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orthodoxadventure · 2 months

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I don't usually do this sort of thing but its sort of an All-Hands-On-Deck situation. Please pray for the mother of my friend, She was diagnosed with cancer some time ago, but it has since spread to her brain.

Of course I will pray, may God bless her and provide her with healing and comfort. And may God also bless and comfort those family members, friends, and all those that know her who are also in pain and anxiety because of her suffering.

Under the Readmore, I have attached some prayers for those with cancer that you might find to be helpful. I would especially recommend looking into some of the Patrons associated with Cancer patients and asking for their aid. For example St. Parthenios, St. Nektarios, St. Panteleimon

Through Your illuminating and sanctifying Spirit, Lord, guide through medical science those who are seeking through studies to exterminate its wickedness, reveal to them the medicine and the way of healing, and grant strength to those who are suffering and patience and respite in their pain, rewarding them all with the healing of their soul and body, through the intercessions of our Most-blessed Lady the Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary, the Life-Giving Spring, whose waters in the Queen City were poured over those who were sick with cancer and their suffering ceased, as well as those of our Holy Father Parthenios, Bishop of Lampakos, the holy, glorious and wonderworking Unmercenaries, the holy, glorious Great Martyr and Healer Panteleimon, and all Your Saints. Amen.

O Most-Pure Mother of God, O Queen of All! Hearken unto our much-afflicted sighing and look upon thy children, suffering from unhealed ailments, who fall down before thee with faith! As a bird covers its nestlings with its wings, so do thou now, who art ever present, cover us with thy greatly healing omophor in that place where hope be. There where bitter sorrows overcome us, there will patience and rest be revealed. Where the torment of despair dwells in the soul, there will shine the ineffable Light of Divinity! Console the fainthearted, strengthen the weak, bestow softening and enlightenment upon embittered hearts. Heal thine ailing people, O All-merciful Queen!

Bless the minds and hands of our physicians, that they might serve as instruments of the All-powerful Physician, Christ our Saviour. We pray that thou mightest truly live with us, O Sovereign Lady!

Stretch out thy hands, filled with healing and cures, O Joy of the sorrowful, Consolation in afflictions, that having speedily received miraculous help, we may glorify the Life-creating and Undivided Trinity, the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, unto ages of ages. Amen.

O Christ, Who alone art our Defender: Visit and heal Thy suffering servant [name], delivering her from sickness and grievous pains. Raise her up that she may sing to Thee and praise Thee without ceasing, through the prayers of the Theotokos, O Thou Who alone lovest mankind.

Lord have mercy. O Lord Almighty, the Healer of our souls and bodies, You Who put down and raise up, Who chastise and heal also; do You now, in Your great mercy, visit our sister (Name), who is sick Stretch forth Your hand that is full of healing and health, and get her up from her bed, and cure her of her illness.

Put away from her the spirit of disease and of every malady, pain and fever to which she is bound

If she has sins and transgressions, grant to her remission and forgiveness, in that You love mankind.

Yea, Lord my God, pity Your creation, through the compassions of Your Only-Begotten Son, together with Your All-Holy, Good and Life-creating Spirit, with Whom You are blessed, both now and ever, and to the ages of ages. Amen.

O Lord our God, Who by a word alone did heal all diseases, Who did cure the kinswoman of Peter,

You Who chastise with pity and heal according to Your goodness;Who are able to put aside every sickness and infirmity, do You Yourself, the same Lord, grant aid to Your servant _____________and cure them of every sickness of which she is grieved.

Send down upon them Your great mercy, and if it be Your will, give to _____________ health and a complete recovery; for You are the Physician of our souls and bodies, and to You do we send up Glory: to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Both now and ever, and to the ages of ages. Amen

O God, our help in time of need, Who are just and merciful, and Who inclines to the supplications of His people.

Look down upon ____________and have mercy on them and deliver them from the trouble that now besets them.

Deal with ____________ not according to their iniquities, but according to Your manifold mercies, for we are the works of Your hands, and You know our weaknesses.

I pray to you to grant ____________ Your divine helping grace, and endow them with patience and strength to endure their hardships with complete submission to Your Will.

Only You know our misery and sufferings, and to You, our only hope and refuge, we flee for relief and comfort, trusting in Your infinite love and compassion, that in due time, when You know best, You will deliver ____________ from this trouble, and turn their distress into comfort.

We then shall rejoice in Your mercy, and exalt and praise Your Holy Name, O Father, Son and Holy Spirit, both now and forever and to the ages of ages. Amen

#Prayer #Prayer request #Prayer req #Urgent prayer request #urgent prayer req

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bethanydelleman · 6 months

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Northanger Abbey Readthrough Ch 22

Well the manuscript is a washing bill. (The Thing About Austen podcast has a great episode about this btw).

She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable!—Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!

Catherine also deduces that she had so much trouble with the lock because she was the one who locked it, it was left open for guests to use. She is mortified and doesn't want Henry to find out what she's been doing. So she smoothly transitions into... loving hyacinths.

it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible

Who said this book has bad writing, there are so many quotable lines! So much to dwell on. I love Henry saying it will help Catherine go out of doors and she's like, "Pft, you can't get me inside." Also asking if Eleanor has a pleasant mode of instruction is totally a callback to Catherine comparing learning to torment!

The General talks about needing to purchase a new tea set soon and Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him. ✈️✈️✈️ Then Catherine asks about Woodston and the General does that thing again where he pretends to defer to Eleanor, but then actually just steamrolls over her and answers himself. Grrrr

So then the General gaslights Catherine so hard she thinks she is disappointing him by going on a walk. I hate this man. He clearly wants to go for a walk but pretends that it is her idea which leaves Catherine super confused. Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. He's selfish and regimented, Catherine., that's the whole mystery.

The general listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour.

He is kind of funny though...

General Tilney demanding praise reminds me of Mr. Collins:

The general was flattered by her looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before

Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind... (this is his own grounds) Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship’s praise into his own hands. Pride & Prejudice

Also, it's a tiny line, but the fact that General Tilney is growing greenhouse pineapples is apparently a huge indicator of his wealth. For those who don't know, pineapples take about 2 years per fruit and each plant only grows 1. In England, you would need year-round heated greenhouses, and just an insane amount of wealth. Especially if he's just eating them himself and not selling them, this would be so expensive I can't even.

Catherine cannot resist a Gothic looking path, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, but the General will not join them. This is the beginning of Catherine's ill founded suspicions that General Tilney did not love his wife and also... murdered her. Or locked her up! Every word Eleanor says only seems to confirm her notions!

I love this: She had often read of such characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the contrary. Listen to wise Mr. Allen, Catherine!

Now, at some point I have to address the elephant in the room that is Catherine letting her imagination get the best of her and believing that General Tilney is either a wife murderer or... Edward Rochester 30 years too early. I think it has a lot to do with things like this:

Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. (from General Tilney)

Catherine's confusion is between mundane evil (verbally abusive towards his children, overbearing) and dramatic evil. General Tilney is not a good person, Catherine's final conclusion way at the end is that she didn't actually get him wrong in character, but she erred in the expression of that character. Which is probably why Henry is pretty quick to forgive her, it's not like his father is a super nice person and he knows it.

It is clear that Catherine is picking up on something real. General Tilney does have an explosive temper, his children are afraid of him, he was cruel to his wife (if he treated her anything like Eleanor that couldn't have been fun), and his kindness feels oppressive because it is ultimately false. Not knowing anyone like the General, Catherine defaults to the evil she does know, which is in her dramatic horrid novels.

Anyway, the point is, General Tilney is still the worst even if he didn't murder his wife and Catherine wasn't totally insane to think of it.

Oh, also her confusion about the tour of the house. What Catherine is not picking up on is the General's deep desire to brag about his house.

#northanger abbey month #northanger abbey readthrough #northanger abbey #general tilney #catherine morland #learning to love a hyacinth

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oldestenemy · 5 months

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The wizard is glad they are sent to Cyrus when things have settled. That again, he is the one who knows anything of the world they are seeking, out of everyone.

“I want you to seek out an old…friend of mine.” He explains the bones of their quest—find Ivan the Great, have him aid in finding Baba Yaga, convince her to help with Bartleby’s ailment—and it feels painfully simple. But they know better. It will not remain so.

“Polaris lies at the very edge of the Spiral—on the horizon as it were—Where land meets sky, where the worlds fall off into the endless expanse of the in-between. Why it would cause Bartleby to fall ill, I cannot begin to fathom. But if there are answers to be found in Polaris, you would be the one to find them.”

The spiral key for Polaris looks like a little three pronged lamp-post. Silvery and shining faintly.

They are going to need to invest in a bigger keyring soon…

Before going, a note of importance.

“I know the others have it handled, but—”

“—Rest assured I will keep eyes and ears out for Mr. Grimwater.” Cyrus finishes before they get the words out. It offers a relief the wizard can barely explain. They cannot shake the feeling that there is a wrongness to his disappearance, a danger around it.

“Thank you. Really.” They force themself not to add for everything.

They have been trying harder to make their interactions with other people feel less final.

It’s hard.

But they’re trying.

Penny and Malorn are standing by Bartleby waiting for them.

It’s not going to be like the last time.

There is urgency here, yes, but they are not sprinting forward after their own demise.

“Be careful,” Penny urges as soon as they are in earshot.

“I will be,” the wizard responds, “this—this won’t be as bad as the other worlds I’ve been to in the last year. In and out.” Maybe if they speak that into existence it will become true. Probably not.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Malorn says, “if you need us, or need a break—if you can get one—I’ll be here or in Dragonspyre.”

“I’m going back to Marleybone for a while to visit my parents,” Penny adds, “but promise if something happens—”

“—You’ll be the first to know.” The wizard assures her.

It’s a lie.

They are going to keep these things as far from the others as they can manage.

This is the first time they’ve walked through Bartleby in…a very long time. It looks different. Leaves falling and wilting in every corner, autumn colors invade upon the green, not vibrant but sickly and muted. They try not to think that it’s helping. The fact that it has changed within the chamber means it is not throwing them so distinctly back into the moments after Azteca.

The door opens onto a chill, onto the distinct smell of snow.

“Ahem!”

A…penguin?

A…French penguin.

The inhabitants of the spiral never cease to be interesting at least.

Sometimes their memories from Earth have use here. But why anyone would decide for penguins to be French—especially in a locale that seems more like tsarist Russia—they don’t particularly have time to dwell on. The only reason it’s familiar at all is because they had been fixated on that animated movie about a missing Russian princess for several years of their young childhood. They can almost hear the music as they walk through the streets.

Routine falls into place.

Maybe it’s the fact that prior to this they were involved in an outright war, but the fighting here seems almost trivial. Before they know it, they are wrapped up in a revolution, throwing fish into the harbor, following Red Rosa to whatever she needs.

And then they are assisting a polar bear in dancing a ballet—and gods that movie just keeps coming back to pester them doesn’t it—but it feels good to be doing something that isn’t…dueling. Somewhere along the line one of the Patriôtes had handed the wizard a saber that was now functioning as their wand—something they haven’t really done since Avalon, and before that Dragonspyre—it makes the battles a bit visceral for their tastes, especially when they are not yet sure of their purpose here.

Find Ivan.

This does prove to be fairly straightforward, and following him through his aid to the Patriôtes and their rebellion is both easy and—a little entertaining. There is an element of joy that underlies every act of resistance, and Ivan’s intensity in battle has them missing Dyvim. But like everyone, they leave him when the time comes. Walking into the cold expansive woods alone in search of Baba Yaga.

An eerie silence permeates this part of the forest. It is as though all the wildlife were holding its breath.

Raven is loud here, near as loud as she is in Grizzleheim.

The wizard ignores her. They have been doing so for months now, still angry for Nidavellir, for her dragging Malorn and the other necromancers into problems that did not need to be theirs. But they never went back to see her, they meant to at least try and get answers about Lorcan—

But then Duncan went missing, and now this.

It doesn’t matter.

Grandmother Raven is not going anywhere.

They can go and shout themself hoarse at her perch whenever the mood strikes.

What the wizard does find in this silent clearing of the wood, is a girl.

A human girl.

Which—under many circumstances shouldn’t be considered strange, but the only other human they’ve seen in Polaris thus far is Rasputin. It’s not often they run into people who aren’t also some kind of creature. Though on closer inspection, perhaps this girl is some kind of creature. There are inky black feathers shifting in her hair that look as though they sprout straight from her scalp along with it.

Later they learn the girl—Mellori—is Baba Yaga’s daughter. Given that the witch herself lives inside a house with chicken legs, Mellori’s feathered hair no longer strikes them as surprising. Nor does her immediate act of following them to the Auroracle. Mellori reminds them of their younger self. Hungry for adventure and mystery.

The wizard isn’t sure yet if that is a welcome comfort, or a bad omen for their new friend’s future.

Read the whole series here <3

#wizard101 #wizard101 fic #wizzy fandom #wiz101 #wizard101 fanfiction #wizard101 fanfic #polaris #arc 3 #mellori #w101 #i have a writeblr for this but shh #lark is still playing funky wizard game from their childhood

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eilinelsghost · 2 months

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ooh could you do a perspective flip for that one atandil flashback where finrod stumbles upon Finarfin and Olwë having A Talk? ty!!!

For this fic-specific ask game. Still happily taking these if anyone has more to send.

Absolutely! It's more of a rough draft than I usually do for Atandil, but here you go...

(Original scene can be found in Here in Our Frailty, part 6 of the Atandil series)

Arafinwë’s fingers fidgeted over the crest rail before him. It was carved to mimic the lithe seabeasts who roamed the waters, their supple scales twisting beneath his touch. They steadied him, these intricate patterns. It calmed him to follow their trail across the wood.

“The hints are no longer whispers—they are now open council in Tirion’s square. Thy people have hearkened too closely and they grow restless, Arafinwë.” Olwë’s voice was tight. “Thou hast no wish to see it, I know.”

Arafinwë looked up in protest, but the words faltered upon his tongue. It was not a baseless observation. Olwë knew him better than most and it did not take an especial closeness to deduce intent from his avoidance of the white city. Indeed he had no wish either to see the strife or be drawn into its tendrils.

“But we know it even here,” the lord of Alqualondë continued over the other’s dismissive snort, “more markedly perhaps than do thine own folk who have accustomed themselves by degrees, while we are met with the fresh shock of it at every encounter. There is danger in this disquiet.”

“I am not blind to it, atta.”

“Art thou not? My daughter has told me more yet of what she heard rumored in Tirion.”

Arafinwë flinched at this and ran his hand over the spiked back of a sea serpent.

“Of the hildor.”

“The Aftercomers.” He let his palm press against the spikes. The sharp bite of their points counterbalanced the trepidation that rose when the Secondborn were named. It had been from Findekáno that he heard the rumor first, a half-jesting quip that lodged uneasily in his breast and settled ever deeper as the days drew on. It was more than discomfort, it was a conviction, heavy and sure. Arafinwë rarely knew the sharp instances of foresight that his wife described, blinding strikes amid the day’s activity or the night’s rest, but there in his brother’s gardens he had felt a creeping fear rise about the edges of his mind. Some ill there was that awaited here.

“Is this a true whisper or but the further spite of thy kin?”

“I know not.” He released his grip on the sea serpent and looked in fascination at the indentations left along his flesh. “It must be true, I deem, at least in part, for the Valar deny it not. Though I cannot believe such malice is in their nature, to keep us here from jealousy or avarice. If we are to relinquish Endórë to the Secondborn Children, then surely it is by the will of the One and no petty contempt.” It was an appeal, he realized as he spoke it aloud, and it was only with an effort that he kept the desperation from his voice. “Besides,” he added, and attempted a dismissive shrug, “what use have we for the shadows? Let the little race have Endórë—here we dwell in the Light.”

”Nay,” Olwë raised his hand reassuringly. “Save thy persuasion for thy father’s court. I entertain no belief that the Lords of the West would disinherit any of the Eruhín. But be wary, Arafinwë, lest thou scorn overmuch what thou knowest not. Long I lingered in those lands thou hast dismissed as darkness, and greatly did we love them. They are great and beautiful yet, despite—“

He broke off as his eyes drifted the door and Arafinwë turned in reflex to follow his gaze. His breath caught with a sharp hiss as he saw his son at the door, lingering a half step outside the threshold with avid curiosity writ upon every feature. He was attired for the evening’s meal, simply as was his wont among his mother’s people, the only adornment a strand of pearls braided into his hair.

No, there was one other. There had been a brief flash of silver as he shifted in the archway and Arafinwë whitened as he spied the source—even Findaráto carried a blade. A small thing, in truth, a knife more suited to trimming parchment than to wielding with ill intent, but a blade it was nonetheless. And his son wore it tucked into his belt and not set upon a table of study.

“Findaráto!” Arafinwë’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp, rebuke spilling out from his fear. “Hie hence! It is beneath thy blood to listen at doorways.”

Thanks so much for the ask! This was really fun to dig into a bit more.

#asks and answers #tumblr games #POV change #Atandil #finrod #finarfin #olwë #my fic

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middle-earth-mythopoeia · 1 year

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Comparing the Doom of Mandos and Morgoth’s curse

There are remarkable similarities between the Doom of Mandos and Morgoth’s curse against Húrin.

“But upon all whom you love my thought shall weigh as a cloud of Doom, and it shall bring them down into darkness and despair. Wherever they go, evil shall arise. Whenever they speak, their words shall bring ill counsel. Whatsoever they do shall turn against them. They shall die without hope, cursing both life and death.” — Morgoth’s curse

“On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well… For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death’s shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief…” — The Doom of Mandos

Did Mandos lay a curse on the Noldor? Reading these quotes side by side, the answer might appear to be yes.

But despite the line “upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also”, not all the Noldor who left Valinor met the same fates: many of them died tragic deaths, but not all (Idril and Galadriel, for instance), whereas the work of Morgoth’s curse on Húrin’s family is clear.

And the words of the Doom of Mandos, in large part, describe what Fëanor and his sons have already inflicted on themselves by swearing the Oath (“Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them”), and the natural consequence of going to Beleriand, where the Noldor intend to make war (“slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be”).

There is also the conditional nature of the Doom of Mandos: the Noldor are told that if they do not stay and repent, then this doom will be laid on them. Morgoth, needless to say, doesn’t give Húrin a choice.

Another difference is the Doom of Mandos was issued in response to the Kinslaying (“Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman”), whereas Morgoth’s curse was issued in response to Húrin’s heroic resistance against him.

For all of these reasons I think the Doom of Mandos is more accurately called a prophecy, not a curse, but nevertheless it was called both of these things: the Curse of Mandos and the Prophecy of the North.

I don’t believe that Mandos cursed the Noldor—but what if some of them believed he did? What if there were debates among the Noldor as to which of these things it was: prophecy or curse? I can see some of them believing it was a curse, especially the Fëanorians, who already think the Valar are tyrants.

Fëanor also believed that the Valar wanted to let Men to supplant the Elves in Middle-earth, and in light of this, he probably saw the Doom of Mandos as further proof: “And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.”

Perhaps it was even Fëanor who named it the Curse of Mandos.

But what can account for the similarities between the words of Morgoth’s curse and the Doom of Mandos? And where did the words of the curse come from? The Doom of Mandos was heard by many, but Morgoth’s curse was heard only by Húrin. Did he recount it to the Elves? Or did Elvish historians write the words that they believe Morgoth would have said, knowingly or unknowingly making his curse similar to the Doom of Mandos? Or did Morgoth himself know the words of the Doom of Mandos, and knowingly or unknowingly mirror it? All are intriguing possibilities.

There is another interesting connection between the Doom of Mandos and Morgoth’s curse: Gondolin. The Book of Lost Tales gives an early version of the Doom of Mandos ending with the words “Great is the fall of Gondolin.” Gondolin was also the reason Morgoth cursed Húrin: because he would not reveal its location. But when Húrin was freed, he went to the mountains surrounding Gondolin and called out to Turgon, and “Morgoth smiled, and knew now clearly in what region Turgon dwelt” (The War of the Jewels). So the Doom of Mandos prophesied that Gondolin would fall, and Morgoth’s curse helped bring about its fall.

#Did Morgoth know the words of the Doom of Mandos - and if so #did he also know of the prophecy about Gondolin?#*shakes Tolkien by the shoulders* I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS #Morgoth #Doom of Mandos #Feanor #Hurin #my writing

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too-destiny-panda · 5 months

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Wyllvember Day 30: Epilogue

A/N: And so, the end of this wonderful event upon us. I would like to thank everyone that took the time to read, to comment and to like my fics. I would like to especially thank @sagscrib and @commander-yinello, both for posting their prompts that gave me the inspiration adn motivation I needed to write something, and for always taking the time to look over my works. As this is the last prompt of Wyllvember, I wrote two drabbles instead of one, as I believe our dear Wyll deserves two happy endings. And with that, I bid farewell to the month of November, and wish you all a wonderful rest of 2023. -Blue

WC: 1299

With each action taken, each word taken, people are making decisions that affect their destinies. Even a small thing such as deciding what colour to wear changes the course of the day. And this story truly had many different paths to take. This humble author has decided to explore two of them. Both of them are happy, for few deserve anything but happiness, and the person that is the object of my focus deserves it tenfold for all his sacrifices. So, instead of dwelling on the what if’s, digging through the misfortune that could befall him, this humble author has decided that for once, a happily ever after is in order. And what is better than one happy ending? Two, of course. And with that, dear reader, this author bids you farewell. May your journeys be full of joy and discoveries.

Epilogue 1- The Blade of Avernus

As the Netherbrain fell, and everyone got their bearings, the parasites withering into nothing but dissipating arcane energy in their skulls, for the first time in weeks, the odd group of heroes could breathe. None of them could explain what they felt as weights have been lifted off shoulders, curses have been dispelled, bombs have been disarmed. It was magnificent. For just a few moments, they were the undeniable victors of their dilemma, the writers of their own destinies without any supernatural being dictating what they can and cannot do. Those few moments were dampened by the rising sun, Astarion’s skin greying and flaking off until he swiftly found cover. The second one was Karlach’s heart.

Everyone was aware of her condition, but the tiefling was surprisingly adept at hiding the severity of it up until now. And though it was clear something must be done to keep her alive, she waved off any concerns, saying that there was still a little bit of time before it became critical. And so, Wyll had little bit of downtime to spend with his lover, their talks of the future settling on travelling to Avernus to slay every fiend that shows ill will. When morning came, it was apparent that they would welcome a third person on their journey. Despite Karlach’s hesitation, they eventually convinced her to come with them, if only to buy her some time to fix the engine. And as they stepped into the Hell’s, the ones holding the strings (except for the archdevils and the especially arrogant cambions) shivered as a sense of dread accumulated in their entrails, it’s unknown source quickly approaching.

Few would venture into the Hells willingly, but when one survives a magically enhanced Elder Brain, three Chosen, and several other remarkable perils, they figure they might as well tempt fate for a little while longer. And so, the three heroes carved a bloody path through fire and desolation, hunting and killing fiends of all ranks (with periodical check-ins with the Grand Duke, as the father-son bond slowly recovered). Eventually, they made enough disruptions for even Mizora to begin fearing for her life. Perhaps she thought that Zariel would protect her forever, perhaps she thought herself safe once the Blade of Frontiers lost his warlock powers. Whatever it was, she was wrong. For the Blade of Frontiers was no more, in his stead rising the Blade of Avernus, staunchly determined to keep her from harming the world with her existence anymore than she already has.

One day, a portal opened in an abandoned ruin in a forgotten corner of Faerun, three figures emerging from it. One was an imposing figure, the once jagged edge of a broken horn now slightly softened from headbutting, a mechanical heart no longer in danger of overheating but fully ready to make use of a certain blacksmith’s expertise. Another, with a crow perched on their shoulder, a quiet confidence in their posture as an acorn is held safely in a pouch around their neck. And finally, the last one, curved horns a contrast against the brightness of the portal, a blue skinned head held by its copper hair in one hand and a blade in the other. The Blade of Avernus has returned home at last, one victory closer to his goal.

Epilogue 2- Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard

Celebrations were held all over the lands, though the biggest merriment was surely in Baldur’s Gate, the city most threatened by the cult of the Absolute. The streets were still filled with debris and corpses of mind flayers and allies alike, some mourning their loved ones while celebrating a new dawn where they live to honour them. Even the strange gaggle of adventurers were celebrating, though there was an order of business first. By returning the Crown of Karsus to Mystra, Gale earned her favour and although he refused to become her Chosen, he did ask for one last favour: to keep Karlach from overheating. Of course, it was a temporary measure until a more permanent cooling system was found, but it lifted the mood, nonetheless.

Amidst the loud cheers and merry conversation, Wyll Ravengard stood off to the side, looking upon the ruins of the city as he contemplated his future. Grand Duke. A title he dreamed of as a boy, and quickly stopped dreaming about it after he accompanied his father to one meeting. And now here he was, that title once again hovering in his mind, though this time it was a certainty. No longer would he be free to travel across the continent, slaying monsters and helping those in need. Instead, he would make important decisions, draft up and approve laws, navigate court intrigue to try and ensure the prosperity of the city and its surroundings. A bittersweet feeling rose in his chest at the thought of being guided by his father once again, though this time, he sensed, he wouldn’t be as strict, for fear of driving his son away once more. A lot of talking would have to take place between the two before the canyon healed, and maybe it never would. But as long as Ulder was willing to do his best to atone, to earn his son’s forgiveness (no matter how much Wyll believed there was nothing to forgive), they could at least somewhat repair the bond they once shared.

Even as he woke up the next day, his partner pressed into his back, he still though about his newly acquired position. All the good he could do, as well as harm if he wasn’t careful. It has been a while since he navigated court intrigue, and he was admittedly rusty at some of the finer points of noble etiquette, but the arm thrown over his waist reminded him he wouldn’t be alone. The acorns safely kept in the pockets of their clothes were proof of the promise he had made, one he intended to fulfil as soon as possible. Whether it be a grand and lavish wedding, full of refreshments of the utmost quality with guests he had never even met before and a ceremony that could put a god to shame, or perhaps a small gathering of their closest friends and family, with a homey and relaxed atmosphere and a heartfelt gathering, it didn’t matter to him, as long as he could call them his on paper as well. His heart fluttered as he stroked their skin, anticipation and excitement building in his lungs at the thought of his newfound future.

And what a future it was. Soon, people far and wide heard of the just, kind but firm, Archduke Wyll Ravengard and his lovely spouse, their love so sickeningly romantic many blushed at the sight. And months later, news spread of a different kind of love and happiness, as now seemingly everyone knew that the young Archduke was now granted a new title; father.

#baldur's gate wyll #wyll #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #wyll x tav #blue writes #wyllvember

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fridaverse-graveyard · 2 months

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i’m fed up.

okay, i’m just going to leave the fucking koopaling fandom for a while, or at least on this goddamn app. i’m not naming anyone out of respect for their privacy, because even after everything i have no ill will towards any of them.

i drew NSFW of frida and ludwig on twitter. i can understand why that thought can make people uncomfortable, since the dude has no canon age. but that’s the thing, he has no canon age. he can be interpreted any way, i just see him as an adult. if he were canonically a minor, i wouldn’t have even shipped him with frida.

that got me blocked by someone at first, but at the same time i unknowingly disrespected their boundaries. so to them, i’m sorry for that. it wasn’t my intention whatsoever, and i should have read your DNI criteria. i just blindly followed you and kept scrolling. but later on, i drew fanart of a ludwig redesign for a different artist, i got outed by someone and blocked by them as well. i was upset, but i moved on. i didn’t dwell over it. since then i had been unblocked by said artist, and i thought we would be on decent terms, which was cool. fine. but then, it wasn’t.

i vented to my friend about how i was worried things might be awkward or have tension because of similar mutuals and all that. the idea of somehow talking shit out was just a hypothetical for me. wishful thinking was all it was, but i wasn’t actually going to do anything about it as i didn’t want to disrespect any boundaries. but my friend took it upon himself to dm one of them to try and see if they’d talk things out. but here’s the thing, I DIDN’T ASK HIM TO. I DIDNT EVEN KNOW HE DID IT UNTIL AFTER THE FACT, and by that point it was already too late. i got blocked again, for something i had no knowledge of. and for that, AGAIN, i’m sorry.

so, i’m fucking done. i’m upset at my friend for what he did, especially since it was something i didn’t want, and i’m upset because of the aftermath. i’m not a bad person, and i’m sorry if that’s what you think of me. i’m just someone who tries to go to work, do school and draw when i have the chance.

i’ve loved the koopalings ever since i was a kid, and all i wanted to try and talk with other people in the fandom as well, despite the circumstances. all i’ve done is literally just fucking EXIST. but after this, i’m just done. i’ve made my statement, and i’m gonna leave it here, and take a long break from sharing a damn thing on here.

#koopalings

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zarya-zaryanitsa · 2 years

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Notes on oak

Oak enjoyed a lot of reverence among the pre-Christian Slavs, especially the larger and more ancient trees. The main sanctuary of Vagrians (a Western Slavic tribe) was a sacred grove of oaks near Starigrad/Oldenburg, devoted to a little known deity Prove/Prone, which served as a place of worship and legal proceedings. A giant oak tree grew on the island of Saint Gregory (Khortycia), under which, according to Constantine Porphyrogenitus, the merchants of Rus’ made sacrifices. Another giant oak grew next to the temple of Triglav in Stettin. Traces of yet another have been found on the top of the Krakus Mound. Saxo Grammaticus claimed the image of seven-headed god of the Rani Rugiaevit was carved out of oak wood. Oak is of course also associated with the Thunderer, in Slavic context usually understood to be Perun. Countless other mentions of oak trees connected to Slavic cults can be found.

In many places people believed that harming or destroying those great ancient oaks would bring misfortune upon their community. In Kalisz region plagues were attributed to cutting down of a sacred oak (frequently a tree on which a shrine was hung). Near Nowy Targ legend held that whoever breaks a branch of great oak in Niedzica will surely die.

Oak is viewed as a quintessentially masculine tree, frequently paired with feminine linden. Oak or linden trees would often be planted by the house, to protect it and it’s inhabitants from misfortune. Both were also viewed as particularly well suited for religious purposes.

Characterized by hard and resistent wood the oak became a symbol of physical strength and invincibility as well as royal power and life. Poles used to bake bread on oak leaves, believing that whoever eats it will have oaken strength. Oak trees were used in healing rituals in which the illness could be passed onto the tree and defeated by it. In many folk tales oak was associated with raising people from the dead.

The connection between oak and thunder is obvious and apparent. Oak branches could be stuck into the thatched roofs or walls of the houses to keep the thunder away from them and prevent subsequent fires. For the same reason oak wood would be burned during thunderstorms.

The wood and leaves of an oak are a great remedy against witchcraft. Fumigations of smoke from oak leaves are believed to work well against devilish powers and cleanse air from illenesses. Oak stakes (along those made of hawthorn and aspen) were considered an excellent weapon for combating vampires, and they were sometimes pre-emptively driven into graves of hanged and drowned men, so that they couldn’t rise again and harm the community (Hrubieszów).

On the other hand oak wasn’t seen as completely benign. Witches gathered for Sabbath not only on Bald Mountains but also in oak groves. They had the ability to curse a household by sticking an oak branch into one of the house walls and ordering the family to wither as the branch itself withers. Lone oak trees growing in the fields of by the road could be seen as inhabited by the penitent spirit of a dead sinner.

Overall every oak could be seen as a dwelling place for spirits - good or bad.

In many regions of Poland, from Greater Poland to Eastern Borderlands acorns were used in fortune telling to predict the success of the next harvest, the circumstances of the coming year and potential misfortunes that might befall the community.

oak bark was used to produce black dye as well as to paint pisanki dark brown,

it was also used in tanning of animal hides,

in Lesser Poland oak would was the preferred wood for house foundations

due to it’s hardness oak was in particular associated with teeth diseases and used in curing them

Sources: Sources of Slavic Pre-Christian Religion by Juan Antonio Àlvarez-Pedrosa, Slavonic Pagan Sanctuaries by Leszek Paweł Słupecki, Rośliny w wierzeniach i zwyczajach ludowych. Słownik Adama Fischera by Kujawska et. al, Obraz dębu i lipy w literaturze polskiej i litewskiej XIX - XX wieku. Studium porównawcze. by Stanisława Gajewska, The symbolic meaning of plants grown in a traditional homestead by Małgorzata Dróżdż-Szczybura, Społeczeństwo wobec przyrody – związki przyrody z człowiekiem w zwyczajach ludowych w Polsce i wybranych krajach Europy by Joanna Szmuc

#localized practice #polish folklore #magia slavorum #folk magic #slavic folklore #oak

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mintibunny · 22 days

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Vierapril, Day 2 - Payment

The Signora undergoes her last hunt on a broken world, far, far away from The Source.

The Signora: One of the voices in Minti Chocolate's "Choir." Governs Greed and the drive to see a difficult fight finished.

Endwalker spoilers ahoy.

CW: Violence, language, implications of abuse/harm.

Blackbreath was taking too long to expire. But, that was to be expected, wasn't it, given he was a voidsent in the form of an oversized, malevolent head.

Still. The least he could do was not bawl like livestock bound for the dinner table. "Mistress will come for you!" He screeched, his eyes lolling back in their sockets. "When she does, I shall- icckkk - milk you for all the aether in - acckk - in you." What awful manners. Such disgusting language.

"What is it with you lot and milking?" The voidsent called Signora gritted their teeth and pressed their shadowy claws round Blackbreath's "throat," as much as they could wager the throat was. Giant heads didn't have much below the neck, as it were. "Have we unfinished business in the bed chambers?" Their stocky frame, wrapped up in tattered black robes and cloths, moved up and down in a mockery of laughter. "Tell me where you saw the torn curtains, and I'll let you live. Defy me, and you'll never milk another teat for as long as you exist."

"Up- upstairs! In the gardens!" Oh dear. Blackbreath was looking a touch ill. Pity all the chirgeouns died in the Contra Memoria, else he might live to see another day. What passed for day in this rotted-out husk of a world. Surely the Signora would reward the perverted thing for their aid - a proper payment, perhaps. She could feel him straining to look at her, his whole mass writhing against her claws.

It wasn't always like this, hunting from the shadows, grasping for what little aether remained in Castle Troia.

Once, upon a very long time ago, Signora possessed a living, breathing body. And a name, a beautiful name, but she forgot what it was. She was an opera singer, beloved by all and favored by the Lady Beatrice. There were other birds who sung in the lady's gardens, but they were never as pretty or as well versed as Signora. The things she had to do to silence those warbling sopranos - oh! Awful. Best not to dwell on them, if she could even remember what they were.

Then came the Contra Memoria, the flood of Darkness upon the land, the eternal twilight that consumed everything and everyone in its path. Or had the dark always been there, biding its time as the Signora did before her terrible deeds?

What irony, Signora thought, that the pretty birds in Beatrice's court were transformed into succubi and sent off to Darkness-knows-where. They could do as they pleased with the desperate souls who summoned them. She, however, was left with scraps even the court hounds would reject. Why, she didn't even have eyes anymore, or a throat, or much of anything to aid her!

Blackbreath, the wretch, was consumed like the fuel he was meant to be. Signora made sure his last moments were especially painful, for some scrap of her former self remembered the cruelty he inflicted on her, once upon a time. Never again would she be humiliated in front of the Lady Beatrice's court, nor in her private chambers, not even in that blasted observatory.

Never. Again.

Violence begets violence, a philosopher once said. Surely they never had to get their claws dirty, squeezing every last drop of aether out of a voidsent. Not even once.

Signora moved between flickers of torchlight and candles, up the stairs to the gardens, up, up, up. No one could see her - no one should. The flicker, the "torn curtains," as Blackbreath described it, meant that there was a breach between realities. Someone from the Source was performing a summoning ritual, and that someone would be Signora's way out of this torment, whether they wished it or not.

And there it was, right at the top, a pulsating red tear between the Signora's world and another's. There were voices coming out of it: a feminine voice, and another too garbled to be understood. Not that that mattered. All the voidsent had to do was put a claw into the rift, and-

~~~

"Take up this crystal, Minti Chocolate, and attest to both worlds that you walk as a reaper. Bind yourself to the void, and claim the strength that the weak of heart shun.

Through the avatar at your side does the voidsent bring its power to bear, feeding upon the souls of the fiends you cut down in return. Not a bad arrangement, eh?

But I'm sure you tire of words. Here ─ the traditional weapon of our order. Let's see how it looks strapped to your back."

#final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy oc #ffxiv #minti wol #minti chocolate #final fantasy viera #rava viera #ffxiv reaper #vierapril 2024

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utilitycaster · 9 months

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Ill-advisedly went through That Person's blog and i can't get over the posts that are like "haters don't get it bc they can't understand traumatized ppl it's so sad they don't know unconditional love because not all ships need conflict and they're perfect because they have no conflict" and it's just??? Wow. Takes so stupid i nearly burst into tears. Especially wild given how they invent conflict that orym is a manipulator who wanted delilah to come back like it's all so delusional and strange

Yeah...I don't want to dwell on this; the list of people known to specifically be hateful in reblogs/replies remails available upon private request and I'll otherwise simply post similar public updates whenever this specific person makes new burners because I think they've ceded me giving them the dignity of privacy but like. I think the best way to put it is that if a post as thoughtful and measured as "I see Imogen as a much better metaphor for one thing than another thing that has been posited, and here are my thoughts why" or even "I ship Im*dna in a way that doesn't precisely word for word match this wackjob's way" gets hate, I see no reason why anyone writing meta this person dislikes would change or tone things down.

So this all serves no purpose, and just makes them and the things they like look worse by association, and all they're able to do is make a couple of blank throwaway blogs a week all to tell two or three arbitrary people that they're stupid per week, when they could be creating art or meta or fic about the characters and ship they allegedly like. Like that's the thing; I don't actually think they're getting any enjoyment from the ship or characters; I think they've just latched on to an opportunity to harass people.

#answered #Anonymous

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orthodoxadventure · 6 months

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Martyr Menas of Egypt

Commemorated on November 11

Forsaking an earthly army, O prize-winner, you received a heavenly inheritance, after receiving glory from earthly kings, O wise one, you endured martyrdom and received an unfading crown. Therefore, O Great Martyr Mēnás, intercede with Christ God to save our souls.

The Holy Great Martyr Menas (Mēnás), an Egyptian by birth, was a military officer and served in the Kotyaeion region of Phrygia under the centurion Firmilian during the reign of Emperors Diocletian (284-305) and Maximian (305-311). He was praised and admired for his bravery in battle, his patience, and his self-discipline.

In 298, the Emperors published an edict ordering everyone to worship the idols. Those serving in the Legions were ordered to capture and persecute Christians. As soon as Saint Menas heard this impious decree he threw down his soldier’s belt (a sign of military rank) and withdrew to a mountain above Kotyaeion, where he lived an ascetical life of fasting and prayer. He spent a long time in the wilderness, suffering great privation and laboring in feats of prayer, fasting, and nocturnal vigils. Thus, the Saint purified himself of every passion of soul and body.

When his heart was strengthened with godly zeal, and his soul aflame with love for God, divine grace came upon him and he had a vision. He regarded this as a sign that he was to follow the path of martyrdom. Therefore, he left the mountain and went into the city, where the people were celebrating a pagan festival.

At that time, Saint Menas was approximately fifty years old. Standing in the midst of the crowd, he shouted: "There is only one true God, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Your "gods" are demons, and your idols have been fashioned by craftsmen. These inanimate objects are nothing but metal, wood, and stone."

Those who heard his voice left their dancing and their games and went to see who had disrupted their idolatrous festival, marveling at his boldness. They seized and beat him, then brought him before Pyrrhus, the City Prefect. When he saw Menas he asked him who he was, and why he was creating a disturbance. The Saint replied, "I am an Egyptian, a servant of Jesus Christ, the Ruler of all things. I was a soldier and I served in the Imperial Army for most of my life. But since the Emperor has chosen to follow the path of idolatry, and to persecute Christians, I chose to dwell with the wild animals in the wilderness rather than obey the impious commands of those who do not know God."

When the Prefect heard this he became enraged and had the Saint thrown into prison.

The next morning, Pyrrhus urged Saint Menas to return to the Army, offering to restore his former rank if he would offer sacrifice to the pagan "gods." Menas refused, and so he was subjected to many cruel tortures. The Prefect urged him to submit to the edict and offer sacrifice to the idols, but the Martyr remained firm in his Faith, saying that he would never deny Christ. Pyrrhus ordered further torments, but seeing that he could not persuade Saint Menas, he ordered that he be taken outside the city and beheaded. As he was being led to the place of execution, he asked his friends (who were secret Christians) to take his body back to Egypt for burial when the persecution had ceased. These friends gathered Martyr’s relics at night and hid them until the persecution was over. Later, they were brought to Egypt and placed in a church dedicated to Saint Menas southwest of Alexandria.

Saint Menas received the crown of martyrdom in the year 304. By God's grace he continues to work miracles for those who entreat him with faith and love. He is known for healing various illnesses, delivering people from demonic possession, and is a protector, especially during times of war.

In 1942, General Erwin Rommel had conquered almost all of North Africa, and was heading toward Alexandria. The Nazis had reached El Alamein, where they camped for the night, intending to attack Alexandria in the morning. Saint Menas, however, did not allow this to happen. At midnight (October 23-24). certain people noticed Saint Menas coming out of his ancient church leading camels into the German camp. Overcome by panic, weakness, and confusion, Rommel's troops fled. The battle ended on November 4th with the enemy in full retreat. It is regarded as a turning point in the whole war. Later, Winston Churchill said: "Before Alamein we never had a victory. After Alamein we never had a defeat."

The Allies offered that place to Patriarch Christophoros of Alexandria so that the church of Saint Menas could be rebuilt.

We pray to Saint Menas to ask for his help in finding lost objects.

Today the Church honors and glorifies in songs the godly-minded athletes and Martyrs who strove for piety, the prize-winner Mēnás, noble Victor, brave Vincent, and valiant Stephanie, and it lovingly cries out and magnifies Christ, the lover of mankind.

[source]

#Christianity #Orthodox Christianity #Religion #Saints #Iconography

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zoranzeal · 10 months

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The Hatching Grounds

Many facets of Zora life occur out of the casual reach of land-dwelling Hyrule, and among its most fundamental is the careful tending of Zora eggs. For the River Domain, this takes place deep below the water, beyond the bottom of the lake.

To cross the entrance shrouded in water weeds and carefully shaped earth, to wind the way through long, dark tunnels with only the flow of currents to guide you, and to pass through the woven veils of aquatic grasses is to come upon the expansive, serenely luminous and staunchly guarded Hatching Caverns. Originally hidden away so as not to be discovered by ne'er-do-wells, illness or predators, it has since evolved to conduct and protect the precious first minutes of new life between parents and their children.

As their slow birth rate usually allows, each family is given their own chamber within the caverns. Every entrance, each generously spaced from the last, is lined with luminous stones of their own selection and arrangement to mark the way. Excited new parents must often be reminded that besides this, no chamber entrance—not even that of the royal family—should be any more ornate or distinct from its neighbor.

But within, the family of an egg is entirely free to shape the stone and decorate as they please. Everything they tailor themselves—from the angle of each rock, to the colors and meanings of every ornament, to the placement of the egg itself—ensure their children emerge in a welcoming shelter that represents their kindreds' arts, values, and traditions.

An egg must be kept submerged and typically occupies a chamber for over a year before hatching. The shell is thin and soft, allowing the child to hear sounds from the outside world. Thus, it is common when visiting the Caverns to hear numerous songs and spoken affections swelling softly from the shadows—loving relatives, eager to teach their infants their voices and bestow their earliest memories. Half a year into their gestation, they begin to respond with their own simple, wordless vocalizations.

Whether royal or common in blood, Zora eggs are expected to be attended to at nearly all times by at least one member of their family, especially as they near their hatching day. After all, a Zora must never hatch alone, for it is an ill omen—at least, so says ancient superstition.

#♛ headcanon #{ footnote: Zora diaspora keeping their eggs in dark aquarium rooms or digging pools or chambers into nearby bodies of water. That is all.

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yr-obedt-cicero · 1 year

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Hello! I was just curious since you seem like an expert on the hamkids, what was your opinion in regards to the Schuyler mansion on Twitter stating that Angelica Hamilton "In 1801, Angelica suffered the losses of her aunt Peggy (below) and her older brother, Philip. Contrary to popular belief, Angelica did not have an irreversible breakdown. Instead, her reaction to her brother's death may have indicated the beginning of a mental illness."? Is it true that she never had a mental breakdown, and it wasn't even directly related to Philip's death? They don't seem to have any sources in regards to this part, so I was curious about your take

I've seen that before and it actually irks me a lot because I have no idea how they came to that conclusion, and they use zero sources for that statement. While there isn't much known about Angelica, and especially in regards to her mental health — there have been two confirmations by family members that she suffered from severe shock due to Philip's death.

The first being the youngest of the Hamilton daughters, Eliza Hamilton Holly, where she even clarified that Angelica became mentally impaired after severe shock from Philip's death;

“Mrs. Holly was a woman of strong intellect, and a friendship which I formed with her is one of the most cherished memories of my life. She devoted her widowhood to the care of her aged mother. We often engaged in confidential conversations, when she would discuss the tragedies which so clouded her life. I especially remember her dwelling upon the sad history of her sister, Angelica Hamilton, who, she told me, was in the bloom of health and surrounded by everything that goes towards making life happy when her eldest brother, Philip Hamilton, was killed in a duel. He had but recently been graduated from Columbia College and lost his life in 1801 on the same spot where, about three years later, his father was killed by Aaron Burr. This dreadful event affected her so deeply that her mind became unbalanced, and she was finally placed in an asylum, where she died at a very advanced age. Mrs. Hamilton lived in Washington, D. C., in one of the De Menou buildings on H Street, between Thirteenth and Fourteenth Streets, and Mrs. Holly resided in the same city until her death.”

(source — As I Remember: Recollections of American Society during the Nineteenth Century, by Marian Gouverneur)

And again, by Angelica's nephew and the son of Phil II, Allan McLane. Who wrote about it in his biography about his grandfather;

“Upon receipt of the news of her brother's death in the Eacker duel, she suffered so great a shock that her mind became permanently impaired, and although taken care of by her devoted mother for a long time there was no amelioration in her condition, and she was finally placed under the care of Dr. MacDonald of Flushing, and remained in his charge until her death at the age of seventy-three. During her latter life she constantly referred to the dear brother so nearly her own age as if alive. Her music, that her father used to oversee and encourage, stayed by her all these years. To the end she played the same old-fashioned songs and minu- ets upon the venerable piano that had been bought for her, many years before, in London, by Angelica Church, during her girlhood, and was sent to New York through a friend of her father.”

(source — The Intimate Life of Alexander Hamilton, by Allan McLane)

While, yes, all of these are coming from the moreso younger side of the family - as Holly was only about two, and Allan didn't even exist when Philip died - they still likely heard the tale from the older Hamilton kids, or Elizabeth. Notably, Phil II was seemingly close with Angelica and likely was looking after her when his sister and mother couldn't, as Elizabeth was usually writing to him and asking how she was instead of the others. So, if Allan was getting his feedback from his relatives, and most likely had spent some time around Angelica since she was sometimes in the care of his father — I think he is reliable source material.

#tw: mental instability #amrev #american history #angelica hamilton #eliza hamilton #eliza hamilton holly #allan mclane hamilton #philip hamilton ii #hamilchildren #history #hamilton family #hamilton kids #hamilton children #hamilkids #queries #sincerely anonymous #Cicero's history lessons

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elliewiltarwyn · 4 months

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ellie's journal: Second Astral Moon, 17th Sun

My mind is still reeling, so I brook no criticism if this seems a little discombobulated.

As of today, I’m now a member of a secret organization known as the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Normally I’d be suspicious of such underground movements; indeed, I’ve learned too well to always be nurturing such suspicions of everyone around me.

Yet when I learned that in this organization dwell others with the “gift”… that is, others who have been having visions of falling stars and an enormous crystal that speaks to them… I must admit my heart skipped a beat. The leader—she bears the title of Antecedent, and her name is Minfilia Warde—made it quite clear this was an invitation, not a conscription, yet how could I not take her up on that? It feels like an even clearer version of the path Raya-O laid out for me a few moons ago: a path that has already seen me defend Gridania and the Guardian Tree from the Ixali and strange black-masked mages. I’d kick myself forever if I didn’t walk this road as far as I can, to see what lies at the end of it and beyond.

Minfilia seems earnest enough, mayhaps too much, but it’s endearing… though I’m unsure if I am blinded by the way my heartrate is already increasing, my cheeks already reddening, whenever she looks upon me. Gods, I’m too easy a mark for pretty women; woe betide me the moment I come across one with ill intentions again.

Speaking of intentions, I was not the only new Scion recruit; there were two other adventurers beside me who even now are sleeping in bunks on the far side of these quarters. I would not have noted them much… except for the fact that our paths before converging here in this secret headquarters were uncannily similar: all of us recently rescued an Eorzean city-state from primal-tempered threats, followed by a triumphant confrontation with a fearsome black-masked mage — all the while experiencing these visions. It’s too easy—and too early—to say my fate is tied to theirs already… but I have to admit it’s one of the more intriguing ways I’ve made friends.

Well. I say friends… The miqo’te is nice enough: bubbly, enthusiastic, and cheerful. Lilyana is her name, and she claims to be an alumnus of the secret guild of rogues that take up residence in Limsa Lominsa. ‘Tis possible, especially since I haven’t been there in six years, and I’m unaware of how things may have changed or even what seedier elements laid underneath the surface of my “dear” home turf. I just wouldn’t expect someone like her to be a rogue; albeit, ever since our induction she has been juggling and twirling one of her knives in a highly skilled manner, without once cutting herself. Her disposition is sweet, and if she in fact is capable of defending herself—all the better.

The other adventurer is the primary source of my hesitance to claim “friends” just yet. She is an armored hyur with naval blue hair, trained at the Gladiators’ Guild in Ul’dah by the name of Mia Longhart. She is practically Lilyana’s opposite: looking every bit the honorable gladiator but with a begrudging personality that has, quite frankly, been off-putting to experience. She sniffed out my role in the siege of the Guardian Tree and looked too satisfied in having done so, and she’s been abrupt and curt ever since. I’m sure I don’t know what I’ve done to earn her ire—well. Okay. I did retaliate by tying her to a rumor I heard this morning as I departed the Quicksand, of a blue-haired gladiator who saved the sultana. (“Her crown,” Longhart had corrected as she rolled her eyes. Details.) Surely that isn’t enough to warrant this chill from her? My skin crawls whenever she looks at me, and it always feels like she’s sizing me up when she does. I really don’t appreciate it.

Admittedly, we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I suppose we’ll see if that changes: Minfilia said she will have our first assignment prepared by the morrow. Lots of high-minded talk about transcending the realm’s boundaries; it’ll be interesting to see how that takes shape.

It’ll be less fun if Longhart doesn’t stop shooting me suspicious glares from her bunk. Don’t think I don’t see you.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv fanfiction #my fanfiction #ellie's journal entries #this scene and the one tied to the first entry are the first parts i'm trying to get over my mental block and post #hope this will be a good on-ramp to doing so :3

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middleearthpixie · 2 years

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After the Fire ~ Chapter Four

Title: After the Fire -

Fandom: The Hobbit - Post BOTFA AU Where Everybody Lives

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a grievously wounded Thorin is brought back to the kingdom of Erebor, which is still mostly in ruins. Although he’s survived the wounds he received at the end of Azog’s blade, his recovery is far from complete. Grief, regret, anger, all are making his journey that much more difficult and the physical recovery isn’t quite the most difficult challenge he faces.

Jasna Stoneham is no stranger to loss, as she is a survivor of Smaug’s wrath upon Esgaroth. When she is asked to help the dwarves healers of Erebor, her instinct is to say no, but she needs the job, and so agrees to it. However, no one told her that of all the patients, she would be responsible for the king himself, Thorin Oakenshield.

Unfortunately, the road to recovery isn’t necessary a smooth one, but if there’s one thing Thorin will learn, it’s that Jasna is just as stubborn as he is and for every step back he takes, she is there to push him three steps forward. And Jasna will soon find out that there is a gentle, softer side to the dwarf king, one that very few people have ever seen and one he fights to keep hidden from her as well. But like his recovery, that is also easier said than done.

Jasna is slowly settling in, finding a bit of a friend in Balin, and Fíli finally regains consciousness, full of questions about his prognosis

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Jasna Stoneham

Characters: Jasna, Óin, Balin, Fíli

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,258

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Previous chapters can be found here.

Had someone asked her, Jasna would have assumed the first night in the infirmary would be the worst for the wounded dwarves. But, she realized the folly of that by the second night. Because of the extent of his injuries, Fíli had been kept heavily sedated, but neither his brother nor his uncle required that and Jasna wondered if that was at all wise. Especially where Thorin was concerned. The slightest bit of movement pained him, which was understandable, as he’d sustained those two very serious stab wounds to his chest and abdomen and it was only through good fortune that no vital organs were irreparably damaged. Óin was able to repair whatever needed it, and she’d managed to remain on her feet alongside him to observe and assist in the first surgeries she’d ever witnessed. Messy, but utterly fascinating to her. And where Kíli’s surgery made her queasy, she suffered no ill effects of observing Thorin’s. No, instead, the thought of stepping out of that surgery never even occurred to her. She felt that if she kept watch over him, nothing bad would happen as a result. Odd, when she stopped to think about it.

But she didn’t have much time to dwell on it. For the next three nights, she sat up at Thorin’s bedside. She wanted to be there if he had another nightmare, or if the pain threatened to engulf him, or his nephews for that matter, again. Óin had shown her how to mix together valerian and willow for pain relief and that he and Narnerra trusted her to do this and administer it did much to boost her confidence in herself. Bard was right, she was growing more comfortable around them and they seemed to feel the same about her.

By the fourth night, Thorin finally slept peacefully through until morning. The bloodstains on the bandages shrank with each change, thank Mahal, and hopefully the itchiness of hair regrowth wouldn’t drive him too mad, as they’d had to shave two decent-sized patches of thick, dark hair on both his chest and his belly to sew him up.

It was not quite six in the morning on the fifth day when she stumbled into the kitchens for a much needed cup of tea. And as she sipped it, she was beyond grateful that said kitchens were finally up and running despite being in such a ruinous state, as they hadn’t been until the previous day. The dwarves of the Iron Hills remained there, working alongside the Ereborian dwarves tirelessly to get as much of the kingdom up and running as possible. The work picked up and progress came faster, but it would still be some time before the kingdom began to resemble anything other than a well-preserved ruins.

“Miss Jasna?”

She paused as Balin emerged from a lower floor, his normally fluffy white hair sooty gray and his long white beard a bit limp. “Yes?”

“How is he doing?”

“Thorin?”

“Yes. And the lads as well.”

“He’s awake now, but in a bit of pain, a-as you might im-im-imagine.” She spoke as her mother, Arabella had drummed into her—slowly, concentrating on each syllable before it could trip her up. For all the good it did. “I think he w-will b-b-be fine, in t-t-t-time, though.”

“It will be some time, I’m afraid. They all have a long road ahead of them, don’t they?”

She nodded. “H-h-h-he was v-v-v-very concerned about Fee-fee—”

“Fíli?” Balin interrupted gently. When she nodded, he offered up a sad smile. “I’m not surprised. Fíli is his nephew, one of his sister’s boys, as well as his heir. How does he fare?”

Jasna turned to look over at the blond dwarf in the corner. He’d come in with a terrible stab wound to his back and two shattered femurs, two broken ankles, and faced a very long, uphill battle for recovery. Fortunately, the blade that pierced his back didn't sever his spinal cord, but the damage to his legs was quite extensive, as he’d been thrown from a tower and had fallen some twenty feet to the stone below. Óin still wasn't at all certain he’d ever walk again. But she didn't know if she was to share that information with anyone.

“I b-b-b-beg your pardon, b-b-b-but, I d-d-don’t know if Óin wishes me to sh-sh-share information on anyone h-h-h-here.”

“Never mind then, I’d not want to get you in trouble.” Balin drew over a chair and sank into it. “Does Óin know you stutter?”

“I—I try hard to keep it from ha-ha—” she scowled as the word refused to behave itself on her tongue—“That is—I try—”

“It’s quite all right, lassie,” he said, patting her arm with a small, thick-fingered hand. “I imagine it’s worse when you are nervous and you must be very nervous here, I’ll wager.”

She nodded, feeling a hint of the weight she’d been carrying lift from her shoulders. “A bit, I’m afraid. I’ve… I’ve not had much tr—training. Only a few m-m-months. Then Smaug…”

“Oh, lassie. That would be our fault,” he broke in softly. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“No, it’s all r-r-right. I was m-mean, no one m-m-meant to unleash him. At least, I h-h-hope not.” She managed a shy laugh and then looked over at Thorin, who slept peacefully now, his silver-streaked, long black curls spread out across the stark white bed linens. “And he is your king. Th-that makes it even m-m-more diff-difficult for me, I’m afraid.”

“I imagine it’s like being thrown in the deep end.”

“Or into the Long Lake,” she said with a smile.

He smiled back. “Óin must see something, for him to allow you to remain here.”’

“He needs the ha-ha-ha—drat it! Hands.”

“Easy, lassie. I’m not impatient. Take the time you need to unstick your tongue. I promise, I won’t hurry you and I won’t mock you.”

“It’s as if I was a child again. It hasn’t been thi-this bad in ye-years.” She sank back in her chair and drew her hand through her hair, trying to smooth the mostly unruly curls back into place, for all the good it did. Her hair had a mind of its own at times and this was one of them.

“You are under much pressure here. As you said, Thorin is our king. But,” he smiled again, patting her hand this time, “he isn’t a tyrant. At least, not any longer. And I’ve the feeling he is in fine hands, even if they are inexperienced.”

“Thank you for saying that.” She returned his smile. “Óin is so knowledgeable and b-b-between him and Narn-narnerra, I feel as if I’m getting quite the edu-education at their sides.”

“And look, you must be more comfortable with me now.”

“A bit, yes.”

“Good. You will be fine in time. And Erebor will thank you for your service and hopefully make you feel welcomed.”

“So far, most have j-just rather ignored me.” She glanced over at Óin who was busy with a dark haired dwarf on the far side of the infirmary. Narnerra was at the desk in the corner, her head bent over whatever file she studied. Both had been nothing but patient with her, despite her stammer, which seemed to grow worse with each day.

But with Balin, it improved. He was kind and patient and the total opposite of his brother, who terrified her to no end. Dwalin Fundison was taller and fiercer looking, with a tattooed head and cold blue eyes. When he came to check on his king, she wanted to melt into the floor. She could barely string a sentence together and his expression suggested he wondered about her intelligence.

“It is rare for Men to be allowed in Erebor. Historically speaking, we have always come to them in Dale.”

“I know. I’ve been told. And reminded. More than once. And no-not always ni-ni-nicely, I might add.” She managed a laugh, although when it happened and a dwarf told her exactly what he thought of her, she wanted to melt into the floor at the time.

“Tact is not necessarily our strong suit, I’m sorry to say.” He patted her hand again and then rose. “But you’re doing a fine job. You must be. Otherwise Óin would never allow you to stay. In fact, he’d be hollering the roof down for Bard to come and claim you. He takes this responsibility very seriously.”

“Claim me? I’m not his to claim.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s but a friend. A good friend, but a friend only.”

“Oh, pardon me, then. I thought he was more than that.”

“No. He’s not.”

“I will pass through later and see how everyone fares. But from where I stand, the Durins are in good hands.”

She smiled. “Thank you. That’s very ki-kind of you.”

“Fíli…” Thorin’s voice was little more than a low moan as he tried to stretch.

“Excuse me,” she said as she stood. “I should get back t-to work”

“Of course.”

He took his leave and Óin looked up. “Do ye need me, Jasna?”

“No. I—I don’t think so.”

“Let me know if ye do.”

“I will.” She laid her hand against Thorin’s forehead. Warm. Fever. Óin had worried that it would strike. “Óin?”

He looked up again. “What is it?”

“His Majesty is running a fever.”

Óin’s forehead creased. “Very hot?”

“I—I can’t te-tell.”

His chair squeaked as he pushed it back, and when he came over to her, they were about the same height and stood shoulder to shoulder as he leaned over to lay his hand against Thorin’s forehead. “He is warm, but not hot. Keep an eye on him, and if he burns hotter, let me know.”

Another low moan rent the air. Fíli. She looked over at Óin. “Should I tend to him?”

“Please do. I need to change Kíli’s dressings.”

“Tell me, is he Thorin’s son? They bear a strong resemblance to one another.”

“Kíli? No. His nephew. Fíli’s younger brother and both the sons of Thorin’s sister Dís. She will be here sometime in the coming days and I don’t believe she’s yet been told.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“Not yet.”

“And His Majesty’s wife? Is she on her way as well?”

Óin offered up a slight smile. “He is not married, so no. There is no wife coming, although I daresay there will be plenty of marriage-minded hopefuls returning as well.”

“Oh, my…” She turned to glance down at Thorin, who’d gone quiet again, then moved over to Fíli’s bed. The blond dwarf was conscious, his blue eyes open as he stared up at the ceiling, but she wasn't at all certain they focused on anything, as they seemed a bit cloudy. He grimaced, his left hand freed from the sheets to twist the linens as he sucked in a hard breath.

“Fíli?” She kept her voice soft so as not to startle him. “Can you hear me?”

“Where am I?” His voice was raspy and thin, as if it hurt to speak. “What happened? Why can I not move?”

“You were wounded in battle,” she replied, retrieving her chair to bring to his bedside. “What do you remember?”

“I—I remember falling…” His eyes closed briefly and he visibly swallowed. “And cold metal. A blade. It—it pierced me. Through—through the back…”

“That’s right. You were.” She leaned over to lay her hand against his cool forehead. “And you cannot move because your legs have been badly broken. Your thighbones. Your shinbones. Your ankles, too, I believe. But, it’s good that you’re awake, that you are alert.”

“Am I… will I… walk again?”

“In time, I hope so. But you w-would need to speak to Óin about th-that. I—I’m only helping him.”

“I’m sorry, but… who—who even are you?”

“I’m Jasna Stoneham. From D-dale—well, Esgaroth, actually, but you know what h-h-happened there.” She sank back into her chair. “I sho—should have told you that at first. I apol-apol-apologize.”

His brow furrowed. A muscle in his jaw bulged. She frowned slightly. “Do you ne-need something for pain?”

“Please.”

“Of course.” She stood and hurried between the cots to the desk in the corner. “Óin? Fíli is awake and is in need of pai-pain relief.”

“Is he with fever as well?”

“No. He is not.”

“Good. Check on Kíli whilst I tend to his brother.”

“Of course.”

She started over to Kíli’s bed, pausing when Óin said, “And Jasna?”

“Yes?”

“Yer doin’ fine, lass. I would like to keep ye on, if yer willin’ to learn. I think ye’ll make a good healer one day.”

She smiled, a bit of her nervousness draining away, displaced by a feeling of warm pride, one she didn't feel often. “Thank you, Óin. I would, yes.”

“Good. I’ll have Narnerra work up a program for ye and we will continue yer training.”

“Thank you.”

“Do no’ thank me. I know skill when I see it. Now,” he returned her smile, “go tend to Kíli.”

“I am, Óin. I am.”

#Richard Armitage #The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Romance #Everybody Lives AU #The Hobbit BOTFA

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