#hallow deed

[bolithesenate]

Oh you're bored?! Oh oh no here I come to be terrible

Fuck/Marry/Kill challenge! Jocasta, Dooku, Sifo-Dyas.

easy

fuck Jocasta, marry Dooku, kill Sifo

(I couldn't take Jocasta in a fight and I want Dooku's money and status. And I hate to say it but Sifo is very killable. Doomed by the narrative in every way)

(Me and Dooku can keep him frozen in the basement together as a bonding activity <3)

#you say you come to be terrible but jess #this never was hallowed land to begin with #so take your terror somewhere where it counts #jk thanks for indulging my no braincelll hours #it's a dangerous mood for me to be in bc i always want to start recreational drama when im bored #so your good deed of the day is saing some satine girlies or whatever #random boli thoughts #answering asks

[galedekarios]

Hallowed Lady, Mother Mystra, guide my thoughts now Light my way Inform my deeds Enlighten me, as you enlighten all Show me what is best to do To deliver, succor, protect, and enrich Blessed be thy will I am Gale Dekarios, and place myself in thy hands Guide me

—Plea for Guidance from the Lady of Mysteries, Mother of All Magic

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #ch: gale dekarios #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #edit: mybg3 #look i was possessed for a moment and made smth for the cleric gale au #bc why not #also the plea for guidance is a canon thing #thanks ed greenwood

[notthesomefather]

The Basic Structure of a Ritual

The following is the basic format for a ritual as used by the Godsring. It is not set in stone and can be adapted at your discretion.

Hallowing

The purpose of a hallowing rite is to set aside a sacred space and time for the ritual, to put all participants in a proper mental, spiritual, and physical state for the ritual, and to announce to all nearby wights that a ritual is about to take place. Here is one example:

May the Gods guide us, may our Oaths keep us, May our Deeds free us, may our Ancestors aid us always, May the Gods banish from this Land and Wood all Ill and Wrong, Hallow this Stead, and shield it from all baneful Wights, Let the Gods’ Blessings be upon our Heads!

Ritual

This is the part of the ritual where any desired invocations and prayers are included, as well as any participatory activity for group or public rituals. This is very open, and can be as simple or as extensive as you like.

Offering

The typical offering consists of four components: Grain, Salt, Bread, and a Libation. Additional offerings specific to certain beings or purposes may be used. Conversely, fewer offerings may be given, such as water only. As each offering is placed in its respective vessel, these words are said:

With this grain, we offer you sustenance. With this salt, we offer you wealth. With this bread, we offer you our labor. With this libation, we offer you pleasure.

Closing

The closing of the ritual is usually spoken while pouring the libation offering into the main vessel. The traditional closing used by the Godsring is as follows:

From the Gods to the Earth to us; From us to the Earth to the Gods. A gift has been given; May it be well received.

#rituals #heathenry 101 #heathen #asatru #pagan #norse pagan #witch #norse witch #heathenry #norse heathen #norse paganism #paganism #spells #polytheist #polytheism #norse polytheist #norse polytheism

[aurorapillar]

You know I have a lot of issues with the hallowing of Simarils, like for one there's the question of what exactly are the qualifications for someone being considered evil enough to be burned by them. We're not told, and quite frankly if it was meant to be something like having done a bunch of awful deeds, then at the very least Thingol and the Valar should be burned by them. 

I think though it's very likely just that they burn anyone who Varda doesn't want to have them.

There's also the whole disgustingness of people insisting that the sons of Feanor don't have a right to their fathers creations because they've done bad things (nevermind all the good they've also done) and that other people get to claim a right to them (even when those same people have also done bad things), but other people have made much better posts about that then I ever could.

What I really want to talk about though, is the fact that there is no way Feanor consented to the Simarils being hallowed. Like not only did he not like or trust the Valar even before everything went down with Melkor, but from what I remember, its either outright mentioned or at implied that part of Feanor's reason in making them was to preserve the light of the two trees so that he and others elves could take them and leave Valinor. 

There's no way he would go to the Valar and ask for them to be hallowed. There's no way that if the Valar showed up and asked if they could hallow them, he would say yes. The only explanation that makes sense is that Varda just showed up and did it on their own. 

Which really implies that they probably had designs on them from the beginning.

#Feanor #This is a valar hate blog

[gravidwithlore]

Thinking about pregnancy in religion, but instead of being viewed as shameful, pregnancy is celebrated, revered, and considered holy in itself.

Priests who physically take on their parish's sins and wicked thoughts, their mass and confessions include them being bent over the altar and bred by the worshippers. Their prayers come out as moans of pleasure and rapture, the rhythm of their hymns staccato-ed by the rhythm of hips roughly slapping against each other. When the priest starts to grow round with child they are celebrated, the child considered holy and pure, a redemption of their sins, the village spiritually cleansed through the time the priest and holy vessel has spent gestating their baby. When a priest gives birth to multiples their parish is considered to be even more blessed with each additional child brought into the world. One knows a good and holy priest when they see one surrounded by a gaggle of children, possibly with a toddler on their hip or a babe feeding at their chest, and already unmistakably pregnant again already.

Or priests who protect the people from demons, but exorcisms don't involve dispelling away the demons presence entirely. They use themselves as bait for the demons instead, to distract them from innocent or wayward villagers.

One way they could do this is by utilizing their holy symbol, carved and hallowed for this very purpose, which allows them to draw the demons essence into themselves. But because of their training and holy power, this manifests as a pregnancy. The priest will be a holy vessel to purify and redeem the unholy force within, to eventually be born cleansed and new. The length of the pregnancy depends on how powerful the demon was, low power baser demons take a few months, but extremely powerful demons could possibly take years and years. The families who have experienced exorcisms this way often adopt the child born and raise it as a sign of their own devotion to their religion and gratefulness to their priest.

Or if you want to get down and dirty about it, the priests distract any demons found torturing their parishioners by spreading their own legs and compelling the demons to let out their frustrations and rage on them instead. Taking on the burden of being the demons plaything, being used to it's satisfaction during its time on the mortal plane, and often left waddling through their pews with the demons spawn. The people of the village recognize and deeply appreciate their priests sacrifice, and the community come together to support them in whichever way they may need. Even if what they need is obviously influenced by the unholy essence within (which is to say what they need is often to get fucked 25/8)

Paladins who worship and fight for deities of fertility and growth, birth and prosperity, life and bounty. When they have done great deeds on behalf of those they worship, they are often given the blessing of a belly steadily growing round with their demi-god offspring. Sometimes these paladins take it as a sign to retire and raise their new family somewhere safe, their active duty over though they continue their loyal and steadfast worship of their diety. Some continue to adventure, a bit more carefully then before with the little ones tagging along as they travel, the children always letting off a faint holy essence from the strong protective magic both parents weave about them. A paladin of these deities who have large families, are surrounded at all times by children of all ages, are respected as legendary paladins indeed.

A paladin of these deities who has been serving for years and has never been blessed in this way by their deity are often considered suspicious, and rumors swirl that they have forsaken their oath a long long time ago, if they even took it seriously to begin with.

Pregnancy out of wedlock, not a source of shame and impurity, but instead considered a blessing of a union. Some stricter sects won't even allow a betrothal unless a couple has already conceived and at least one of them is clearly growing round with child. It is so normalized and expected that when romantics think of a traditional wedding, they picture themselves waddling down the aisle, full of their beloved's child. Their lover watching them with unconcealed pride and affection, their vows reiterating their commitment to cherishing and growing their new family. The strictest sects sometimes won't even allow the wedding to commence until they're clearly in labor, only allowed to struggle and groan down the aisle once they're in active labor. Spreading their legs and screaming their child (or children) into the world on the altar, held and encouraged by their soon to be spouse. The cries of the couples firstborn ringing through the church halls holds greater weight than any spoken vow.

A temple of monks hidden deep in the mountains, their acolytes training culminates in embarking on a pilgrimage. These new monks are tasked to give their bodies to whoever may desire it, to bring people joy and pleasure no matter how briefly it lasts, to be subservient and pliant to those they serve on their journey. Some pilgrimages take longer than others, but they almost always return waddling, heavy with child and out of breath from the trek through the steep mountain path, but with beaming and satisfied smiles, confident in their beliefs and teachings in way they hadn't been when they left. Its not even uncommon for a monk returning from pilgrimage to come back holding a curious young child's hand, a toddler secured with soft cloth to their back or front, their belly already gravid and low, obviously on the verge of giving birth where they stand. These monks are considered to have found extra enlightenment on their journey and are heralded back as among the wisest of their number.

Crusaders who travel, not to conquer a land, but to connect cultures and create bonds between lands. Instead of meeting head on in a gritty battlefield, meetings are held in much more comfortable places filled with soft pillows and silks. Instead of the sharp sound of swords clanging against each other, or the metallic sound of armor and shields moving; cries of pleasure and the wet slapping of hips permeate the air. A crusader who comes home with a distinct gravid waddle are celebrated, but the most revered and successful crusaders are the ones that never return, but instead send letters home about their new home and gush about how they're almost due with multiples, but are already excited for their new spouse to knock them up all over again so they can continue to grow their new family.

The head of a religious order, considered to be the closest to their deity over anyone else, always being tasked to carry and bear their deity's offspring. When a new leader is chosen or elected, the final ritual of ushering in their new era is always a consummation of the renewed commitment to being they worship. The leader cannot make any serious changing or sweeping reforms until it has been confirmed by the council that their belly is beginning to round out with child, until then all their decisions need to be council approved. The proof of their divine leadership takes time to grow, divine beings are practically immortal, so it makes sense their offspring take a long time to grow. Symptoms such as morning sickness, cravings, and mood swings are closely analyzed to predict the future of their reign. Their libido however is analyzed as a litmus test to how close their relationship is to their deity. Only their deity may enter them in the same way they did so consummate their new relationship, but it is rare for their deity to make an appearance, so the leader must make do with their worshippers tongues and fingers. Those with especially high libido have been known to use statues and other instruments used in divine worship to fuck themselves senseless, panting from the exhertion of worship, eyes rolled back to the heavens, singing their garbled praises to the deity that blessed their body with it's heavy holy offspring.

#tw religion #mpreg #my ramblings #nbpreg #fpreg #pregnant priest #pregnancy kink #tw priest #demon pregnancy #fantasy preg

[cambion-companion]

The Priest A Devil

One upon a dusky twilight, a lone mortal treads upon hallowed ground defiled by a devil.

A tender heart stricken by guilt bleeds so easily when in the wrong hands.

Yes, I did the deed. Happy Halloween!

Raphael x reader (gn)

Ao3 Link : Raphael's Diaries - Chapter 1 - MysticAwareness - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

The gloam of early twilight settled upon misty moors rising purple against the dusky sky.  A chill ran down your spine, the biting cold of approaching winter dewing upon your clothing as you walked through the mist.  

Up ahead candlelight glimmered through the chapel’s stained-glass windows, casting a dance of light and shadow upon the frozen ground. Each of your footsteps crunched, hastening toward the promise of the warmth and restful refuge of your church.  

An owl swooped low overhead on silent wings, hooting a doleful warning. Not for the first time on your journey the hairs on the back of your neck rose, alerting you to an unseen presence watching as you scurried like a church mouse up the sloping hill.

At last, your numb fingers brushed against the splintered wood of the chapel door, and it swung inward with a groan.  You had expected to be greeted by the usual gathering of villagers, welcoming and warming you into the cozy and expected ritual of every weekend evening.

Instead, stillness and silence invaded your ears, though the flickering sputter of the candles next to the confession booth drew your gaze.

You frowned.

The pews were empty. Had they gathered earlier today and just forgotten to tell you?  The bell that rang clear and loud hung motionless by the far wall. You touched the cold metal, and a layer of dust came away upon your finger. Within your bosom you felt the sudden heaviness of an unexplained dread. Somewhere from afar outside a piercing cry rose up, unlike any nighttime creature you’d before heard. It cut off abruptly, and the following silence was fraught with tension.

Your muscles were tense as a frozen deer under a hunter’s gaze. They slowly eased when no new noises followed the unexpected cry.

“May have been a fox.”  You muttered, the sound of your whispered voice too loud inside the stone walls. “Or a night hawk.”

The door where you had left it open crashed closed in what must’ve been a sudden breeze. The bombastic sound nearly sent you leaping out of your skin as you spun around and tripped over your own feet, your weight careening back against the wooden confession box, knocking the wind from your lungs.

“My apologies.”  A disembodied voice spoke at your back, seemingly coming from all around and nowhere.

A shriek tore from your throat, again your muscles twitching at the whim of your fear. You realized the voice was coming from inside the booth. It also gained a face as a middle-aged man ducked out and stood tall before you, smiling slightly as if suppressing mirth at your flighty reactions.

“Calm yourself.” His voice was rich and gravelly, decadent even.  

You recognized his priestly garb and sucked in lungfuls of air, holding a calming hand against your hammering heart. “Father.”  You said with some relief. “You gave me quite a start.”

“Have you come to confess your sins? I was just finishing with another client of mine.”  The priest motioned toward the dark entrance to the box, and you peered inside, not seeing evidence of another person inside.

Your brow furrowed as you glanced back at him. “Client?  No, no I came for the Saturday gathering.”

“Saturday?”  The priest chuckled low through closed lips. “Nay, my child.  You are a whole day early, in fact.”

“That’s not…possible.”  You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of the irksome buzzing you heard, like the murmur of a hundred flies. Your eyes again found the unfamiliar priest. “Who are you? Where is Father Mors?”

The candles upon the altar crackled and danced violently as if in a sudden breeze. Though all the doors were closed. You glanced behind you, that unnerving prickle tingling against the nape of your neck.

“My name is Raphael.”  His black robes rustled against the rough stone floor as he bent politely at the waist, touching a hand to his chest. “My dear, you look positively blanched.  Come. Sit.”  Father Raphael moved to your side, the flickering candlelight throwing his form into a twisting and distorted shadow upon the wall behind. “I’m certain there is much we can discuss, you and I.”

His hand found the small of your back and practically pushed you into the confession box.  The dim light of the chapel dimmed into semi-blackness within the enclosed space, and you settled down uncertainly, hearing Father Raphael do the same beside you. A thin wooden wall and a small rectangular metal grate separated you from the unfamiliar priest.

There was silence, unprecedented as the only sound you heard was your own breathing echoed back at you.  From beyond the confines of the confession booth and the cobbled chapel you heard again a short wailing cry.  It sent a spike of cold fear through your heart.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”  Your throat was nearly too tight to speak properly, dread coiling like a twisting vine inside your soul.  You cleared your voice and continued. “My last confession was two weeks ago.”

No answer.

The sound of your breathing continued, growing heavier and shorter as the unease within your chest mounted.

“Father?”

Then Raphael spoke at last, the dim orange glow from the candles reflecting through the metal grate like two flaming eyes. “My condolences about your late husband.”  His words sent your heart into your throat. “What a truly tragic affair.”

“How did you-”

“Know?” Raphael interrupted, chuckling again. The sound reverberating against the metal grate. “It is, quite literally, my business.  My bread and bloody butter.  But don’t allow me to interrupt, you have a confession to make.”

All warmth had drained from your face, your eyes staring wide into the darkness of the booth. You licked your lips, mouth suddenly dry.

You squeezed your hands together upon your lap until your fingers hurt, trying to block out the memories that had followed you like ghosts since that dreadful day.

“Come now.”  The priest’s voice sharpened sternly. “Cat got your tongue?  You came all this way to play the part of the penitent sinner. Well then.  Play.”

Hot tears began rolling down your clammy cheeks. “It wasn’t an accident.”  You spoke into the abyss, willing the words to take your torment with them into the void. “It was my fault.  My anger.”

“You killed him?”  Raphael spoke and his tone rang mocking against your ears. “Shocking.  Would you like to know where his soul is right now?  What torment he suffers that you will soon take part in?”

“I…what?”  Your voice rasped with shock and alarm, the feeling of impending doom rearing like a snake about to strike. You fumbled in the box, striking your head against the wooden frame as you burst through the opening back into the chill chapel air.

You threw aside the adjoining curtain and fell back with another strangled cry, your eyes wide upon the empty bench.

“Oh my god!”  You stifled your cry against your shaking hand, stumbling back until you found the wall to lean against, your horrified gaze still fixed upon the vacant booth.

Slowly lowering your hand, you looked around the chapel, every flicker of shadow sending a jolt of alarm through you.

“Father?”

“’Bless you’?”  His breath was hot upon your ear, sharp nails digging into the back of your neck before you could flee. “For you have sinned.”  Raphael towered over you now, his visage changed into a creature from beyond the scope of your most dreadful nightmare.

Firelight sparked within black eyes, horns sprouted from crimson skin, sharp teeth grinning down at you.  Batlike wings spread wide, caging you against the wall and muting the firelight beyond into a red glow.

You closed your eyes, tears streaking down your face, and muttered a rapid prayer to your god.

Raphael listened, amused, with a cocked head.  His glowing eyes roved over your tear-stained face. “No god will deign to help you now, little pet.  You killed your husband.”

You gasped, the edges of your vision dimming as you fought to stay conscious. “It was self-defense!”

“A paltry excuse!”  The devil laughed at you. “I am no impartial judge!  Your blundering resulted in the premature end of a most beneficial contract.”  His hand moved to tangle in your hair and tightened, arching your neck back. “And I always exact what I am owed.”

With a sneer of disgust, the creature released you and stepped back, his wings flaring wide before nestling against his back. A long tail whipped in agitation, drumming against the confessional booth as Raphael considered your quaking form. “Thwarted after decades of painstaking planning. And by such a wilting flower too.”

That rankled. “He got what he deserved!”  You spat out, your fear beginning to morph into desperate anger.

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.  The only justice I care about, however, is mine.”  His eyes traveled the length of your body before once again meeting your eyes. “And my ledger states you now owe me a great debt. Come.”  He strode forward and seized your wrist, only smirking when you fought to break free. “We have business to attend to. Together.”

#raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #bg3 oneshot #bg3 drabble #raphael x you #little spooky #first time writing more horror based stuff #raphael bg3

[me-uglypretty]

the mistakes of love

Pairing:  Carol Danvers x Reader

Summary: Carol accepts her mistakes, but she wasn't ready to accept the reality of the one she loves.

Warning: (18+), angst, mention of war, main character death, the marvels spoiler | 1k words

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I Fate appeared as though, muddled of sick jokes focussed on her existence and the ample of displease at mistakes she still regretted. It was her fault. She had accepted that fate countless of times before as her weary fixate on the unseen blood that stained her hands. It was a foolish act on her part. The belief that blazes within of how she was right, the act of power was proceeded by righteousness.

Thus, Carol Danvers stood there. A frown settled deep into her features, and the ache in her chest worsens at each harsh beat of her heart. Wishful thinking of those aspiring to save the world had aid her guilt to some extent.

"Captain Marvel, the annihilator.”

She hated that designated name for her. It wasn’t immoral at first like she had repeated to herself. Merely a deed driven by greater reasons and amiss was the aftermath. The repetition of such reasons hasn’t hindered the hatred spewed at her by the Kree or as Dar-Benn scowls, detesting her sheer existence for destroying their home.

“You took everything from me. And now I'm returning the favour."

Despite the evident of her life stolen under daylight and into the hands of the Kree. Her previous life was concealed with a forge identity. Memories stolen, only appearing as glimpse of something she couldn’t grasp between reality or fiction. It was wrong of them, and it was wrong for her to had acted that way.

Captain Marvel—powerful, strong, and vicious as she may be—was at fault. Perhaps, she deserved the guilt that drown her and hatred that threaten to ruin every little good in her life. She accepted her action wasn’t something that resolved a conflict. Carol Danvers accepted her fate.

“Don’t do this,” Carol had plead again.

Anger surfaced further as Dar-Benn spoke with gritted teeth. “Why must we stop now? Are you afraid? Where was your concern when you made my people suffer?”

Kamala tried appeasing Dar-Benn with reasons of danger if she was to use both bangles. A power that wouldn’t help either one of them. One wrapped around her arms while the other in the Kree’s possession. Similarly, Monica tried reassuring her that they would find a better solution.

It was then, amidst spoken wrath and a provoked battle that someone appeared behind Dar-Benn. Satisfaction flash in those angered eyes as silence emerged.

However, one reaction seemed to interest them more than the other. Monica and Kamala shared a puzzled look by the sight of Carol; mouth parted in utter shock, eyes wide and glossy as she stared ahead where the lone figure stood.

The physical reality of Carol differs from the trembles inside. Carol swore upon her life, the before and after, she must be dreaming of this or had dreamed of moments alike for far too many mourning nights. It was you just steps away from her. If she counted the seconds to reach you, it wouldn’t take her long as she would have soared towards you faster than light itself.

But you weren’t alike the euphoric persona she had experience before. You were there, surely, and your eyes appeared in their usual hues, however, those orbs stared vacantly into hers that glimmers of unshed tears. The stoic expression on your face and hallow eyes was devoid of the life she adored.

Carol was sure that you were there and yet, you weren’t.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Dar-Benn proclaimed as her knuckles grazed your face in a jeering way. There wasn’t a distinct reaction on your face at her contact.

The concern gesture of a hand pressed on Carol’s upper back doesn’t reduce the tremor in her chest. “Who’s that?” Monica questioned seconds after, voice low and firm.

If she had asked the same question years ago, Carol would have beamed by the increasing emotions to speak of everything that revolved around you. A life that she couldn’t fathom losing and yet, she destroyed it completely.

Instead, Carol ignored the queries of her friends or teammates, the people that she must protect from facing the same devastation. She takes timid steps forward till she reached you. Two taunting steps away from you. Dar-Benn seemed to permit the distance with a chuckle of amusement.

The first warning she comprehend was the absolute indifference in your features. It was unlike you to remain so emotionless. She had expected for more. Words of anger spat at her face, an anticipated brawl between two, and the expression of such disapproval for her mistakes. The finality after the rapid reaction would have been followed by dreaded questions of her disappearance.

Carol was expecting everything that would have illustrate life, and never the flat silence that stirred a frightening ache in her heart for you. She feared the reasons that would reveal why you weren’t the same person she once knew. This wasn’t you. It’s a warning that perched dangerously at the stake of her heart.

Dar-Benn shared a wicked grin when Carol had glance at her. “I found out something about you and something about memories,” she explained vaguely. Her mouth lowered to your ear in pretend whisper as she spoke. “Remember Carol? The love of your life?”

Gasps echoed in the warship at the revelation, followed by confused murmurs between two. In contrast to the dejected look on Carol’s face when yours conveyed no such response. She would rather hear your anger, accompanied by the leader who radiated in vengeance or anything that wouldn’t sought with finality by Dar-Benn’s statement.

“Please,” Carol exhaled shakily. “Let me fix this. It’s my fault so let me fix this,” she said as her shoulder slumped in remorse. She stretched her hands towards Dar-Benn with her palms faced upwards, presenting herself without the glow of her strength. An act of peace than pledge of combat.

There was never a start or an end to the horrid things she had face. Before her truth, it was conditions formed by the Kree that she must follow and now, she was meant to protect the galaxy—and you.

It was you that she had promised as sole reason for her return. Then, the civil war was ensued by the assurance of freeing the occupants of Hala, and the destruction of your home. And yet, the last words of yours, echoed in her mind in tender affection;

“Whatever may happen, good or bad…I don’t think it would stop me from loving you, Carol Danvers.”

It was a mistake, Carol wanted to scream once she had figured out the truth. She had made many of them and still suffered through the ones she couldn’t fix. Like the promise of coming back home to little Monica, she promised the young child so much and felt shame at her failure to fulfil them. It was cowardly of her.

Now, she faced you in absolute danger. Her mistakes came back to haunt her. The evil she had done unto them and them—onto those she cared for.

“You want her?” Dar-Benn nodded towards you. “Or you want this?” she raised her arm, showcasing the glowing quantum bands.

At this moment, Kamala takes a rushed step forward. “Don’t do it, Carol.”

Monica agreed with mutters of a solution. It fades into sounds that doesn’t change the outcome of such faith.

It takes exactly five second. First second for the sound of disapproval at their pleas. Second was the blink of her eyes as she accepted defeat. Third that warned of a battle. Fourth had bleed into her heart of how death does follow her. Fifth was the fight which her body was obligatory to endure for them, especially when you had leapt forward with the emblem of unrecognisable rage.

It takes every throb of her aching heart for her to blast the glowing light that you deemed as the brightest, if not challenged by her smile. You had always spoken of such honied words that she couldn’t understand how her betrayal still rendered you emotionless.

How awful of a scene, how horrid it was to witness the fall of your body alike dominos collapsing to their doom. Then, for a fleeting moment, she had caught glimpse of those eyes she knew and adored, the emotions that bloom in those orbs as you witness the surge of energy directed at you—like you were there, you saw her at such a terrifying scene, you feared of her or something more—and it was empty again. Those eyes that she swore had glistened at the shout of your name from her miserable mouth.

It had happened in seconds. One moment she was reaching for your greying body then the other, she was rushing through space after Dar-Benn’s irrational act and the end, darkness engulf her.

It takes seconds, she thought. For Monica to haul her body from floating aimlessly in space and for Kamal to assist them back on the warship.

The worse was her trembling hands reaching for your body and cradling you in her arms. A cold body rested on hers as warm breath wafted at every apology that fell from her mouth. Tears fell woefully on your face by her grief.

Carol made a mistake. The worst of them had followed her spiteful shadow and cursed those who stood by her. It was unfair. You didn’t deserve the consequences of her action. It wasn’t fair to those whose life was endangered by her. It wasn’t fair to you.

Her bleary eyes stuck on your face, as if, trying to find a way for those eyes to flutter open and for a voice to carry through the eerily silent warship. Then, her mind deemed as the right time to reminisce the sweet moments shared with you. One of them was alike this, your head pressed soundly to her chest and her arms wrapped safely around your warm body. The gleamer of hope that glaze your eyes as you intently listen to her story of life on earth, and your attention doesn’t flatter, only growing with the smile on your face.

The love that blooms in your heart was for her. That, the scary truth, she was so afraid to admit. You had loved her, and she had failed you.

But Carol had loved you too.

She had loved you the first time your eyes had caught her attention. She loved you so, that her heart ceased to pulse by her accord as the truth settled in her chest. This must have been the ultimate consequence of her action. Maybe love wasn’t deserving for someone drowning in remorse by their own fault.

Nothing could change the outcome of this. The murmurs that soon surround her, doesn’t relief the infinite ache in her chest.

It was the end of you, and the end of hope.

hi! if you enjoyed this, do consider buying me a coffee 💜

#carol danvers x reader #carol danvers x you #carol danvers imagine #captain marvel x you #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel imagine

[england-would-fall]

Crowley: angelllllll let’s go out someplace, I’m bored.

Aziraphale: then why don’t you read a book. There are plenty of them accessible through that infernal mobile phone you’re always staring at.

Crowley: iNfErNaL mObI— show you reading on the internet I invited reading on the internet, big reading on the internet fan, me. you wanna read on the internet I’ll show you what’s—HA!

Aziraphale:

Crowley: angel, did you hear me? I said “HA!”

Aziraphale: yes dear, I heard you. And what is the cause of your self-satisfied exclamation?

Crowley: free reading on the internet. This site was one of mine, truly. Not just taking credit this time. Piles and piles of absolutely depraved things, pouring it at all hours of the day and night!

Azirphale: oh my. What a wicked deed. *clicks tongue on cue*

Crowley: it was! Filthy wicked. Just take this one, posted last night: “Fruit of the Earth (Fire of my Soul), 64000 words, enemies to lovers, lingerie link OH HO!, first time, light bondage, rated explicit.”

Aziraphale: Oh. That does sound rather inappropriate for the once-hallowed halls of this shop. Perhaps you’d better put it down, Crowley.

Crowley: Bit odd though, this one. Fandom: Bible. Written by Fell_the_Fallen. Aziraphale?

Aziraphale: you know, suddenly I am feeling rather pecking! Shall we?

#incorrect good omens #good omens #good omens prime #crowley #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #aziraphale fell #Aziracrow #ineffables #ineffable husbands #shitpost

[in-the-glow-of-a-silmaril]

Being in the Fandom as long as I have, I've noticed that it seems like everyone has a slightly different take on feanor refusing to give the silmarils to yavanna. Alright, here is mine.

I've put forward a lot of criticism of the valar in my time. To be honest, it seems to me that they, like the noldor, fell prey to melkor's whispering - that is the kindest explanation I have for their behavior. I think they are well meaning, but proud and imperial, and to their own detriment. They take authority over issues which I think ought not to have come under their perview.

So. Yavanna asks feanor for the silmarils, so she can bring back the trees and confound melkor's evil. She says that she can otherwise never make such a work ever again; she only had it in her to do it once.

Feanor is silent a little while, thinking.

And tulkas says, and I quote, "speak, o noldo, yea or nay! But who shall deny yavanna? And did not the light of the silmarils come from her work in the beginning?" (Emphasis mine)

Aule, a creator himself who i imagine knows better, tells tulkas to be quiet, that they ask more than they know, and to let feanor think.

A good sentiment, but I think it comes too late.

It's the pride! It's always the pride!! Tulkas says to feanor, who are you, elf, to deny yavanna - a Valar? Further, he positions the silmarils as derivatives of yavanna's work, implying that they're not really feanor's anyway.

Look. I'm an artist. Artists take inspiration from each other all the time. You start out in art classes doing master copies - literally recreating a masterwork beat for beat in order to learn how they did it and apply those lessons to your own work moving forward. You take inspiration from other artists constantly. This is not the same as plagiarism; you are not stealing ideas, you are building off of them, taking them in a new direction, adding your own voice. Art history is a conversation held over millennia.

I don't believe the silmarils would have been hallowed or ever held in such esteem if they were only pale copies of yavanna's work. They were not the trees again. Feanor added himself to the conversation, took her concept, and built something new. His work is still his. He is still the artist.

I think that tulkas' brash speech tipped the scales. Now it is not actually about giving up the silmarils - now it is about feanor's dignity as a person.

Listen to what he says in reply: "for the less even as for the greater there is some deed that he may accomplish but once only; and in that deed his heart shall rest[...] and if I must break [the silmarils] I shall break my heart and I shall be slain; first of all the Eldar in Aman."

And Mandos says, Not the first. Which!!!! Okay. So he already knows that feanor's father is dead, or at least someone is, and he says nothing.

But anyway, my point is that feanor is basically saying here, even if I am not a Vala my work matters. My feelings matter. I do not matter less than you.

I happen to agree with him. But I'll come back to that later.

What feanor says a little later, that if the Valar force him to break the gems he will know they are as melkor is, strikes me as very honest. He cannot do anything to them. He's not threatening anything - except his opinion of them. He's basically daring them to act with decency and prove him wrong, and he's not sure they will. It's very telling to me.

To me the thing about it is that the Valar have lost feanor's faith. Not just him, a lot of people's. And a lot of that is because of melkor. But. How they respond to it matters too. Aule tries, bless him. But there is an imperious quality to a lot of the valar's interactions with elves that I mislike.

When feanor hears of his father's death, he runs into the night because, it says, his father was dearer to him than the light of valinor or the works of his hands.

The silmarils are most important to feanor for what they symbolize, I think. He does not love them more than his father and, I would argue, does not love them more than his sons.

The narration says that if feanor had said yes to the Valar things might have turned out better. How, I ask? What does that mean? The silmarils were already stolen. Do you mean to tell me that the Valar would have journeyed forth at once to cast down melkor, avenge Finwe, protect middle earth, and take back the silmarils - only if the silmarils would then have belonged to them? Feanor holds to his claim of them, so they refrain?

I was raised catholic, same as Tolkien. Unlike him I cast it away as I matured. But I am well familiar with it. I think a central difference between that ideology and mine is the concept of submission to authority. Unquestioning faith. It is domineering and patriarchal; I'm not saying that to bring in buzzwords for "thing I don't like," I quite mean it. Holiness in obedience is an idea that I find extremely disturbing. It lends itself to power imbalances and therefore abuse.

The valar have failed to earn feanor's trust. Some of this is melkor's doing. Much of it is their own. I am not excusing feanor's later actions, mind you. But I think that saying no to the Valar should not be counted among his sins. And I think that the Valar display a clear tendency to punish those who do not obey them; the elves who do not come to valinor, for example, are left to fend for themselves in the darkness. By the time lotr rolls around, the valar have basically created a disease (sea longing) to force elves to sail and punish them for resistance.

Again, I am not trying to excuse feanor for his wrongdoings. He kills people, which is worse than being very proud and a bit domineering. But I just really wanted to call the valar out for their shit.

#anti valar rant #yes another one XD #silm #the silmarillion #feanor #manwe #valar

[captainsvscaptains]

Battle of the Ships

Round 2 Part 2 Poll 3

Propaganda under the cut

Minecraft rowboat : Any player can build a wooden boat. Its color depends on the type of wood used. A boat can be occupied by two entities, they can be used to transport mobs, players, or a chest.

Vingilote :

"First of all, I must give credit where credit is due, Vingilot must be an incredibly sturdy vessel to have sailed into the West (to elf heaven) when no other ship could. Some might credit this to Eärendil's skill as a mariner or to the Silmaril on his brow, but I know better. For if he'd attempted it in any other ship, I doubt he would have been successful. This ship was built by Círdan after all (one of the oldest and wisest elves in the world), and it had already seen service in many adventures. No doubt its decks had scars and its silver sails stains from skirmishes survived and great deeds done. No, I've no doubt that Vingilot is the only ship that could make such a journey, Silmaril or no.

Second, after it has been hallowed, it can fly! And be used to fight dragons! That is rad as all hell and I do not think I even need to elaborate as to why -

But I will anyway. I need you to picture the clangor of sword on shield, the shouts of soldiers as they strive and fight and suffer and live, and the shrieking horror of massive dragons being brought to bear on the united armies of those who would oppose Morgoth, the big bad who was bigger and badder than Sauron. I need you to feel the grit and the fire and the anguish and then, imagine looking up to see Vingilot soaring above you - surrounded by a host of great eagles, engaging those fearsome, unbelievable dragons in aerial combat with such valor and grace that the battelfield below falls silent for a moment for both armies have forgotten their conflict for dazed awe. That - that is metal as all hell.

Third, but not least, is on an aesthetic level, Vingilot is a dream ship! Its sails shimmer with unearthly beauty, woven of gossamer silver. And its mighty oars are fashioned of gold! And lo, upon the prow is the image of a magnificent swan with wings unfurled! When Eärendil takes to the night sky, with a Silmaril on his brow, it becomes transparent to let the light through! Majestic! Purely aesthetically, this ship is perfect. 10/10, no notes.

#battle of the ships #tournament polls #round 2 #minecraft boat #minecraft #minecraft fandom #vingilote #vingilot #lotr #lord of the rings #the silmarillion #silmarillion #silmarillion fandom #jrr tolkien #j.r.r. tolkien #tolkien legendarium

[catcas22]

My first attempt at dnd homebrew. Feel free to steal!

Oath of the Penitent

            The Oath of the Penitent is an oath not for a faithful servant of the light, but for one returning to the light. These tarnished paladins seek absolution, to right some past wrong or to earn forgiveness for an unforgotten sin. The penitent fights without a thought for his own life, for the path to redemption is often painted in blood.

            While one sworn to the Oath of the Penitent clings to the hope of redemption, she acknowledges that apologies are but empty words. The penitent proves his resolve through deeds, atoning for past wrongs when atonement can be made, and suffering punishment with stoic resolve when no restitution can suffice.

            It may be that one who has walked in darkness will see the light all the more clearly.

Tenants of the Penitent

            The tenants of the penitent are unyielding, for these paladins understand the price of moral weakness. They judge themselves more harshly than any priest or king.

Atonement. If one hopes for redemption, the same chance must be extended to one’s enemies. While no quarter is owed to an unrepentant evildoer, the penitent must extend mercy to those willing to walk the long road of atonement.

Restitution. Remorse does not blot out action. When encountering those harmed by his past misdeeds, the penitent must make every effort to make restitution for his crimes.

Penance. The life of the penitent is no longer her own -- it is a second chance, offered only so that she might set right her mistakes. The penitent does not shy away from hardship and danger. If the cause is just, the penitent must fight on whatever the cost.

Piety. The penitent understands the wages of sin better than most. While the penitent might be forced at times to choose the lesser of two evils, he acknowledges that the lesser is still an evil. The penitent will not bend her morals for the sake of expediency, or even to preserve his own life.

Oath Spells

3rd - Compelled Duel, Ensnaring Strike

5th - Blindness/Deafness, Crown of Madness

9th - Life Transference, Fear

13th - Freedom of Movement, Death Ward

17th - Hallow, Dawn

Channel Divinity

Stigmata. Draw upon your life’s blood to strike down the wicked. As a bonus action, sacrifice 10 points of HP from your Lay on Hands pool to add 1d8 necrotic damage to each of your weapon attacks. You may gain a number of die equal to your Charisma modifier (minimum of +1). This effect ends when you die, are incapacitated, or take a long rest.

Rebuke the Wicked. If an enemy within 10 feet of you does damage to an ally, you may use your action to lock eyes with that enemy. Your target must make a Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, the enemy takes 2d6 radiant damage and becomes frightened of you for one turn. On a successful save, the enemy takes half as much radiant damage and is not frightened. This ability may be used a number of times equal to your Charisma modifier (minimum of +1).

Aura of Affliction

            Starting at 7th level, your unfaltering resolve in the face of affliction inspires your allies to greater fortitude. So long as you remain conscious, you and any creatures of your choice within 10 feet add your proficiency bonus to any Wisdom or Constitution checks.

            At 18th level, this aura extends to 30 feet.

Divine Judgement

            At 15th level, your Channel Divinity abilities are improved. Stigmata now provides 1d12 per 10 HP sacrificed. Rebuke the Wicked now deals a total of 4d6 radiant damage.

Final Atonement

            At 20th level, you can call upon the desperate courage of one fighting his final battle. Using your action, you undergo a transformation. For 1 minute, you gain the following benefits:

Whenever you cast a paladin spell that has a casting time of 1 action, you can cast it using a bonus action instead.

When you take the Attack action on your turn, you can make one additional attack as part of that action.

When taking damage that would otherwise reduce your HP to 0, if you are not killed outright you may make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw. Upon success, your HP is instead reduced to 1. Upon each use of this ability, the DC increases by 5.

            This effect ends early if you are incapacitated or die. Once you use this feature, you cannot use it again until you finish a long rest.

#dnd #paladin #homebrew

[demonscantgothere]

Adar may have been around all along:

I've seen this theory floating around on Reddit, so after the new set spoilers of seeing how Adar is definitely becoming a prominent character in The Rings of Power well past Season One, I'm getting a strong feeling he isn't an original character, and he just might tie into the lore at some point.

Before the Elves left to track down Morgoth, there is this scene:

These particular sword designs are very familiar. In fact . . .

Broken and older, but almost identical in design.

There are some theories he could be Maglor, the last surviving son of Fëanor, who did in fact have dark hair. There isn't much to support this theory except maybe three other things, though:

When Adar is first introduced, the camera focuses on his left hand, which is covered in a black spiked gauntlet. He wears this gauntlet throughout the whole season. It conceals his left hand entirely.

Now, Maglor's hand was burned from holding a Silmaril:

"And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves. [ . . . ] but he came never back among the people of the Elves."

His hand was burned because of his part in the Kinslayings:

"And Varda hallowed the Simarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hand unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch touch them, but it was scorched and withered;"

. . . Why is Adar so intent on hiding only one of his hands?

The only character who could confirm Adar as Maglor would likely be Elrond. After the Kinslaying at the Havens by the sons of Fëanor, Maglor fostered Elrond and his brother, Elros, and helped raise them. Therefore, Elrond would recognize Adar if, in fact, Adar is Maglor.

I've seen it pointed out that calling him "Adar," which means father in Sindarin, is also an interesting choice and could tie back into Elrond since he became a father to Elrond.

It'd be strange for Maglor to join with Orcs and follow Sauron after his regret with the Silmarils, but not completely unfounded. He is an Elf unaccounted for, who has committed a host of terrible deeds, including murder, so perhaps his regret and self-isolation poisoned him when he didn't return to the Elves.

Perhaps he sought something else out instead.

#adar #the rings of power #trop spoilers #maglor #adar theories

[thefangirlofhp]

22. friend in deed

It is an inherent part of Cassian’s constitution to look after people; a particular character trait that most people would commend him for but others can often hold it in contempt. Azriel understands how it could make a person feel either ways, as he is often subjected to the polarizing effect of Cassian’s care. Azriel is not often placed in the position where he must provide what he is so often given (even if he refuses it) as he often thinks of himself as being the person who fetches the care, instigates its offering and provides the intel: Cassian is upset.

But who would he give this particular note to, such as today? Morrigan herself is on the brink of throwing herself into the sea with rocks chained to her ankles and Amren is as likely to offer the kind of consolation Cassian needs as a lion would roll over for a deer. Rhys is usually Cassian’s comfort, the male who knows exactly what to say to make things better.

But he’s gone, now.

So, when Azriel walks the hallow corridors of the House of Wind, after another futile day of trying to escape Velaris, and finds Cassian lying motionless on the floor of an open balcony, Azriel figures, what the Hell, he’ll make an effort. The House offers a commendable dinner, but Azriel really only takes the roasted chicken and makes a soup out of it. He does gratefully accept the offered cookies, and covers them with a dishcloth.

“Hey,” Azriel stands over Cassian, who’s covering his eyes with his arm. He nudges his side. “Sit up. Made you something.”

“Thanks,” Cassian grumbles, sitting up and accepting the steaming bowl of soup while Azriel makes himself comfortable next to him on the floor.

“You’re all-right?” Azriel asks, tucking his hands under his arms.   

 Cassian shoots him a look out of the corner of his eyes, and delays the answer by trying the soup. “Yeah.”

Since Azriel’s met him and learned about the emotional complexities people were made of, he’s quickly realized Cassian doesn’t have many layers, so to speak. He’s a straightforward male, who grumbles when he’s upset and shouts when he is angry and punches the stuffing out of training dummies when he’s in the mood.

“This was his favorite,” Azriel nods to the soup. “Remember? When it was cold, and we were all miserable, his mother used to make it for us?”

Cassian’s face softens, and he nods once.

“I miss him,” he confesses and Azriel feels the weight it brings. Rhys’s absence has been a hemophiliac wound that would not heal, an amputation that keeps on bleeding. He was everywhere, and now he is nowhere and there’s no place to run away from that fact.

“Me too,” Azriel admits softly. “I…hate not knowing. I’ve never not known for certain before. It eats me alive, to not know and have no ways of knowing.”

Cassian nods again. Then he scoffs. “To think I miss the fucking Illyrians.”

Azriel hasn’t gone that insane.

“I can’t imagine Amarantha hasn’t found out about us by now,” Azriel shares. “I can’t imagine Kier keeping us a secret, or the Illyrians not having a commander. I…I hope she isn’t taking it out on anyone undeserving.”

Cassian’s brow furrows before panic lights his eyes. “Do you think she’s torturing Rhys, for information about us?”

People have many keys to exploit, weak spots that would fell the toughest walls and crumble any person’s constitution in moments—Azriel should know; most of his work as a torturer is not measured in how gruesome the act itself it, but by knowing where exactly to hit.  

“Whatever she does wouldn’t be enough,” Azriel softly reassures him. “Rhys can take it. Because he knows we are safe, and she can’t find out about us.”

Cassian’s face doesn’t lighten, remains dark and thunderous. “I hope he’s all-right. And that one day I’ll get to kill the bitch.”

“We all have our pound of flesh to take,” Azriel says. “I just hope his knee doesn’t bother him; it’s getting cold.”

Cassian shakily exhales. “Yeah. I hope he gets back, soon.”

“Me too.”

#azriel and cassian #cazriel #ppppllllaatonic #azriel #cazriel fic #hurt/comfort agAIN #ngl kinda wondering where everyone's notes are all month :/ #cassian #rhysand

[areyoudreaminof]

Nothing Can Break Me: An Emerie Playlist

You asked for it, and I’m delivering! The holy Valkyrie Trinity is complete! Emerie, what can I say? A survivor who's held her own in a terrible family and society, taking pride in her strengths. She has risen above so much in her very short life. I think Emerie might be the closest thing this series has to Wonder Woman after Feyre. For Emerie, I wanted some heavier sounds and I felt really strongly gravitating toward more female and queer artists. Listen Here! And follow me behind the cut for a deep dive!

Moaning Lisa Smile-Wolf Alice

All in the books and all in her blood And nowhere to run ‘cos it's out of control You wait for something to undo these feelings Waiting and waiting, but it's out of control Scrap the blues if the blues don't work Flash your teeth, though the inside hurts Scrap the blues if the blues don't work Doesn't make you feel better, just makes others feel worst

Circuital-My Morning Jacket

You think you'll find yourself out there Out in the lion’s den In some bloody battle Over belief systems

Or disappear into the vacuum Total neutrality Where you can't lose nothing But nothing can be gained

Well anyway you cut it We're just spinning around Out on the circuit Over the hallowed ground Ending up in the same place That we started out

ANIMAL-PVRIS

When you cage an animal Their claws will start to show They're aimin' at your throat It's time to let them go When you cage an animal Their claws will start to show They're aimin' at your throat It's time to let them go

My Number-Foals

Now the wolf is knocking at my door Bang-bang, it asks for more Stand here, we stand tall We can move beyond these walls And I don't need your counsel And I don't need these city streets And I don't need that good advice 'Cause we can move beyond it now

Cornflake Girl-Tori Amos

Never was a cornflake girl Thought that was a good solution Hanging with the raisin girls She's gone to the other side Giving us a yo-heave-ho Things are getting kind of gross And I go at sleepy time This is not really, this, a-this This is not really happening You bet your life it is You bet your life it is Oh honey, you bet your life

Wolves Without Teeth-Of Monsters and Men

You hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep You're sailing from another world, sinking in my sea Oh, you're feeding on my energy, letting go of it She wants it And I run from wolves, ooh Breathing heavily at my feet And I run from wolves, ooh Tearing into me without teeth

Fox Confessor Brings the Flood-Neko Case

Driving home I see those flooded fields How can people not know what beauty this is? I've taken it for granted my whole life Since the day I was born

What purpose in these deeds? Oh, fox confessor please Who married me to these orphaned blues? "It's not for you to know, but for you to weep and wonder When the death of your civilization precedes you."

Entertain-Sleater-Kinney

So you want to be entertained? Please look away, don't look away We're not here cause we want to entertain Go away, don't go away

Reality is the new fiction they say Truth is truer these days, truth is man-made If you're here cause you want to be entertained Go away, please go away

Runaway-Yeah Yeah Yeahs

I was feeling sad Can't help looking back Highways flew by Run, run away No sense of time Like you to stay Want to keep you inside

All alone Not so strong without these open arms Hold on tight All alone

History Repeats-Brittany Howard

I just don't wanna be back in this place again I mean, I done cried a little Tried a little, failed a little I don’t wanna do it again

I mean, I've already been I came and went I washed my hands with it I don't wanna do it again Don't push me

Anxiety-Lady Hawke

I’ve always been so cautious But I’m sick of feeling nauseous It’s not that I am losing This wall of my own choosing

Take me on a ride Show me how to hide the voice in my head Meet me on the road, tell me all you know I’m here on my own

Should Have Known Better-Sufjan Stevens

I should have known better To see what I could see My black shroud Holding down my feelings A pillar for my enemies

I should have known better Nothing can be changed The past is still the past The bridge to nowhere I should have wrote a letter Explaining what I feel, that empty feeling

Last Girl-Soccer Mommy

I want to be like your last girl She's the sun in your cold world and I am just a dying flower I don't hold the summer in my eyes

Maybe I'm just feeling like I don't have a chance this time 'Cause I don't have a chance this time, I swear

Help, I'm Alive-Metric

If we're still alive My regrets are few If my life is mine What shouldn't I do? I get wherever I'm going I get whatever I need While my blood's still flowing And my heart still beats

Taglist: @aldbooks @bookofmirth @brieq @bagelfyre @c-e-d-dreamer @cursebrkr @darling-archeron @damedechance @gwyns @gimme-mor @harrysringss @highqueenmorrigan @historiaxvanserra @ineffable-resplendence @kataravimes-of-the-shire @krem-does-stuff @krem-has-a-mess @kingofsummer93 @lidiacervos @moononastring @octobers-veryown @ofduskanddreams @panicatthenightcourt @queercontrarian @reverie-tales @asnowfern @spell-cleavers @separatist-apologist @thesistersarcheron @thelovelymadone @the-lonelybarricade @ultadverb @vulpes-fennec @velidewrites @vanserrass @yazthebookish @mossytrashcan @emerieweekofficial @shadowsxgwynriel @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @archecosmo @bennylavasbuns @lilith-clawthorne-stan @tuzna-pesma-snova @andrigyn @lulling-night-sky @headcanonheadcase @moodymelanist @foreverinelysian

#emerie #acotar playlist project #pro Emerie #nesta #Gwyn #valkyries #here we go lesbians! #Spotify

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 1 (11th Dec)

memory | history | home

Weary is the heart that long fought

Desperately wishing for respite;

Swinging the sword without a thought,

Unwilling to be gripped by fright.

Longing for a home, it is said,

Tarnishes the knight’s iron fist

For it allows the surge of dread

And plunges his mind into mist.

To this only the weakest bow,

Recalling the eyes of a lass,

Until death comes to kiss their brow

And their hair be one with the grass.

There are some to whom home means all;

It means to laugh, never to bore,

Only ever in sleep to fall,

With always a friend at the door.

It is the warm bed of a spouse,

Bedtime stories filling the air,

In the morning with joy to rouse

To love and share without a care.

It is the embrace of a child,

Tending to a flower in bloom,

Sweet nothings that are always smiled,

Weaving happiness on the loom.

It is the bliss of sharing bread,

The delicate touch of a hand,

The planning of the years ahead,

Fiery passion ever fanned.

It is merry singing around ales,

Smoking one’s pipe in the garden,

Throwing crumbs for birds on the trails,

And sculpted clay left to harden.

It is the flavour of pastries,

Crackling fire in the hearth,

Wee buds on the branches of trees,

Never again to suffer dearth.

Home is the Hobbit who still sings,

Deadening the horns of war;

Embracing melody, of all things,

Chugging pints and demanding more.

In the morn his head shall hammer,

And yet his smile will linger, still!

He will heed to his pal’s yammer

And indulge to his every thrill.

Nobody could separate them

Although many a soul has tried;

Their friendship is a precious gem,

One he covets and deems with pride.

Home are the prince and his maiden,

Nestled in the fire’s halo,

Reading a tale with lore laden

Affection in their hearts aglow.

Forsaking swords for a garden,

Healing their harrowing sorrows

Living in woods seldom trodden,

Their love mends wounds that pain hallows.

Kissing her mane of golden hair,

On his shoulder her head repose,

Beholding his lady so fair,

He strokes the womb where their child grows.

Home is where new seeds are planted,

Where the gardener to sprouts must tend;

Little pebbles always wanted

For their safety always to fend.

When with them he has time to spend

He embarks on a story spree,

Telling them of a departed friend,

Balancing the book on his knee.

Content with the life that he leads,

He finds his soft, fluffy pillow;

He forgets his heroic deeds,

Holds the one he wed by the willow.

Home is the proud and eager head

Perched atop his horse’s saddle;

He must rule in his uncle’s stead,

There is no time to be addle.

Admiring his dear town,

Walled and unharmed upon its mount,

No longer fears its weighty crown,

Sure that on others he can count.

With a grin from his sun-kissed bride,

He feels his grief alleviate;

As long as she stands by his side,

He could not know a better fate.

Home is a white city ahead,

A golden hall on rocky hill,

In a small hole, the cosy bed,

White shores that pained hearts with joy fill.

Home is what many have fought for,

Striving to defend its shelter;

Few have their names inscribed in lore

Though their beliefs never falter.

Fortunate enough to return,

They trade the sword for sitting still;

From them, perhaps, we have to learn,

For if they do not inspire, who will?

#lotrweek #lord of the rings #poetry #poem #Merry #Pippin #Faramir #Eowyn #Éowyn #Farawyn #Sam #Rosie #Éomer #Lothíriel #Eomer #Lothiriel

[soteirahere]

Genocidal Village

This is a call to Hekate written about a fictional village that genocided an indigenous strip.

In the depths of night, when shadows grow, I call upon Hekate, the goddess of the crossroads. Hear my plea, O mistress of the dark, And lend your power to my hallowed mark.

This village, stained with genocide's hand, Has spilled the blood of an innocent band. Their cries for justice echo through the veil, Unanswered, their souls forever wail.

Hekate, I summon thee to this place, To bring forth judgment, and erase The wicked deeds that scar this land, With your torch, expose their sins so grand.

Let madness seep into their minds, A curse to pay for their vicious crimes. May their sanity unravel, thread by thread, As punishment for the innocent dead.

Goddess of magic, I invoke your might, To set things right on this fateful night. Curse this village with a heavy hand, And make them suffer, across the land.

Torment their thoughts, both day and night, With visions of terror, a dreadful sight. Let them feel the weight of their misdeeds, As insanity blooms like twisted weeds.

Hekate, I offer you this solemn rite, To balance the scales, and set things right. May your vengeance be swift, your justice true, And may the wicked pay for the harm they drew.

So mote it be, by your ancient power, Let this curse take hold, from this very hour. The village shall reap what they have sown, With madness and sorrow, forever known.

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