ceremony, of angels rising into heavenly choirs, and below, the Vasilyevich’s enemies condemned to perdition.  Down they tumbled, with weights about their ankles, into the pyres of hell.  The hall in which Helena now stood appeared to be deserted, cloaked from ceiling to floor in tapestries of Vasilyeviches princes of former epochs.  A sweet, low hum thrummed through the space, oozing from the chatter and troubadours many floors below, though Helena felt the eerie chill of desertion at her spine; its gelid fingertips crawling up her lithe neck.  The room reminded her, in all its bare humility, of a priory; the quiet, the thin streaks of light seeping through half-draped windows, the stonedust and starch cold, the draft in the apse.  At any moment, she suspected, field nuns and shorn-headed villeinesses could make camp here, and feel quite at home.

Helena stretches her fingertips, warm to the touch, and lays them flat across the worn, weathered face of Rostislav’s ancestors, smoothing away a thick, pounded layer of soot – as integral to the tapestry as the textiles themselves.  She steals a breath, the sound of it hissing and husking through teeth, gritted to the cold, coupled with the groan of a wooden plank underfoot.  She turns toward the noise, the Grand Prince’s height imposing even beneath the loftily-arched door.  His eyes glowed and glowered in the dim light.  Helena felt no great urge to arrange herself, to pleat her skirts, to adjust the luminous strands of dark hair escaping from beneath her veil.  ‘Your Grace.’  Her voice is gossamer-thin as she lowers in a hasty bow.  They will be in-laws, soon, in the convoluted, gnarled way of imperial genealogies, and she need not explain her presence.  Helena glitters against the bareness of the room, the cold stone walls, the sooty carpets, and extends her neck in greeting.

Standing regally against his stark gaze, she quips: ‘I see I am not the only one needing respite from the theatrics.’  Lips purse, enigmatically twisted.  She casts her gaze about the lightless, dank room, returning once more to the tapestry.  ‘I cannot imagine why anyone would allow this piece to rot away.  You resemble them, sire, as does the rest of your brood.  Who, I wonder, is this?’  She asks, pointing to a sole figure encased by a band of repentant apostles.  ‘A grandfather of the Tsar, perhaps?’

#severyanin #u do not need to match length!!

[queerofthedagger]

Somebody Desperate

Merthur, 600 words, no warnings

Note: Blame The National's new song by the same name, and that enabling anon in my inbox. <3

*

Merlin watches as Arthur talks to Gwaine, golden head lowered, shoulders bowed as he listens (Arthur always listens, to his knights and his councillors and his people and Merlin loves him, he loves him. Sometimes he wishes Arthur allowed himself someone to talk to, too).

The weight of a kingdom seems to increase with each passing day, and yet Arthur stays steady, stays up late, stays to untangle the threads of Uther’s legacy, one by one, hands never faltering (even as they shake, as his fingers tremble with the exhaustion of it, night after night after night).

It’s silent, those nights; where, during the day, Arthur’s crown rests, a frown is etched, then, as if he can feel the weight, still (always there, always, always).

Merlin wants to speak up, wants to smooth the frown away, to take the weight and shoulder it himself. Wants to add it to the burden destiny has already bestowed upon his shoulders, carry it gladly if only Arthur would let him.

His voice fails, again and again, courage lost somewhere between his heart and his lips because how could he explain without revealing all of himself, too much, every last dark corner that he keeps closed off from Arthur’s light because—

Because he fears the burn of it, always has, bright gold threatening to not only illuminate but vanish the shadows Merlin has wrapped around himself like a cloak, like armour, gossamer threads of blind spots, keeping him whole.

He knows, he does, his silence increases the chasm between them, little by little, day by day, and yet.

And yet, his tongue stays leaden in his mouth, explanations and reassurances and questions, all tangling themselves up into a putrid, burning knot within his throat, words locked behind his teeth, festering (lying and lying and lying until Merlin can no longer tell where one lie ends and another begins, until he no longer knows how much of him Arthur even knows).

And the distance grows, but it’s slow, steady, a trickling expansion in increments; nothing like the abyss that would crack open between them if he allowed the words to slip out. If he did—if he did, he knows, he would not be able to stop, all of his truths dammed up, and once he lets go, there will be no turning back (no way to bite down, to swallow, to choke and choke and choke until silence is all he has left).

Arthur notices, how can he not. He has always noticed, but Merlin has smiled so often, has brushed him off and changed the topic, made trembling jokes and biting comments one too many times, so Arthur no longer asks.

Arthur watches, though, watches Merlin just as Merlin is watching Arthur, and some days, some days he wants to believe that it means something, that it comes from the same place that Merlin’s helpless observance comes from and maybe it does (maybe it does but it doesn’t matter because how, how can you love someone who you do not know, how can you love the lies and the diversions and the façade, how can it not turn into bitterness in the face of the truth).

The one thing Merlin could never bring himself to even contemplate was losing Arthur but with each new day, with each conversation that barely scrapes the surface, with each tightening of Arthur’s mouth and Merlin’s hands—with each new night ending in loaded silence, in averted eyes, Merlin thinks that it might already be too late.

(Always losing, grasping at air, always closing his fists around nothing).

#merthur #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #mona's writing