#is this a companion piece to the white wolves?

[colderdrafts]

wait, wait!!

the creature is acting and talking in such annoying way that they get in reader's nervous, so the reader starts saying snarky things back and talking about how morgan is the best partner they could over have (and I don't know what else im just giving out ideas im terrible at writing dialogue lol)

(Continuation of another ask! When you finally get Morgan a night out and someone gives you a hard time about it) Love this idea. A little piece for this scenario below. R takes defensive positions :)

The idle conversations have started up around you again. Finally.

It’s always too eerily quiet when you and Morgan first arrive somewhere. At least until people realize that you’re not going to attack anyone. Now, you just need to relax, too.

The inside of the tavern is fairly standard of the common-folk world. Craftsmanship of the facilities are wooden and rustic, having several spots for comfortable seating. There’s a single bar managed by a large hare-woman, a scent of inebriated people and food in the air. The interior is bustling with common-folk utilizing the area for their late night rest, and a well-deserved drink after a long day’s work. From gruff-looking wolves to a sleek falcon, common-folk intend to get their fair share of winding down. And tonight, you and Morgan have joined them.

Well, 'joined', is perhaps generous. You’ve found a secluded corner to sit in, and most others make sure to stay a good distance away from you. You try to pay it no mind; Morgan is not exactly welcome in these spaces, after all. And, as their companion, neither are you. But, you’ve managed to convince the hare at the bar to provide an actual roof over your heads for the night, and food is on the way. That’s something. It might even smell like progress.

It took a lot of convincing on your part for Morgan to even consider spending a night in a place like this. Too many people, too little space to move around. Too exposed. But you’ve paid a hefty sum for a room, having an actual bed to look forward to, and a good meal that’s actually been stewing, and came from a pot. You're not about to give that up.

And so far, your efforts have paid off. Everything's been going surprisingly well, mostly. Even if Morgan's been switching between speaking with you, and keeping an eye on anything and everything moving inside the tavern. It’s an odd mixture. Their confidence might allow them to not be completely on guard, but their constant monitoring of vibrations in the air might make it difficult to stop.

To be fair, most patrons inside of the tavern seems hellbent on keeping an eye on Morgan, too. Perhaps it’s sensible they’d return the favor. Your arachnid companion has their usual unseemly aura in place, like just daring anyone to try and oppose their being here. It might fool a common-folk, but you can see what they're doing. It's a defense mechanism; you can't be hurt if you can't be approached. You really wish they didn’t think this was necessary.

But this is supposed to be a fun night out. You intend to make it so, in any case.

“Could you please calm down your feelers?” you ask Morgan, when they’ve been aloof for a little longer than usually. They’re staring dead ahead at a point behind you. You tap at their front leg with your foot to snap them out of it. “I think we’re fine.”

“Oh, I am completely calm,” Morgan purrs and smiles widely, still not looking at you. They don’t even blink. “That pale lizard over there, however, is clearly not.”

You glance over your shoulder at said lizard. Sure enough, the white scales of his head seems like they should be an angry red, judging by the way he’s glaring your direction.

“Well, obviously he’s not if you keep staring at him like that,” you argue, switching tactics and gently pulling at their hand instead. “Come on, can we just have a calm night? No fights, no threats, no blood, just – I want you to have a good time, for once.”

“Me?” Morgan grins, finally severing eye contact with their opponent to focus on you. Their hand promptly curls around yours. “Since when have you become so nice to me? Not that I’m complaining.”

Ugh. You knew you should never go there with Morgan, but perhaps that’s what’s needed. Give an inch, and all that. You’ll just have to hope they won’t take more than their usual mile.

"I've always been nice," you assert. "You just haven't earned experiencing it."

Morgan laughs, nodding at your hand in theirs. "So, what did I do to earn this?"

“Our dinner’s ready,” you deflect, noting two stewing, deep plates that’s just been delivered at the bar. Excellent timing. The barkeep’s eyeing you a bit excessively, perhaps reluctant to call you up. Simultaneously, she probably does not want Morgan to come collect the food.

Morgan’s eye darts to the bar. “I’ll go-”

“Sit,” you bark at them before they’ve even stretched a leg. The less risk of them bumping into someone, or, gods forbid, someone bumping into them, the better. “I’ll get it.”

You walk away before they can protest, ignoring the feeling of Morgan’s eyes burning into the back of your skull.

The barkeep looks relieved when you approach, and hands you your food. She holds onto the bowls momentarily as you grab them, preventing you from leaving quickly.

“Could you please tell your custodian to stop staring at my patrons?” the hare hisses lowly, urgently, ears flat against her head. “It’s making people uneasy. I gave you a room, but I don’t want-”

“YEP!” you interrupt, flashing her a strained smile. “I’ll get right on that.”

The barkeep narrows her eyes at your rudeness, continuing. “And when you sleep here, I don’t want any noise or unnecessary nightly wandering-”

“I know!” you interrupt her again, pulling at the food to get her to let go. You don’t have the time, nor patience, for the usual complaints. You need to get back before-

The barkeep's long ears suddenly stand up straight. She sucks in a startled breath, fixating on a spot behind you. Right. That.

You groan, and turn around, leaving your precious food in the barkeep's hands.

Morgan is unfortunately standing up. And, in front of them, is the very lizard they’ve spent the night staring at.

Said lizard is up in Morgan’s face, spewing words you can only imagine are not words of fondness. Either he's very brave, very good at fighting, or very drunk. Possibly all three.

By contrast, Morgan looks unpleasantly nonplussed, like they're casually wondering where best to grab on and start tearing.

“No,” you seethe. Absolutely not. Not tonight.

You march across the tavern in long strides toward the pair, prepared to put an end to this fight before it even starts.

“-don’t care where, but you’re not staying here!” the lizard’s voice reaches you through the idle noises of the crowd.

Morgan looks up at your approach, still not looking particularly affected, albeit slightly amused when they spot the look on your face.

You force yourself into the small space between the pair, your back against Morgan’s front. You suppress a shudder when you feel their hands softly coming to rest on your shoulders.

The lizard steps back once you do so, narrowing his eyes at you. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off by leaning into his space.

“I spend one night, trying to have a good time, that’s not inside a cave, high up in a tree, or sleeping on dirt, and then you-!” you scold the lizard-like person. “- just had to escalate things!”

The lizard takes the verbal hit silently and stares at you, baffled. Perhaps he’d not expected you would take up this fight. He frowns, regaining composure. “Listen here-”

“No, you listen!” you spit. Morgan's face enters your peripheral vision, a genuine surprised expression minutely replaced by a shit-eating grin full of teeth. You ignore them. “We want to stay in taverns sometimes! Why can’t you let us have that?”

“YOU are alright!” the lizard states with a hiss. He points a clawed finger at the large arachnid behind you. “That monster you’re hanging out with is not!”

“Monster?” Morgan scoffs and pouts, feigning hurt. “Why, you've barely seen anything. That’s a little excessive, don’t you think?”

“Not when it comes to you,” the lizard snarls back at them. “You nasty red-eyes especially."

"I think my eyes are pretty," Morgan says.

"Can’t believe you didn’t get snatched," the lizard continues, not listening. "Should’ve nailed you when they had the darn chance. Better off dead than adult.”

A miniscule pause is what changes this entire interaction. It’s not often Morgan reacts to the usual slander people throw their way. And if it wasn’t because of your bond, you probably wouldn’t have noticed it would be any different this time.

But there’s just the slightest little twist of their energy shifting, like being splashed with cold water. The comment hit something. Morgan's face doesn’t falter a bit, expertly holding up the nonchalant, unaffected facade. But their claws are scraping across the wooden floor, their grip on your shoulders tightening ever so slightly. You can feel their energy reaching for you to calm down, almost on instinct. For once, Morgan seems slightly, genuinely, upset.

You step into the lizard’s space again without warning, shoving him backwards and out of your corner. Interrupting your fun night out is one thing. Suggesting your companion should’ve been killed as a hatchling is quite another. You’ve just about had it.

“That monster has treated me better than any of you ever did,” you fume, walking the offender back to his own spot. “You lot have done nothing but cause problems. What gives you the fucking right to be judging life and death?”

Morgan doesn’t intervene, but their presence behind you is heavy and reassuring. Their energy is fluttering around you, leaning into your anger. Letting you know you’re not fighting alone.

“You’re completely brainwashed,” the lizard laughs coolly, waving you off. “As always. It’s filthy, the shit they do to your minds. I don’t know what I expected. I almost feel bad for you.”

Brainwashed?

Perhaps it’s the heated moment. Perhaps it’s just because you want this incredibly hostile person to leave you alone. Perhaps it’s because you just want to have the final word, and prove a point.

But your hands almost acts on their own when you spin around, grab Morgan’s arms, and pull them down towards you. They follow your instruct without complaint.

Without warning, you cup their face, and plant a firm kiss smack on their lips. Morgan’s eyes widen in surprise. Then excitement. You hear them purr deeply as they relax into your grip, reveling in the softness you've suddenly bestowed upon them.

When you let them go their hands are on your waist. They don’t stop chittering as you turn away from them again to face the threat.

“I don’t care what you think I am,” you say to the lizard. “But whatever it is, you still have no reason to treat us like this. Leave us alone.”

The lizard looks flabbergasted at the display. Then it turns to horror. Then disgust. “Unbelievable. Are you really-”

“Go. Away.”

If it’s you or Morgan that says it, you suddenly aren’t sure. Your voice came out like a harsh, guttural whisper, not unlike the way Morgan’s does when they’re angry. Perhaps you both just spoke at once. But the lizard averts his eyes, finally, acknowledging this is not the space to start this fight. He skulks off, leaving you and Morgan in full view of the entire tavern.

You glance around, only now noting the wary eyes of the common-folk. Their stares carry a mixture of fear, repulsion and, worst of all, pity. And it strikes you what has just transpired. That display might have caused more harm than good with this particular crowd.

Crap. You’ll need to leave again, won’t you?

You regretfully look up at Morgan, who's simply looking to you. Pleasantly calm, and dutifully awaiting your next move.

“Yeah, yeah,” you sigh, and wave the entire tavern off. “We’re going. Have a good evening. Sorry for the disturbance,” you spit the last part, grabbing Morgan’s wrist to drag them outside.

“A kiss?”

Morgan startles you out of your skin with the words, their voice suddenly appearing from the dark. Seems they’ve returned from collecting firewood.

Took them long enough.

The small make-shift camp under the stars offers only a bitter respite from what tonight could have been. Morgan had offered to go collect some fuel, as they can see better out here now that it’s dark. You hadn’t planned to stay the night in the woods again, after all.

“What about it?” you reply, not bothering to hide your sulking.

You’re seated close to the humble fire to keep the night chill at bay. Morgan enters the light shortly after, eyes reflecting it. They set down the branches, casually throwing in a few extra sticks to feed the flame, and seat themself next to you.

Morgan playfully pokes at your shoulder. “Sentry, if I’d known starting fights would get you-”

“Please, don’t even finish that sentence,” you complain. “I didn’t want to fight that guy. I just didn’t like what he said.”

Morgan hums. “You wanted him to not think I’ve control of your mind?”

“Something like that,” you grimace.

“Well,” they lean on you heavily, teasing. They speak into your face with a drawling whisper. “What’s there to suggest that I don’t?”

You snort, and shrug them off. “Bond thing, sure. I can’t go anywhere without you. But I’m pretty sure my head’s still mine.”

“Well, yes. And no. And not quite,” Morgan smiles. “It’s mine.”

“It wasn’t just that,” you continue quickly, before that train of thought develops. “The whole snatcher thing he said. It’s just -”

“Judging life and death?” Morgan echoes you, staring into the open flame. “Sentry, at this point it shouldn’t surprise you. That’s how it works. Their judgment will always favor my death.”

They speak casually, like telling you it’s going to rain. Nothing but a minor nuisance. It brings a bad taste to your mouth just how used to this they seem.

“I know,” you give after a beat, shifting uncomfortably. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. And I really, really don’t.”

Morgan eyes you with a wry smile. “Don’t worry, they’ll be sure to remember that. Well, also after your amazing outburst. Have I ever mentioned I adore your theatrics?”

You frown, ignoring the last statement. “What do you mean, also?”

Morgan leans on their arms, calmly moving leaf litter out of the way of the fire before it catches. “I figured you defending my honor - while efficient, and I am eternally grateful - wouldn’t get the point across fully,” they say offhandedly.

You quickly turn to stare at the side of their face. They want you to ask, and you almost don't want to know. “Morgan. What did you do?”

Morgan turns slowly, and smiles at you, clicking their fangs together. “Well, their ale supply might make the patrons feel bad for a while. Maybe a little cramping? Maybe a little .. un-moving? Is that a word?”

Blood drains from your face.

“If I'm being honest, I have no clue what consuming my venom does to a person,” they ponder. “Actually, we should stick around. I want to see-”

“You went back to-!” You throw your arms out in frustration. “This is why we can never go anywhere!”

“On the contrary,” Morgan laughs. They lean over and curl their fingers around your wrists affectionately. They gently press their forehead against yours. “This is why we can go anywhere.”

#colderwriting #about Morgan #monster x reader #monster lover #uv #drider #exophilia #drider x reader #x reader #x gn reader #Actually looked up what eating venom does to your body #Results are mixed #But going towards bad but might not kill you. But it will not make you feel good

[istumpysk]

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

The Hound is the gravedigger.

TIER:

Near-Certainty: These theories lack official confirmation but are so heavily supported by the text and/or external hints that they're almost certainly true.

[Tier list overview]

EVIDENCE:

Welcome to the first theory that is so blatantly obvious, you forgot it still qualifies as just a theory.

Who is the Hound?

He's a piece of trash, who is idealized by men who lacked positive male role models and romanticized by women who need a therapist.

Who is the gravedigger?

He's a piece of trash, searching for salvation at the bottom of a hole.

But are they the same person? Let's find out!

The last time we saw Sandor Clegane, he was getting his ass kicked by Polliver and the Tickler, at the inn at the crossroads.

Polliver and the Tickler had driven the Hound into a corner behind a bench, and one of them had given him an ugly red gash on his upper thigh to go with his other wounds. Sandor was leaning against the wall, bleeding and breathing noisily. He looked as though he could barely stand, let alone fight. - Arya XIII, ASOS

To my disappointment, he prevailed at the last minute, but not before sustaining severe wounds to his thigh, neck, and ear.

When the time came to leave, he needed Arya's help to get back up on Stranger. He had tied a strip of cloth about his neck and another around his thigh, and taken the squire's cloak off its peg by the door. The cloak was green, with a green arrow on a white bend, but when the Hound wadded it up and pressed it to his ear it soon turned red. Arya was afraid he would collapse the moment they set out, but somehow he stayed in the saddle. - Arya XIII, ASOS

After the scrap, Sandor, Arya, and their horses, Stranger and Craven, decide to head to Saltpans.

"Where will we go?" she asked. "Saltpans." - Arya XIII, ASOS

(map!)

Fortunately, the Hound's condition was rapidly worsening.

She brought him water instead. He drank a little of it, complained that it tasted of mud, and slid into a noisy fevered sleep. When she touched him, his skin was burning up. Arya sniffed at his bandages the way Maester Luwin had done sometimes when treating her cut or scrape. His face had bled the worst, but it was the wound on his thigh that smelled funny to her. - Arya XIII, ASOS

Arya sees a chance to kill a weakened Hound but hesitates when he wakes up. He asks for a mercy killing and tries to provoke Arya by bringing up his attempted rape of Sansa and his brutal slaying of Mycah.

Arya decides this piece of trash is not worth the effort and leaves him to die on his own.

"Mycah." Arya stepped away from him. "You don't deserve the gift of mercy." [...] Maybe some real wolves will find you, Arya thought. Maybe they'll smell you when the sun goes down. Then he would learn what wolves did to dogs. "You shouldn't have hit me with an axe," she said. "You should have saved my mother." She turned her horse and rode away from him, and never looked back once. - Arya XIII, ASOS

Or so we thought.

Moving ahead to A Feast for Crows, we encounter Brienne of Tarth—a paragon of honor and integrity who serves as a direct contrast to Sandor Clegane—on her mission to find Sansa Stark.

Acting on a tip that the Hound and a Stark daughter are near Saltpans, Brienne and her companions make their way there, but not before making a brief stop at the Quiet Isle.

The septry stood upon an upthrust island half a mile from the shore, where the wide mouth of the Trident widened further still to kiss the Bay of Crabs. - Brienne VI, AFFC

What is the Quiet Isle?

The Quiet Isle is a secluded septry where individuals seeking atonement live to make amends for their sins through contemplation, prayer, and a vow of silence.

"Why do they call it the Quiet Isle?" asked Podrick. "Those who dwell here are penitents, who seek to atone for their sins through contemplation, prayer, and silence. Only the Elder Brother and his proctors are permitted to speak, and the proctors only for one day of every seven." - Brienne VI, AFFC

Upon arrival, it's not long before the author starts dropping some hints.

"[...] Let us enjoy a good hot meal before we face that. The brothers always have a bone to spare for Dog." Dog barked and wagged his tail. - Brienne VI, AFFC

We learn that some of the brothers cover their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed. (Convenient!)

Three men were waiting for them as they clambered up the broken stones that ringed the isle's shoreline. They were clad in the brown-and-dun robes of brothers, with wide bell sleeves and pointed cowls. Two had wound lengths of wool about the lower halves of their faces as well, so all that could be seen of them were their eyes. - Brienne VI, AFFC

One of the brothers appears noticeably uneasy upon hearing Brienne's objective.

"Lady Brienne is a warrior maid," confided Septon Meribald, "hunting for the Hound." "Aye?" Narbert seemed taken aback. "To what end?" - Brienne VI, AFFC

We meet a horse named Driftwood, who is strongly reminiscent of the Hound's black stallion, Stranger.

Way down at the far end, well away from the other animals, a huge black stallion trumpeted at the sound of their voices and kicked at the door of his stall. [...] Brother Narbert sighed. "The Seven send us blessings, and the Seven send us trials. Handsome he may be, but Driftwood was surely whelped in hell. When we sought to harness him to a plow he kicked Brother Rawney and broke his shinbone in two places. We had hoped gelding might improve the beast's ill temper, but . . . - Brienne VI, AFFC

x

The horse was a heavy courser, almost as big as a destrier but much faster. Stranger, the Hound called him. Arya had tried to steal him once, when Clegane was taking a piss against a tree, thinking she could ride off before he could catch her. Stranger had almost bitten her face off. He was gentle as an old gelding with his master, but otherwise he had a temper as black as he was. She had never known a horse so quick to bite or kick. - Arya IX, ASOS

At last, the moment arrives. The group come across a novice with a lame leg who is noticeably larger than Brienne.

Almost no one in this story is larger than Brienne.

On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame. As he flung a spadeful of the stony soil over one shoulder, some chanced to spatter against their feet. - Brienne VI, AFFC

The novice gravedigger is immediately drawn to Septon Meribald's dog, Dog. Wink, wink.

"Be more watchful there," chided Brother Narbert. "Septon Meribald might have gotten a mouthful of dirt." The gravedigger lowered his head. When Dog went to sniff him he dropped his spade and scratched his ear. "A novice," explained Narbert. - Brienne VI, AFFC

The crowd moves along, and Brienne repeats her objective to the Elder Brother. Once again, the atmosphere turns uneasy.

Unlike Septon Narbert, the Elder Brother did not seem dismayed by Brienne's sex, but his smile did flicker and fade when the septon told him why she and Ser Hyle had come. "I see," was all he said [...] - Brienne VI, AFFC

The story progresses, but the author makes sure we don't forget that gravedigger we encountered earlier.

"Too many corpses, these days." The Elder Brother sighed. "Our gravedigger knows no rest. [...]" - Brienne VI, AFFC

Eventually the gravedigger reappears, and once more, the author emphasizes that this large adult man's leg is notably impaired.

By the time the readings were completed, the last of the food had been cleared away by the novices whose task it was to serve. Most were boys near Podrick's age, or younger, but there were grown men as well, amongst them the big gravedigger they had encountered on the hill, who walked with the awkward lurching gait of one half-crippled. - Brienne VI, AFFC

x

His face had bled the worst, but it was the wound on his thigh that smelled funny to her. - Arya XIII, ASOS

After a pleasant meal, the Elder Brother takes Brienne aside to learn more about her mission. He informs her that she has been pursuing the wrong Stark daughter; the Hound was with Arya, not Sansa.

Of course, this raises the question: how could he possibly know this?

I wonder, my lady . . . what do you hope to find there?" "A girl," she told him. "A highborn maid of three-and-ten, with a fair face and auburn hair." "Sansa Stark." The name was softly said. "You believe this poor child is with the Hound?" [...] "Your Dornishman did not lie," the Elder Brother began, "but I fear you did not understand him. You are chasing the wrong wolf, my lady. Eddard Stark had two daughters. It was the other one that Sandor Clegane made off with, the younger one." "Arya Stark?" Brienne stared open-mouthed, astonished. "You know this? Lady Sansa's sister is alive?" - Brienne VI, AFFC

The Elder Brother then tells Brienne that the Hound is dead and that he buried him himself.

"[...] I do not know where she is, or even if she lives. There is one thing I do know, however. The man you hunt is dead." That was another shock. "How did he die?" "By the sword, as he had lived." "You know this for a certainty?" "I buried him myself. I can tell you where his grave lies, if you wish. I covered him with stones to keep the carrion eaters from digging up his flesh, and set his helm atop the cairn to mark his final resting place. That was a grievous error. Some other wayfarer found my marker and claimed it for himself. [...]" - Brienne VI, AFFC

But soon after, the Elder Brother speaks of his own "death," suggesting to the reader that Sandor Clegane's passing might be more symbolic than literal.

All in all, I was a sad man. When I was not fighting, I was drunk. My life was writ in red, in blood and wine." "When did it change?" asked Brienne. "When I died in the Battle of the Trident. [...]" - Brienne VI, AFFC

He then offers what appears to be a kind of eulogy, emphasizing that Sandor only lived to fulfill the dream of killing his brother, a goal he can no longer achieve.

This signals to the reader that Cleganebowl is stupid, and it's time to move on.

"I know a little of this man, Sandor Clegane. He was Prince Joffrey's sworn shield for many a year, and even here we would hear tell of his deeds, both good and ill. If even half of what we heard was true, this was a bitter, tormented soul, a sinner who mocked both gods and men. He served, but found no pride in service. He fought, but took no joy in victory. He drank, to drown his pain in a sea of wine. He did not love, nor was he loved himself. It was hate that drove him. Though he committed many sins, he never sought forgiveness. Where other men dream of love, or wealth, or glory, this man Sandor Clegane dreamed of slaying his own brother, a sin so terrible it makes me shudder just to speak of it. Yet that was the bread that nourished him, the fuel that kept his fires burning. Ignoble as it was, the hope of seeing his brother's blood upon his blade was all this sad and angry creature lived for . . . and even that was taken from him, when Prince Oberyn of Dorne stabbed Ser Gregor with a poisoned spear." - Brienne VI, AFFC

In a state of disbelief, Brienne states that Sandor Clegane is dead, and doesn't use his nickname. The Elder Brother corrects her by clarifying that Sandor Clegane is at rest.

This signals to the reader that both the Hound and Sandor Clegane are not coming back to the story, and it's time to move on.

"It is true, then," she said dully. "Sandor Clegane is dead." "He is at rest." The Elder Brother paused. - Brienne VI, AFFC

George R. R. Martin, I mean the Elder Brother, then emphatically tells his readers, I mean Brienne, that Sandor Clegane never had Sansa Stark (and he never will).

This signals to the reader that Sansan is not a thing, never was, and it's time to move on.

"I see." Brienne did not know why he was telling her all of this, or what else she ought to say.

"Do you?" He leaned forward, his big hands on his knees. "If so, give up this quest of yours. The Hound is dead, and in any case he never had your Sansa Stark. - Brienne VI, AFFC

The end.

Other things to consider:

In May of 2005, before the release of A Feast for Crows, George confirmed we'd be seeing the Hound in the upcoming book. Strange, considering the Hound is not in A Feast for Crows.

Except he is, because he's the gravedigger.

Will we see Sandor again, especially in replacing Sansa's lost wolf? Yes, we will see Sandor (in the next book I think he said) and Gregor. After that, he said he can't comment on the rest... - George R. R. Martin

In A Clash of Kings, Davos witnesses the Hound boarding the ship Prayer. (Funny author.)

Davos recognized the dog's-head helm of the Hound. A white cloak streamed from his shoulders as he rode his horse up the plank onto the deck of Prayer, hacking down anyone who blundered within reach. - Davos III, ACOK

Finally, the show confirmed the Hound's role as the gravedigger when they reintroduced the character by having him build a sept in aid of Septon Ray, who had helped nurse him back to health.

Later, as they desperately searched for something for him to do, because he wasn't meant to return to the story, they had him dig a grave. (In winter. In the frozen ground. Using a small, handheld spade.)

COUNTER-EVIDENCE:

There is none, because the Hound is the gravedigger, and we all know and accept that.

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

I still have no idea why anyone expects him to return to the story.

It's not like the Betty Ford Center, where you can leave after 30 days, completely rehabilitated.

Sandor Clegane is at rest. Indefinitely.

VOTE:

I welcome discussions. Feel free to reblog, respond, or challenge my perspective—I won't be offended by any of it.

Please note, if "no" is the eventual winner, or if it's competitive, a second poll will be conducted to determine the proper location.

NEXT THEORY:

Lemongate

[Main menu]

#operation iceberg #asoiaf theory tier list #theory 10 #the hound is the gravedigger

[cy-cyborg-draws]

Pets in Sauvias: Velociraptors

When you don't have animals like wolves to domesticate into dogs, who becomes man's best friend? Well Velociraptors of course!

In my pathfinder 2e setting, Sauvias, Velociraptors (or "velos" for short) were domesticated a few thousand years ago to serve as both companions and working animals. They have been bread to aid their people with a number of tasks, from hunting in packs and helping farmers direct their hadrosaurus herds, to pulling devices known as basket-sleds, a type of carrage-like device used by the smaller people of Sauvias to navigate through the dense jungles in the centre of the continent.

Wild velos are typically between 30-40cm tall with sandy brown coats, but through domestication, dozens of different breeds have been created that range in both colour and size, with the biggest reaching a little over 60cm tall.

And of course, the people of sauvias have found a number of ways to show that their feathery friends are a part of the family. Some choose a classic leather collar or ankle band. Others choose decorative fabrics adorned with their family crests and patterns to tie around their necks like a bandana or waists.

Others use intricately designed harnesses with the family crest engraved into the clip and decorative beads, and those who live in regions with dangerous aerial threats often put capes with eye-like markings and armour on their pet velos in a hope to deter predators.

Mechanics

Of course, Velociraptors already exsist in the base Pathfinder 2e game, and the velos of Sauvias use the same stat-blocks as them, with smaller breads of velo using the weak variant stats and larger breeds typically using the elite stat variant. Players can also have a Velo as an animal companion using the existing Dromaeosaur stats.

Image Descriptions:

[ID 1: An image of a feathered velociraptor with a sandy-brown coat, pale brown underbelly and a darker brown stripe running down it's back. Above it is the Sauvias Logo and in the background is a height chart, showing this velociraptor is about 35cm tall. /End ID 1] [ID 2: 6 images of Velociraptors in the same pose as the original on a brown background. The top left dinosaur is the one from the first image, labelled "wyld", to it's left is a raptor with light brown fur and dark white and brown spots, labelled "Spotted". Below those two are more brightly coloured velociraptors. The one on the left is a rusty red with a yellow stripe starting at it's eyes and running down it's body, all the way to it's tail, labelled "Drakari Red". The one on the right is mossy green in colour with yellow-ish green speckles on it's back labelled "Herali Green". The final row shows two black velociraptors, the one on the left is entirely black, labelled "Night-feather", while the one on the right has white spots on it's snout, around it's eyes and down it's back, labelled "dotted". /end ID 2] [ID 3: An image of two more velociraptors facing one another. The one one the left is black with a leather collar around it's neck and on it's right back leg. On the left is the pale velociraptor with spots, wearing a light-blue bandanna and a large piece of fabric held to the raptor's waist with a leather belt. /end ID 3] [ID 4: two more Velociraptors facing eachother, wearing accessories. The one on the left is the green velociraptor and is wearing a leather harness adorned with gold and turquoise beads. The one on the right is the original brown velociraptor wearing grey, stone-like plated armour over it's neck and a turquoise cape shaped like moth wings with false-eyes on them. /end ID 4]

#Sauvias #Pathfinder 2e Homebrew #worldbuilding #cy cyborg draws #disabled artist #my art #queer artist #id in alt text #digital art #dinosaurs #dinosaur #velociraptor #pathfinder #ttrpg #pf2e #pathfinder homebrew

[supersonicart]

Laverinne’s “Secret Memories.”

Currently on view at Haven Gallery in Northport, New York is artist Laverinne’s solo exhibition, “Secret Memories.”

Laverinne paints elegant and serene watercolor works with inspiration stemming from mythology, Japanese Manga, art history and nature. Each piece offers a whimsical female subject sharing an intimate connection with her animal companions. These delicate subjects merge with their animal counterparts with a vibrant unification of color. Not only do the subjects connect with animals, but also with varying flora, fauna, and magical objects painted in corresponding colors. An admirer can immediately notice a uniform focus of color in each piece. This aids in the idea that all creatures in the work are connected in a meaningful way. Each subject is adorned in grandeur fashions, including detailed headdresses, all flowing effortlessly throughout the composition.

Laverinne explains, “For the concept, I drew each painting as having an item, or a place, that can have secret memories in it. A castle, that can have a lot of memories when someone makes an important decision inside. A clock that can show a time of a moment that you will never forget. A key that keeps your box of memories. A lake where memories were hiding at the bottom. A moon where the wolves howl brings back all memories into life. And memories of someone that you cherished when you were a black dress, and memories of the vow that you say in your white dress. Finally, a memory of the braveness that is delivered inside of a flower.”

BUY PRINTS | FOLLOW ON INSTAGRAM

#art #painting #illustration #laverinne #haven gallery #manga #anime #artists on tumblr #artwork #watercolor

[eruden-writes]

Halloween Drabble: Salty & Sweet (werewolf x gender neutral reader)

A sudden question leads to a bit of flirtation.

If you want to get early releases for my on-going stories or early access to the occasional drabble like this, check out my Patreon!

🍫🐺

“Can werewolves have chocolate?” The question came so suddenly as you munch on your own chocolate bar, you not only startle yourself, but the companion you’d been sharing the quiet with. They turn their almost-glowing brown-gold eyes to you.

Kellum sits at the picnic table with you, except he’s chosen to sit atop the table while you sit on the bench. Before your question, he sat hunched over his phone, elbows on his knees as the light flickered over his partially-morphed face. Now, as he stares at you, you realize you’ve rarely seen him in this phase of shifting.

Fur has begun sprouting along the sides of his face, his ears shifted from simply pointed to furry and tapered. The fur is the same shade as his hair, with interspersed flecks of grey. A ‘silver fox’ that was in all reality a wolf, you mused once. His nose has darkened and flattened, taking on the appearance of a snoot than a nose. His lips are the same dark shade and, a little shamefully, you wonder if their texture is somehow different.

When you first saw his outfit - a plaid button-up over a white tank-top and worn blue jeans - you had teased him about being a timberwolf lumberjack. Now, you’re regretting the joke, realizing how the plaid and tee-shirt highlights his muscular-chubby dad-bod, and how the rolled-up sleeves bring your attention to his forearms. Which are also partially morphed, the tan skin fading to a grey-black-brown fur with elongated fingers tipped in dangerous looking claws.

The two of you are taking a break from your shift at the haunted house, run by his college-aged kid and their friends. Gerard, Kellum’s son, actually asked for your help with the haunted endeavor ages ago and, without thinking, you agreed.

You hadn’t realized Kellum would also be helping out. In retrospect, you really should have expected it. The poor guy was having hardcore “empty nester” syndrome with Gerard off living it up at college. You’d born witness to it on a number of occasions, since you were his next door neighbor. Of course, Kellum volunteered to act in a haunted house and spend time with his son.

Embarrassed, you glance at his ear - locking your gaze to the glow-in-the-dark gauge there - to avoid eye contact. “I mean, dogs can’t. Not sure about wolves, but I imagine they can’t either. So can werewolves?”

In an effort to stave off further embarrassment and babbling, you shrug and break off another piece of your chocolate bar, shoving it in your mouth.

“I don’t know,” Kellum finally answers, a thoughtful timbre to his tone.

You rack your brain for any memory of him having chocolate in your presence, but come up empty. “How do you not know?”

It seems damn near impossible for the man to have gone his whole life without eating chocolate. But he shrugs again, before leaning over to pocket his phone in his jeans. You think you sense the slightest grin on his lips. Suspicion crawls over your skin, but you ignore it, telling yourself it’s the chill in the air.

“Should we test it out?” He asks, and you catch the sight of his tail flicking back and forth on the table.

At first, you’re not sure. What if it really makes him sick? Or agitates his system? Weren’t chocolate allergies often deadly?

But Kellum isn’t a spontaneous risky sort. He was a single father for fifteen years, for cripes’ sakes. He wouldn’t put his life in danger over testing a silly hypothesis. Likely, even if he did suffer adverse reactions, it’d be minimal, right?

He waits patiently as you mentally struggle, amusement curling at his lips. Eventually, you settle on a decision. Kellum is a grown-ass man, capable of saying no and understanding risks. And if anything really bad happens, you have your phone at the ready. “Okay, but let’s go small, just in cas-”

Your words are swallowed up by Kellum’s mouth, pressed suddenly to your lips. He moved so fast, your heart barely had time to beat between your words and the kiss. Heat claws up your face and you jerk, only to realize a clawed hand cradles the back of your head. His free hand grasps your shoulder, claws pricking into the fabric of your shirt. You gasp against his lips, which only seems to make the corners of his lips curve upward.

Then his tongue, thick and wet, slips into your mouth. Without thinking, you part your lips a little wider, angling your head as the kiss deepens. He is everywhere in your mouth. Tasting your tongue and your teeth, encouraging your own tentative exploration of his maw and teeth. 

Your eyes flutter shut, the woodsy scent of Kellum’s cologne enveloping you as he leans closer. His body heat sinks into you, warming the chillier parts of you and stoking a warmth deep inside you. Your hands slip to his upper arms, grasping the fabric bunched at his elbow. 

As quickly as it began, the kiss ends. Kellum pulls away, leaving you frazzled and - honestly - feeling a bit sloppy. You brush the back of your hand against your lower lip, swiping away any wayward drool, as you level a glare at the man.

Kellum ignores your irritated look, smacking his chops and humming in consideration. “No, I don’t think I-”

Suddenly, his eyes fly wide, a choked sound leaving his throat as his body stiffens. Even a slight tremor flickers through his body. Your eyes fly wide, terror gripping at your chest as you watch him list forward, toppling completely over before his back hits the ground.

“Kellum!” You shriek, trembling hands shooting for your phone. You stumble down from the picnic table, trying to find any sign - foaming at the mouth or gurgling - as further symptoms. In your head, you’re already rehearsing what you’re going to say as you dial the emergency services.

You freeze as Kellum’s eyes crack open, a wolfish smile tilting his lips. Embarrassed and angry, heat rises in your cheeks just as you realize his tail is wagging, thumping against the ground.

“Oh no, I must be allergic,” he chuckles sarcastically, propping himself up on his elbows. His furry brows raise, a devilish expression crossing his features. “You might have to give me mouth-to-mouth.”

You only barely resisted the urge to thump Kellum on the chest before standing. Fueled by rage and mortification, you’re already stumbling backward. With an accusatory finger, you jab it in Kellum’s direction. “That is not funny!”

Turning your back on him, you begin charging back toward the haunted house, trying to ignore how fast your heart is throbbing in your chest. It feels like your cheeks are going to burn off, with how hot the flush across your cheeks feels. Your brain tries to make sense of why Kellum pulled such a stunt. But wasn’t that what Halloween was about? It wasn’t simply about treats, but also the tricks.

As angry as you are, you can’t help being a little amused. And that just makes you angrier.

Behind you, you hear Kellum getting to their feet and laughing as he tails after you, “Aw, why so salty?”

Something in Kellum’s tone makes you freeze. That particular resonance when a dad is about to lay on a dad joke. A realization prickles through your thoughts. Turning around to face him, you narrow your eyes and point a finger in his face again. “You better not say what I think you’re going to say.”

His toothy grin only widens at your words, showing off his sharp canines. In that instant, your stomach drops, but the heat at your center churns wildly.

“Lucky for you,” Kellum’s eyes positively glow as he scoops you up in his arms, holding you against his warm chest. The fact he just picked you up leaves you a little dumbfounded. Instinct kicks in as your brain fritzes out and  you struggle and squirm. As he teasingly growls, the echoes vibrating through his chest, you freeze. “I like my treats salty and sweet.”

#exophilia #exo writing #halloween #werewolf #werewolves #lycan #monster x human #monster dad #werewolf x human #monster love #monster boyfriend #monster x reader #werewolf x reader #2nd person pov #reader #kellum #Salty & Sweet #I should really do some drabbles between long or arduous chapters #but I face the problem of always adding on #and making a whole THING of it #because that is just how I am

[thelordofgifs]

For a fic exchange with darling @actual-bill-potts, who wrote me this fantastically creepy Maedhros/Sauron piece and requested some Tol-in-Gaurhoth angst in response! I hope you enjoy love you sm <3

Warnings: rape, graphic depictions of violence. This is significantly darker and more explicit than my usual fare, please take care!

It is Edrahil’s turn. Finrod should not be surprised: he has heard them all die by now, from little Calimmacil, the first baby ever born in Nargothrond, all the way to old Farphen who has lived uncounted years since the Great Journey – and to end them in such a manner! But Edrahil – Edrahil, who has ever had such faith in Finrod – he cannot bear it. He will not listen.

A noise at the entrance of the dungeon, cutting through the low growl of the waiting wolf. It is Gorthaur again, dressed all in white, his eyes of flame gleaming with amusement. He is the only thing Finrod can see clearly in the dark. “Only two left,” he observes. “Are these last dearer to thee than thy other companions, little lord? Or shalt thou cling to thy secrets yet?”

“Aran,” Edrahil croaks, as the wolf draws closer. “Aran, do not—” Beren’s parched voice joins his in agreement.

“I will give you nothing, Gorthaur,” Finrod says – whispers – pleads.

The all-too-familiar sound of teeth tearing through flesh. Edrahil cries out, hoarsely.

Gorthaur is watching Finrod’s face as he weeps. “Thou art enjoying this, art thou not?” he says. “Their faith in thee in the face of such despair… it pleases thee.”

Through his tears, Finrod manages to summon up a glob of saliva to spit at Gorthaur’s pristine robes.

Edrahil has begun to call for him – they all do at some point. “Aran,” he gasps, “Aran, please—”

Gorthaur makes an amused sound. “This is thy own doing,” he tells Finrod. “Thou mightst as well take pleasure in it.” He sits down on the floor beside Finrod, his robes the only clean thing in the filthy dungeon, and puts an arm around Finrod’s naked shoulders, drawing him close. “Hear how he muffles his cries,” he whispers, his breath hot in Finrod’s ear, “for thy sake – does it not gladden thee?”

“No,” Finrod gasps, trying to pull away, but the manacles around his wrists and ankles hold him in place, and anyway he is crying too hard to concentrate. He raises his voice so that Edrahil can hear him better. “It will not be long, dear friend – I am sorry, I am so—”

He breaks off with a choked cry. There are hot, slick fingers inside him – breaching him, opening him. Edrahil screams and at the same moment Gorthaur twists his fingers—

Finrod cannot control the heavy panting breaths he is taking. He cannot help the way he shudders away from Gorthaur’s heat and, at the same time, leans into it, cannot stop his hips from bucking at the violating press of fingers within him.

“Come, little lord,” Gorthaur purrs. He licks a teasing stripe down Finrod’s neck. “Enjoy it.”

The sickening crunch of bone. Beren shouts out, but Edrahil is quieter now. “Aran,” he croaks. “Aran, it hurts…”

Gorthaur takes Finrod into his free hand and strokes him, suddenly. Finrod has opened his mouth to summon up some soothing words for Edrahil – and what can he even say, what will possibly make this better? – but all that comes out is a startled moan.

"There," says Gorthaur, slipping a third finger into him. Finrod cries out, and Gorthaur lets go of him in order to grasp his chin with one scorching hand and push his tongue into his mouth, stoppering his sounds of distress. "Didst thou not choose this?" he reminds Finrod, twisting his fingers again, leaning in to kiss away the tears running down his face. "'Tis well within thy power to call off my wolves, if thou wilt only tell me thy name." Finrod gives a sob and Gorthaur laughs. "No? Understandable. It brings thee pleasure, I can see that much."

There is a horrible slurping noise coming from the wolf now, and the wet slap of entrails against the stone floor. Edrahil is still conscious: he lets out the occasional tiny ragged whimper, each time muffled by the moans Gorthaur draws from Finrod's lips. He does not want this – it must be some Maia magic, to make his body respond so – but what if it is not? What if Gorthaur is right, and Finrod does take some perverse pleasure in his companions' loyalty?

"Hush, hush," Gorthaur says, gentle now, even as he takes Finrod in hand again, stroking him hard and fast. "Enjoy it, little lord. Enjoy it."

"He is gone," Beren reports from the other side of the dungeon, his voice dull and rasping, and with a sob Finrod spills into Gorthaur's hand.

Gorthaur seems to lose interest, after that. He withdraws his fingers from Finrod and leaves him slumped against the wall, the scent of blood mingling with that of his own release. "Only one left," he says, glancing from Finrod to where Beren must be chained, although Finrod can still see nothing but the terrible vision in white before him. "I shall see thee again soon, little lord."

"Aran," Beren whispers, once he is gone; but Finrod cannot bear to respond.

#silmarillion #my fic #cw rape #nsft #finrod #sauron #edrahil #beren #I do not know what this is but it's fucked up basically

[june-on-the-moon]

HI im sorry this took so long!! So the undergrove, I will admit i know a little less about it as opposed to some of the other empires but its still v fun to play around with! this isnt as in depth as my gilded helethia rant partically because i am really tired and partially because i know less, i might flesh it out a bit more at a later date though.

I think it's a lot less established then many of the other empires. Not less established as in ramshackle but more as in rather empty. There would be some gnomes that made it through the portal with her but for the most part its populated by forest animals who decided shrub was a friend and the occasional person who didnt want to stay in any other empires.

Shrub became the ruler of the undergrove after she founded it when she led the remaining gnomes to empires from their old world (i havent watched shrubs pov so take that with a grain of salt) She never thought she deserved the title but she ended up taking it anyway.

The culture would be rather different as opposed to many other places, they forage rather then farm. Only a few things are grown or imported. Status is almost non existent and everyone knows everyone. People do many things together, work, eat, sleep. A lot of their traditions revolve around community as a way to get back what they lost after the destruction of their home world.

For cusine and clothing (my favourite parts) i think it would all be rather rustic. Clothes are handmade from animal furs and fabrics imported from other empires. Theyre usually quite loose and practical, lots of pockets and easy to move around in. Colours to match the mushrooms are favoured so many people where white/grey with pops of warmer colours. This does cause a bit of contrast within the forest though so clothes for things such as hunting and foraging are usually made in darker shades of brown and green.

Food is usually made in large batches, big pots of stew, massive loaves of bread, etc. Despite the gnomes smaller size they do this so they can share food and also so it lasts for longer. Many people carry around 'snack pouches' in which they will carry berries, dried meat and other such things to eat throughout the day.

Animals are treated as equals and often have their own homes, if they are the companions of certain families or people they will wear pieces of cloth tied around their legs or necks to show that. Wolves are somewhat revered as holy animals and it is forbidden to ever harm one lest you become cast out and ostracized.

Thats about all i got rn im afraid i need to go to bed, i hope you enjoyed my hopefully somewhat comprehensible rant that i am not bothered to spell check

That was so awesome to read! Tysm!!

I love the undergrove and I am so normal (lie) about shubble characters

#empires smp s1 #empires smp #shubble #shrub berry #silly rambles

[sciencelings-writes]

Whumptober Prompt 5: Hypothermia

Part of my Golden Priestesses AU, though all you need to know is that the Zelda here is Gerudo and she doesn’t have any associations with the royal family, and Link goes by they/them pronouns and is half Zonai. 

Warnings: Brief discussions of momentary nudity

wc: 2743

AO3 Link

The journey up Mount Lanayru wasn’t Link’s version of fun. Even with a dozen layers between their skin and the constantly falling snow, the fact that they weren’t allowed to have any heating potions and that they were used to the sweltering humidity and heat of Faron, the hike up the spiraling stairs up a freezing mountain were pretty agonizing. 

Link was still shivering even under three cloaks, one wool, one silk, and one that was mostly just Lynel pelts, it’s golden color made their status obvious. Though it wasn’t out of the ordinary for a Zonai to be covered in cloaks to protect their light sensitive skin, Link found themself uncomfortable with the constant weight on their back and lack of flexibility. They were definitely used to lighter clothes that didn’t cling to their skin.

At least Zelda was by their side, their fellow priestess was used to the frigid temperatures, even then, she still wore a massive cloak lined with white wolves fur. Though she towered above them, she kept her strides nice and short so they wouldn’t be jogging to keep up with her. She could probably take four steps of stone stairs at a time if she wanted to, and Link was very thankful that she didn’t. 

“I’m still willing to carry you, you know.” Zelda said with a playful smirk as Link carefully avoided a patch of ice.

“As I said before, not in front of the attendants. We do not need any more rumors circulating around.” Their cheeks were flushed, but they couldn’t completely blame it on the cold. 

“I think we should encourage rumors, it can get boring up here, it’ll be a service if anything interesting were to happen.” She teased, Link caught themself looking at her smile for a little too long. They whipped their head away, to focus on the road instead. 

“I’m sure they’ll find something to talk about. Maybe I’ll trip into the spring or something. Or another fox will wander in and climb the goddess statue.” They suggested, admiring the pillars of ice and stone rather than looking at their companion. They’d have to crane their neck pretty far up anyway. 

“It may be expected for animals to gather around the statue of Farore but it’s considered disrespectful for my goddess.” She commented, brushing some bright scarlet hair from blowing in her face, she must’ve missed a few pieces when preparing herself that morning. How inconvenient. 

“I’m sure she would think differently if it was an owl.”

“As a matter of fact, she does. There’s a nest of them too high for anyone to get to, some of the lower priestesses believe she speaks through them, so if they happen to hoot while someone is talking, they assume Nayru just wanted to butt in with her opinion.” The image caused Link to snort out a laugh. 

“Oh fair prophet, you cannot understand the words of your goddesses sacred birds, how disappointing. I heard Impa can talk to pigs.” 

“Din’s sacred animal is a boar, not a pig. That’s like calling your dragon a lizard.” The priestess of Nayru raised her eyebrows and motioned towards the currently covered tattoos on Link’s arm, a long dragon spiraled up in shifting greens and teals and gold.

“They belong to the same family. Do you think it would be sacrilege if the Priestess of Din eats pork? Or if the Queen eats poultry?”

“It’s not sacrilege for you to drink potions made with reptiles.” Zelda pointed out. 

“It might be! I haven’t read the rulebook in a while.” Link claimed. 

Their hike up the mountain lasted like that for hours, the priestess of Farore slowly feeling the chill seep through their cloaks. When they got to the top it wouldn’t matter though, so they wouldn’t even think to complain about it. 

Shortly before Links legs threatened to fall off, they reached the Spring of Wisdom. The structure around it contained dozens of stained glass images that showered the marble floors with vibrant colors. Torches and a firepit were prepared, keeping the building a more reasonable heat, but the spring would still be just as mind-numbingly cold. Though that was the point. 

Link was assisted out of their almost comical amount of cloaks, each layer removed sent a new wave of chilly air through their body. It took all their willpower not to shiver visibly. Eventually they were left in their ceremonial garb, an outfit more suited for their own spring in the middle of a tropical jungle. It contained a sash that only fully covered their shadow marks on their untattooed arm. It was the skin all Zonai had that was particularly sensitive to light, it wrapped around their arm like a dainty sleeve with smokey edges that swirled like a whirlwind up to their bicep. 

Most of their skin was bare, there was no protection for their feet or hands, only extra wrappings covering their shadow marks. It wouldn’t help keep them warm though. The cold was a trial, not unlike the monsters hiding in the chambers of the Temple of Courage or the guardians around the Temple of Power. Nayru wanted to test their endurace, their dedication. 

This spring was the most exclusive, while youth were allowed to pray in the others, the Spring of Wisdom was the most dangerous of them all, for Wisdom was the most dangerous weapon to have. Those who wished to take their pilgrimage there had to prove to the priestess that they understood their choice. That they contained the wisdom to not succumb to the allure of knowledge or to the pain of the cold. 

Zelda worried that Link would be too stubborn to give up, to leave when their body hit it’s limit, not because they desired knowledge, but because that was an effect of their own relentless courage. She was afraid that they would die if someone convinced them it would help even a single person. 

The priestess of Farore took a breath of icy air before taking their first step into the spring. They managed to resist flinching back but they knew that now they were wet, it would feel even colder. So step by step, they continued into the center of the spring. Their light skirt floating to the surface and fanning out like frost forming on glass.  

Slowly, they knelt. The water rising up from their hips to their chest, making their lungs spasm and quiver against the stinging chill. Their jaw was stubbornly clenched shut to keep from chattering and their hands were clasped together to start their prayer. They only hoped they would grow used to the temperature, because they definitely had a long way to go. 

After one last shaking breath, Link started their first prayer to Nayru, a song that echoed throughout the silent temple. The acoustics of the structure allowing it to sound like they were harmonizing with themself, carrying a note for several seconds before it was allowed to die out. 

Once the first verse was finished, Link closed their eyes and succumbed to the darkness and the resonating sounds. The ancient language on their tongue was far from foreign, but they were sure a goddess would be able to pick apart their accent. Many of the sounds weren’t natural for them to make, but with years of practice, it got much easier. 

Hours had gone by, their voice wavered and got quieter as time passed. Eventually turning into a melodic hum as ther throat grew tight and rough. As the cold made their skin and bones completely numb, they knelt like a statue, mildly afraid that if they even tried to stand they would immediately stumble and fall. 

Singing turned into humming which turned into no noise at all, only the fact that they were still upright hinted Zelda to the fact that they were still awake and deep in prayer. The moment they first stopped making noise, Zelda had to resist the urge to run in and check if they were okay. They had already lasted far longer than most, even she wasn’t allowed to watch them very long, it was customary that prayer was a private affair between the worshipper and the goddess they prayed to. At least in most springs it was. 

Zelda guarded her friend, looking back and checking on them much more frequently than was likely necessary. Sure, she knew that if they passed out, she would hear the splash of the water, she would hear the water lap against the stone if they moved enough to stand up. She already had several heating potions that gradually increased in strength and several dry blankets soaking up the heat of the fire pit. She knew how to be prepared for a dedicated pilgrim, so many collapsed from the cold long before now. She wondered if Link was just too frozen in place to call for help. 

Her fears were both dispelled and confirmed when she heard a sudden crash of something into the water, the broken silence made her jerk towards the spring, only to see her colleague completely engulfed in ice water. She sprang into action, ignoring the jolt of electricity that passed through her body as she ran into the spring. 

Her heart jolted when she saw the unnatural tone to their skin and their closed eyes. She scooped their freezing body from the water and dreaded how cold and stiff they had gotten. She knew she should’ve intervened sooner… 

Despite how cold they were, Zelda clung to Link, hoping to transfer some of her natural heat to them, but she knew it would be hard when he was wet and in sopping clothes. She would have to remove them. She tried her best to not be enticed by the idea, it was a medical necessity, not an excuse to objectify them. This had never really been a problem before, she’s had to fish so many travelers out, to keep their clothes from freezing them solid, it had never really phased her like it did with Link. 

She managed to unclothe them without staring too much, though she was mortal and she had to shake her head out of it’s momentary stupor a second after removing the garments on their chest. In no time they were swadled in blankets and sitting near the fire, she just had to wait for them to wake up again before giving them the first elixir. 

Zelda had decided that the best way to warm them up would be with her assistance so she carefully sat them pressed against each other, her using her superior size to her advantage and completely enveloping their body with hers, pressing her legs against theirs and biting her tongue a little when their stone cold skin touched hers. She wrapped her arms around them and made sure that their wet hair wasn’t touching their back. Her fur cloak covered them both well enough to keep the heat contained. 

There were minutes where she could only hear her own racing heart beat. Was their condition worse than she thought? Would she have to rush him to the fairy fountain near Karariko? Would she have to find a healer? Would she be fast enough if she began her journey now? She furiously rubbed heat into Links limbs, clasping her warm hands around one of theirs at a time, it was the first time she realized that the skin of their shadow marks felt different than their Hylian colored skin. It was rough and strangely sturdy but still flexible. 

A few terrifying minutes after Zelda had started to warm them up, Link made their first noise in hours. A tiny groan. She might’ve missed it if the temple were less silent. She paused her completely selfless cuddling to grab the weakest heating elixir from it’s place at her side. It warmed the glass like some tea that had been sitting out for a few minutes, warm, but nowhere near scalding. 

“Open up pipsqeak, we have to warm you up from the inside too.” Zelda said softly, tilting their chin back to administer the potion. At this point, their eyes were open and obviously dazed, still, they seemed like they were trying to resist shivering.  

They swallowed the potion without resistance and instantly seemed to be getting better, their cheeks were pink rather than being unnaturally pale and their shivering seemed to come back, at least to the extent of being uncontrollable. Zelda automatically went back to holding them close as soon as the empty glass bottle was placed safely on the ground. 

“Am I… am I naked?” They asked between stuttering breaths. Of course that would be the first thing they were worried about…

“I’m not just going to leave you in wet clothes while you’re suffering from hypothermia Link.” She deadpanned. 

“Did you…” Their weak voice trailed off and Zelda had a feeling that the pink on their cheeks wasn’t just them recovering their body heat. 

“Yes I did. It was medically necessary.” She didn’t want the fact that she had seen their body without their permission be a point of embarrassment, she just had to act professional and detached about it. 

“Consider yourself lucky, not everyone gets the sacred honor to gaze upon-” Link announced deliriously, loud enough that there was no way that some temple attendants could be oblivious to it. 

“You can go back to sleep now.” She interrupted. “I can wake you up when you’re ready for the next elixir.” 

“Maybe next time you see me like that I won’t be almost dying.” Link suggested with a smirk that was less seductive and more silly. 

“I thought you didn’t want any rumors about us.” 

“You were right, it does get a little boring up here.” Link shrugged a little, or as much as they could in Zelda’s tight embrace. 

The next time Link woke up, they were much more coherent and somber. After their second dose of spicy elixir, she got to find out why. The juxtaposition of their waking state this time compared to the first was more than unsettling, it was hard to believe it was the same person in her arms.  

“She showed me something in there.” Their voice was much quieter than before. “I think I saw the future.” This wasn’t too uncommon, many people saw flashes of things that have yet to happen, oftentimes they were inconsequential or confusing and easily forgotten. But Link looked troubled, and She had a feeling that they got more than just a useless image for their hours of prayer. 

“What did you see?” She prompted. 

“The fall of Hyrule. I think I saw myself dying.” They said, unsettlingly vaguely before continuing, “It wasn’t me though… not really. The princess was there, but not the little girl we know… but I still knew who she was. It was… It was those sheikah machines. Something was controlling them. They were taking down Hylian soldiers like they were ants. We were trying to run but we had no choice but to fight them. She begged me to run but I couldn’t leave her alone. She tried to save me, she had the complete triforce. I think it was too late. I think I died there.” 

“That’s certainly troubling, but that doesn’t seem to occur during your lifetime, it could be hundreds or thousands of years away.” Zelda reasoned, “It’s no use to worry about it now, even if it could be changed.”

Link stayed silent, replaying the images in their mind, it had been many generations since the fall of the calamity, there weren’t many that were old enough to have lived through it, but Link knew the tales. It was clear to them now. The calamity would return someday. It could be decades or centuries or millennia, but one thing was certain, this time, they were going to fail. 

They had a feeling that they wouldn’t be able to see Impa’s spider-y army the same way ever again. Especially the single red eye, aiming right at their heart. 

Then again, though they had been looking through the eyes of Link, they had a feeling that it may not of been them. That Link held the master sword, the very sword that their brother was hiding, the heroes sword. Perhaps it wasn’t them who they saw dying, but Ravio. For some reason, that was so much worse. 

#priestesses au #golden priestesses au #zelink #whumptober #loz au #loz au fic #also it takes place after the first great calamity but before the banishment of the sheikah #priestesses au link #priestesses au zelda

[pod-together]

Day 3 Reveals!

There's A Dinosaur In The Medbay [text, audio] (The Transformers (IDW Generation One)) written by autobotscoutriella, performed by Gilraina Summary: In which Brainstorm's latest science experiment escapes the lab. Instances of Grace (Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster) written by Garonne, performed by Luzula Summary: On his first morning in London, two days earlier, Keith had opened a newspaper to learn of the trial of four Jacobite lairds and their condemnation to death. The first name was Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, printed in irrefutable black on white. howling ghosts who reappear (Hades (Video Game 2018)) written by GwenChan, performed by GoLBPodfics Summary: When during a run through Elysium Patroclus finds himself a casualty of cross-fire, Zagreus discovers just how deep Achilles' affection for his companion goes and the old fury that still brews beneath the surface. Torn Asunder [text, audio] (Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types) written by nemorps, performed by GhostCwtch Summary: "Geralt?" Ciri asked in barely more than a murmur. "Hmm?" "What… What was Roach like?" Roach, the horse, was standing not ten feet away, dozing peacefully. Geralt heaved a sigh, rolling onto his back to stare up at the empty canopy. Only the barest hint of stars made it through the foliage. "She isn't gone." "Isn't she?" Geralt shook his head, though Ciri likely couldn't see it in the darkness. "I can still feel her. In my mind; in my heart. She's there." The Bunny Hop (陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù) written by FlutterFyre, performed by pezzax Summary: In the middle of serving punishment in the Library, Wei Wuxian disappears. Lan Wangji spends the next few days searching unsuccessfully for the missing disciple. Meanwhile there is an adorable bunny who has moved into the Jingshi. Who Let the Constructs Out? (The Murderbot Diaries - Martha Wells) written by CompletelyDifferent, performed by AirgiPodSLV, ArtemisTheHuntress, averytree, blackglass, ffg_podfics, Flowerparrish, GoLBCollabs, horchata, kalakirya, kittona, mistbornhero, and with Summary:

“Why,” Dr. Ayda Mensah asked, “am I looking at a ship full of augmented cats and dogs?” “You aren’t,” said SecUnit. “They’re constructs.” Only approximately 5.9% of my full floorspace is occupied by fauna, said the Perihelion. “Also,” said Three, “six of them are birds.”

Dr. Mensah attempts to piece together one (1) single mission brief from the three oral reports she receives before Iris comes back with more kibble (or anyone needs to use the litter box).

Sink My Teeth (Formula 1 RPF) written by LoveLeah, performed by growlery Summary: Writing the summer menu feels like writing his vows. Sunrise/Sunset (Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types) written and performed by Ghost_writing Summary: A random day of war during the clone wars. 一家人 | One Family (魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)) written and performed by dragongirlG and PandaReads Summary: Lan Qiren awaits the arrival of his family members, both old and new, on the day of the Mid-Autumn Festival. Clipped Wings [text, audio] (镇魂 | Guardian (TV 2018)) written by Mo_on_raccoon, performed by flamingwell Summary: The strange weights move along Shen Wei's back. Heart hammering in his chest, he reaches backward and cannot swallow a cry of surprise that echoes off his narrow prison. His wings. His wings are back. But Ye Zun is nowhere to be found. Zhao Yunlan isn't here either. And Shen Wei is trapped. Wolves of Washington (DC) (Teen Wolf (TV)) written by melly_diamond, performed by readbythilia Summary: It should have been over. Completed, utterly over. Bartley should be a distant memory, spoken only of under a therapist's supervision. Mexico should never be spoken of at all. Special Agent Stiles Stilinski is a shell of a man; abandoned by everyone, he goes through the motions of his daily life, waiting for the end; it has to come sooner or later, doesn't it? But before nature takes it's course, a werewolf comes to his door. Quite literally. Captain Derek Hale of the Elk Grove Police needs his help - his, Stiles' and when he tells him why, Stiles understands that closing the final chapter on that part of his life is one last thing he needs to do. Stiles and Derek return to Bartley to put it all to rest. Everything. Everything.

#podfic #fanfic #teen wolf #guardian #mo dao zu shi #star wars the clone wars #formula 1 rpf #the murderbot diaries #the untamed #the witcher #hades #flight of the heron #the transformers

[quichelewoof]

Weekly Wolf (Catchup)

Soon... soon... I’ll be all caught up, so excited. #13 This week's howl is all about color. Which colors/color ranger are your favourites? Black/White for underbellies, and then the purple to pink colour ranges are great! as well as Turtle - Blues.

#14 This week's howl is all about your favourite companions. Which ones are your favourites and why? Grimalkin supremacy all the way! I also want to know why they have little amulets, where do they come from and why do they have them? Too cute. I also really love the Lapistrix because ice owls, hello? Brother Perth is a deer I want for all my creepy Sundered wolves as well.  #15 This week's howl is all about your starters' role. In your lore what role your starters will play? Will they be monarchs, common workers, or something else? Will you breed them? My starter wolves are Feyhounds, wolves that are changed by the Fae Courts into something more. They are the Den leaders to my main den, The Warrens. I will be breeding them but not too many times as I want their bloodline to be sparse for story purposes.  #16 What role will the Beta play in your lore? The great elders, a dire prophecy, nothing? The Beta plays the beginning part of my starter wolves and the formation of some of my dens for launch, then a flash of chaos, a sign that caused a scar across the Darkspine and shattered pieces of Murkwood, wiped out thousands of wolves and created The Sundered to exist. Shadows of the lost wolves, corrupted and not exactly the same as they were.  #17 What is your favourite thing to test/balance in Beta, or if you are yet to join, what would you like to test the most? Market testing and crafting! #18 How did you spend the Beta launch? I spent Beta launch grinding zones for Wild Wolves, crafting and breeding intensely. But most of all, I made a lot of friends (shoutout to Lorbuddies) in Beta that I love talking to o(*￣▽￣*)ブ

#Lorwolf #Lorwolf Weekly Woof #Weekly Woof 13 - 18

[psychreviews2]

Case Studies: The 'Wolfman' - Sigmund Freud Pt. 2

Early memories

Serge's autobiography The Wolf-Man by the Wolf-Man described a lot of challenges that would affect any person, not just him, and is a good companion piece to Freud's paper. His earliest memories included memories of illness. "I dimly remember that it was summer and I was lying in the garden, and although I had no pain I felt extremely miserable, because of the high fever, I suppose...I have been told that in my early childhood I was a quiet almost phlegmatic child, but that my character changed completely after the arrival of the English governess, Miss Oven. Although she was with us only a few months, I became a very nervous, irritable child, subject to severe temper tantrums."

Another memory was of Serge's parents who went on a trip abroad. "My parents were often away, my sister and I were left mostly under the supervision of strangers, and even when our parents were home we had little contact with them." His parents left "both Miss Oven and my Nanya to our maternal grandmother, who unfortunately did not really assume this responsibility." Later on Serge called Miss Oven "a severe psychopath or often under the influence of alcohol...I can remember, and our grandmother confirmed this, that angry quarrels broke out between my Nanya and me on the one side and Miss Oven on the other. Evidently Miss Oven kept teasing me, and knew how to arouse my fury, which must have given her some sort of sadistic satisfaction." 

Serge's memories, like for most people, shift and change. Certain underlying patterns of who he liked or disliked would remain the same, but details like the story that scared him in Freud's analysis The Wolf and the seven little kids morphed into a similar story Little Red Riding Hood. "Unlike me, Anna got on with Miss Oven fairly well, and even seemed to enjoy it when Miss Oven teased me. Anna began to imitate Miss Oven and teased me, too. Once she told me she would show me a nice picture of a pretty little girl. I was eager to see this picture, but Anna covered it with a piece of paper. When she finally took the piece of paper away, I saw, instead of a pretty little girl, a wolf standing on it's hind legs with his jaws wide open, about to swallow Little Red Riding Hood. I began to scream and had a real temper tantrum. Probably the cause of this outburst of rage was not so much my fear of the wolf as my disappointment and anger at Anna for teasing me."

Serge described his mother in a more adult sense. "Although she did not suffer from depression, in her youth she...imagined she had various illnesses which she did not have at all. In fact she lived to a considerable age of eighty-seven...Since my mother, as a young woman, was so concerned about her health, she did not have much time left for us. But if my sister or I was ill, she became an exemplary nurse. She stayed with us almost all the time and saw to it that our temperature was taken regularly and our medicine given us at the right time." Serge learned about religion from his mother and Nanya. His doubts about God's omnipotence, not being able to stop evil, made him feel guilty that it was a terrible sin to doubt. Not knowing if there was a God or not influenced Serge to play it safe with faith. Ambivalence between faith and reason was with him throughout his life.

Another important memory related to Serge's sister is in the autobiography. "My sister and I both liked to draw. At first we used to draw trees, and I found Anna's way of drawing little round leaves particularly attractive and interesting. But not wanting to imitate her I soon gave up tree drawing. I began to draw horses true to nature, but unfortunately every horse I drew looked more like a dog or a wolf than a real horse." Serge lived on an estate that grew crops and raised sheep. The white wolves, who looked more like sheep dogs, may have influenced his dream. His memory of those sheep was that 200,000 of them were inoculated with a wrong serum and died.

The Wanderer

Between Serge's parents wandering around and he himself involved in moves, he was a wanderer from the beginning. I found photos of his former estate, Dubiecki Manor, that was purchased by his father one year before Serge's birth. It's a ruin now in modern Ukraine, nicknamed The Wolf Lair, but one can imagine the tree he saw out the window, like a Freudian psycho-archaeologist. Which window did he look out of? What were the walnut trees like back then? "We lived on an estate where I was born only in the winter. Our summer home was in Tyerni, a few miles away. Every spring we moved to Tyerni, and our luggage followed us in numerous wagons. In Tyerni, we had a big country house in a beautiful old park. Trips between the estate on the Dnieper and Tyerni took place during the summer."

The big emotional move for Serge was his first permanent move south. "We moved to Odessa when I was five years old. At that time there were no train connections between our estate and Odessa. One had first to take a little river boat down the Dnieper to Kherson, which took the entire night. Then one had to spend a day and a night in Kherson, and early the following morning continue the journey to Odessa, this time on a larger ship able to weather the possible storms on the Black Sea...My father bought a villa in Odessa, opposite the municipal park which extended to the shore of the Black Sea. This villa had been built by an Italian architect in the style of the Italian Renaissance. Almost at the same time my father acquired a large estate in southern Russia...Only after we were living in Odessa did I learn that my father had sold our estate. I cried and felt most unhappy that our life on the estate, where we were so close to nature, had come to an end, and I would now have to get used to a large and strange city. I learned later from my mother that my father, too, soon regretted the sale, as after a few years our former estate became a city. This recognition that he had made a mistake is said to have precipitated my father's first attack of melancholia."

"A few years later my father purchased a second estate in White Russia of about 130,000 acres. It bordered on the Pripet River, a tributary of the Dnieper. Although White Russia lay in the western part of Russia bordering on Poland and Lithuania, it was at the time, especially in comparison with southern Russia, a very backward region. Primeval forests, ponds, lakes large and small, and many bogs impressed one as a remnant of nature still untouched by man. There were wolves in the forests. Several times every summer a wolf-hunt was organized by the peasants of adjacent villages. During my high school  years, I spent a part of my summer holidays on this estate in White Russia and felt myself transposed into the past of hundreds of years ago."

Serge described his uncles and their different personalities. "Alexis, was a sickly man whose first marriage went on the rocks and ended in divorce. He then married a Polish woman and had two sons. This second marriage was a very happy one. Uncle Alexis was a quiet and unassuming man who kept busy looking after his estate and playing chess, his great hobby. He did this in a thoroughly scientific fashion, one might say."

This uncle went from sad to happy, but unfortunately his other uncle went in the opposite direction. Uncle Peter, had a sunny happy disposition, but "soon [he] began to show signs of most peculiar behaviour and to express himself no less strangely. At first his brothers were simply amused, as they did not take his changed behaviour seriously and considered it merely harmless whims. But soon they, too, realized that this was a serious matter. The famous Russian psychiatrist Korsakoff was consulted, who, alas, diagnosed this as the beginning of a genuine paranoia. So Uncle Peter was confined in a closed institution. However, as he had a large state in the Crimea, his brothers finally arranged for him to be taken there where he lived many years as a hermit. Although Uncle Peter had studied agriculture, he later wished to devote himself exclusively to historical research. All these plans, of course, came to nothing, because of his delusions of persecution."

Nanya ended up living as a pensioner with the family, as well as a French governess who seemed to know the secret of happiness, which is concentration. "We visited her from time to time and always found her in the best of spirits. One never had the feeling that she was unhappy or lonely, as she was always busy with little things that absorbed her entire attention."

New Year's Day Guided Meditation: https://rumble.com/v1gvmab-new-years-day-guided-meditation.html

Another influence in Serge's religious life was an Austrian tutor who was an atheist. Being around him allowed Serge to accept that his religious doubts were personal and it was up to us individually to decide if we want to have faith. The problem with Serge was how to deal with the transference, that for so many people, keeps them feeling secure. "...What filled the vacuum thus created?...Perhaps it was a mistake that I took the loss of my religion too lightly, and thus created a vacuum which was only partially and inadequately filled." This would be a deep question that would resound for the rest of his life. How does one stop the search for a parental replacement and feel secure with oneself? The aimlessness wasn't affecting only Serge. His sister Anna seemed to feel isolated and lost.

Anna's trip

"During the two weeks which Anna spent with me on our estate I did not notice anything extraordinary in her behaviour. It struck me as strange, however, that she suggested that I accompany her to the Caucasus, although she knew that I had enrolled in the Law School of Odessa University and that the lectures were just about to begin. When I mentioned this to Anna, she did not insist but she made me promise to write her a letter one week after her departure. This also seemed somewhat strange to me, but I did not attribute any special significance to her request...I saw Anna off at the boat which was to take her and her companion to Novorossysk in the northern Caucasus. We took leave of each other this time with very special warmth. As the steamer took off from the dock, Anna stood in the stern of the ship and waved to me until I lost sight of her. I stayed on the dock a while longer, watching the steamer as it left the harbor and moved out into the open sea." 

"Exactly one week after Anna's departure, I wrote her a letter as I had promised. Two or three weeks later we received news that Anna had fallen severely ill, and soon after came the news of her death...We later learned that my sister had taken poison. Following this she had suffered severe pains for two days, but nevertheless she had not told anybody what she had done. Only when the pain had become unbearable did she ask for a doctor. When he arrived she showed him the little bottle which had contained mercury and which had a warning label of a skull on the outside. Apparently this bottle had come from the laboratory which Anna had setup at home for her studies in natural science. Now after attempting suicide she wanted to go on living. There are evidently cases in which you have to be face to face with death to regain your interest in life and your desire to live. At first it looked as if the doctors had succeeded in saving Anna, and she was even said to be out of danger. But after two weeks heart failure set in and caused her death."

After the shock of her death Serge ruminated on reasons why she would do that. "In our childhood it had been said that Anna should not have been born a girl but a boy. She had great will power and a strong sense of direction, and she always succeeded in evading the influence and the authority of her governesses. As she was growing up, Anna's feminine traits began to appear. Apparently she could not cope with them and they turned into pathological inferiority complexes. She was enchanted with the classical ideal of beauty with which she contrasted herself. She imagined that she had no feminine charm, which was not at all true, and that if a man were to marry her he would do so for the sake of her money only, since she felt, among other things, that she was not attractive to anyone."

Rich Woman - Plant and Krauss: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52YxdYmLq24

Late in life during his interview with Karin, Serge recounted more details of his sister. "She was aggressive, and that is the reason the complex did not go away, somehow continued to have effects...There was a childhood seduction when she played with my member. That's something very important when it happens in childhood. I was very small when this seduction took place. It must have been before my fifth birthday because my father sold that estate when I was five. I can remember that we had sat down between the doors and she played with my penis. But must that necessarily have such consequences, or is it already a sign of sickness that something like that has consequences? Perhaps it also happened to other little boys and had no effect, I don't know.

O: Most children do have sexual experiences.

W: So you see, that sort of thing happens, it's no reason for someone to turn into a neurotic. It had no consequences. I'll admit that it wasn't as systematic as what my sister did. But you see, when we looked at those pictures of naked women, I pressed a little against her...Freud describes that...I remember that I felt like expressing something sexual and moved closer to my sister. In any event, she got up and left...It was normal. She couldn't have done anything else, otherwise it would really have been incest. It should not have such consequences...and that must not happen between brother and sister...and that should have put an end to the matter. Well, this sister complex is really the thing that ruined my entire life. For those women who resemble my sister, I mean as regards social position or education, well, that was incest again. There may also be an inheritance of these psychological illnesses, but we won't discuss that...All she ever really did was sit around with a book. She had no interest whatever in clothes. She really should have been a man. It is a mystery to me why my sister killed herself. She was so talented. I cannot remember my sister except reading. She always said that she was no classical beauty. But then, who is? She certainly wasn't ugly. Do you remember her picture? She was fairly pretty. She did nothing for her appearance, nothing. And then that horrible death, mercury. It was horrible torture, her teeth fell out. Why does someone do a thing like that?...There would have been people to take an interest, but she didn't care for them, and then she always thought they wanted her for her money." Later Serge recounts an important story of his sister running away with the daughter of the chief gardener. They had the idea that they wanted to hire themselves out as maids. She later said "'being a maid is really the best profession. You do your work and the rest of the time is on your own...' It could be said that Anna's tragedy, in spite of her intellectual gifts, consisted in her attempt to suppress her female nature and that she failed in this attempt. Of course, I am referring not to conscious acts but to a mechanism entirely hidden from her conscious mind."

Grief travel

After Anna's death Serge noticed his father move his interest from his daughter to him. Serge also had depression and thoughts of suicide. "I had fallen into such a state of melancholy after Anna's death that there seemed to be no purpose in living, and nothing in the world seemed worth striving for. In such a state of mind one can hardly interest oneself in anything." He eventually changed his choice of studies in University and decided to take a trip to the Caucasus to improve his emotional state, and tagging along was a family acquaintance. He was enthusiastic about the region and owned property, 'a Green Cape', in Batum. The trip started in Novorossysk and "from Novorossysk we preceded by train to Kislovdsk, then a fashionable spa in the north Caucasus, famous for it's carbonic acid baths. From there we took a side trip by horse and buggy to Bermamut, a high spot offering the best view of the Elbrus, the highest mountain in the whole Caucasus. We started very early and arrived at Bermamut toward evening, under a cloudless, transparent sky. There we found a small, deserted mountain hut, furnished with only a few wooden benches. This hut was perched on the edge of a vast, seemingly bottomless abyss. Opposite us, like a gigantic sugar loaf towering to the sky stood the majestic Elbrus, which we could admire in all its greatness and glory. The valley separating us from the Elbrus extended on either side into immeasurable distance, and on both sides one saw more and more towering, snow covered peaks and steep rocky cliffs reaching down into the depths. Unique as the site was, my depressed state prevented me from really enjoying it or feeling any enthusiasm. Just when we were in Kislovodsk something occurred to me to deepen my already melancholy mood: namely doubts as to whether my decision to change my course of study was a sensible one. So I started weighing all the pros and cons, but without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. Always immersed in my own thoughts, I was not easily accessible to impressions from outside the world, and I experienced everything I saw as unreal and dreamlike."

"There were other similar spas near Kislovodsk, such as the sulfur springs of Pyatigorsk...[it] was famous not for only its sulfur springs, but also not far from there Lermontov, the second greatest poet of Russia, was killed in a duel. This alone was sufficient for me to visit Pyatigorsk." Lermontov who insulted a man named Martinov and his clothing, and didn't know he overheard him, was challenged to a duel. "Lermontov, being first, fired into the air, but his adversary, declining reconciliation, took sharp aim. His bullet hit Lermontov in the abdomen. Just at this moment a terrible thunderstorm broke out, and the critically wounded man could only be taken to Pyatigorsk only with great difficulty and after a long delay. No physician dared to leave his house in this frightful storm, and medical care could not be obtained in time. Lermontov died three or four days later from his severe wound. He was only twenty eight years old. [We] visited the spot where the duel had taken place. It was a meadow like any other at the foot of a wooded hill from which a beautiful view opened to the lonely mountain Maschuk which, standing apart from the other four mountains, looked like a pointed rock springing out of the plain. Hearing that among the sights of Pyatigorsk there was also a so-called Lermontov Grotto. We went to see it." Serge identified with Lermontov because a friend once said that he looked like him.  Identification can be a lot of fun, but pathological if morbid elements are imitated too much, like tragic deaths. Lermontov had a bad end, his sister also had a bad end in the Caucasus, and Serge was veering in that self-destructive path.

After visiting the grotto, their trip became more rugged as they ascended to the glaciers on Mount Kasbek by mule starting from Vladikavkaz. "We rode our mules along a steep, rocky cliff, narrowly skirting the edge of an abyss several hundred meters deep. It was not pleasant to be haunted by the thought that if the animal made the slightest false step you would be hurled into the abyss. But the mules went so cautiously, at a slow and sure pace, that we could not help wondering at them." In a grief travel, the trip is more about dealing with emptiness and loss than to relax and have a good time. Anybody who traveled to escape, especially on long arduous journeys should identify with Serge's masochism and grief. "I am one of those people who feel drawn toward the depths as to a magnet. The anxiety which then overcomes one is primarily directed against this power of attraction, which one has to fight in order not to succumb to it." After an extended stay where Serge's friend caught up with his friends and acquaintances, they continued on the Georgian Military Highway. Along the highway Serge found a place where he could paint. "I got out my paintbox and oil paints from my suitcase and went to the nearer bank of the mountain stream Terek. It did not take long to find a suitable subject, as a very beautiful view opened in front of me after I had taken a few steps. I sat down on my stool and tried to transfer to my canvas the impression of the swift flowing river and the majestic mount Kasbek towering in the background...This was the first time I had done so well with a landscape, and it was the beginning of my activities as a landscape painter."

As they moved out of the mountains they descended into a vast steppe with a warmer climate. "It led soon into a fertile valley, in which corn and wheat fields spread out in all directions, with vineyards and orchards appearing on the hillsides. This cheerful southern landscape was in sharp contrast to the grim mountain world we had just left...We spent one night in Kutais and the next evening boarded the train for Tiflis, now Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia...I noticed that in Tiflis there were already electric streetcars, something which did not yet exist in Odessa...As the heat was becoming uncomfortable in Tiflis, we decided after a few days to proceed to Borshom, a health resort in the mountains not far away. Before leaving Tiflis, we took the funicular to the top of a small mountain in the vicinity to the enjoy the beautiful view over Tiflis and its surroundings. Altogether Tiflis made the impression of a handsome and modern town. This applied, however, only to the section called the European, for Tiflis on those days consisted of two separate districts, the European and the Oriental. The latter had all the characteristics of the Orient, with its shouting sidewalk merchants, its turmoil, and its colorful confusion. Borshom, apart from the advantages of its climate, was famous for the mineral water of its springs, which was used all over Russia as a drinking water, similar to Seltzer or Preblauer water in Germany. The landscape there impressed me by its gentleness and reminded me of places in the foothills of the Alps. The mountains were wooded and of moderate height, the meadows were green, and - a rare thing in the Caucasus in those days - the streets and roads were in good condition. After the heat of Tiflis, Borshom's fresh, invigorating air was most gratifying."

Their trip continued from Abastuman to Batum, their final destination. "Batum, situated on the shore of the Black Sea in the southwest corner of the Caucasus, is surrounded by mountains on its other three sides. One finds there eucalyptus and yew, myrtle, cactus, and various palm-like plants. The whole region is characterized by its luxuriant vegetation. Although summer had passed its height by by the time we reached Batum, there was, an oppressive mugginess. The air was not only warm but also very humid, and a thick, sweltering haze always hung over this exotic-looking countryside. Now I had the occasion to inspect personally the 'Green Cape' about which [my friend] had raved so much. It was a garden with some sort of weekend bungalow and it had nothing to do with a real 'cape,' which I had visualized as a promontory jutting out into the sea. We bathed in the sea twice a day but we nevertheless suffered so much from the humid, sultry heat that even [my friend] was not opposed to to my idea of starting our return trip somewhat sooner than originally planned. So after a week we embarked for Odessa and arrived there after a five day-sea voyage."

The waxy perception of narcissism

Despite having an amazing vacation, when major decisions are postponed, they have to be faced. When Serge returned from his holiday, he still had to decide on his vocation. He talked to his father in sessions lasting hours to figure out his problem. "...after a few days my father was succumbing to the devastating ambivalence and was even infected by it." Eventually he chose Law because his attempt to move to the Natural Sciences was more out of avoidance than actual interest. He moved to St. Petersburg with an uncle to continue his studies. He still had depressions and his father setup a meeting with his old doctor for him. "He is inhibited...he cannot get out of himself...I believe the best thing for him would be if he could fall in love." He tried to get involved in St. Petersburg life. Dating, museums, and lectures left him "in a state of indifference or boredom...There was too crass a contrast between the pulsating life around me and the bottomless, unbridgeable gulf of emptiness within myself." He eventually asked his father for advice on a sanatorium for him to really deal with this problem, which at the time was diagnosed as manic-depression, like his father was diagnosed. He consulted with Professor Bekhterev in Petersburg, Kraepelin in Munich, and Ziehen in Berlin. He met is love Therese in one of the sanatoriums in Munich, who was a nurse. But in regards to the success of improving his mental stability, he briefly felt better only to relapse, as was his prior pattern. He then describes the classic description of what narcissism does to your perception. "Then I found life empty, everything had seemed 'unreal', to the extent that people seemed like wax figures or wound up marionettes with whom I could not establish any contact."

When your mind is preoccupied with success, status, and advancement, and strategies of how to get there, there is a loss of appreciation of what is around you. It looks hollow because most of the environment is drained of meaning for your goals. The environment is taken for granted or is viewed as an obstacle. His "veil" was made of dreams and hopes projected onto an environment, like a fog separating one from reality. Narcissism can happen to anyone, but when the pathology is severe, it's a regular state of mind. Being lost in possibilities for power, control and managing fears of uncertainty, covers over your perception in the here and now. It can also act as a barrier to appreciation. You can see that in a prior video that includes some of Heidegger's meditation practices which was in response to the narcissistic method of Nietzsche. I still have to read more Nietzsche and Heidegger, but what it looks like now is that Nietzsche's method can easily turn into narcissism, with that style of rumination over success and power, and Heidegger blamed Nietzsche for that influence which lead him to his ultimate involvement with Nazism and all the rumination about power that it entails. As I read more, it could be a misreading that some people did when they read Nietzsche, or an inevitable consequence of obsessive self-development. The problem with self-development is that one is constantly seeking future improvements and getting addicted to only thinking about that. There has to be a balance between planning in your mind and appreciation in the moment. [See: How to motivate yourself - The Being of Beings: https://rumble.com/v1gv3zl-how-to-motivate-yourself-freud-and-beyond.html]

One of Serge's goals he was ruminating about was developing a relationship with his, then not yet wife Therese. He pursued her, but kept his desire secret from other nurses and doctors. He tried to meet her at Nymphenburg park, but was stood up while he waited into the night. He still pursued her. She eventually consented to walk in the English park with him and talk about her family, and her German and Spanish background. Her calm demeanor with her tragedies, such as her divorce, made her more attractive to him. He focused on finding rooms to rent to privately meet with her, but she rejected him to focus on nursing and her daughter Else. Serge was so depressed that he swallowed a handful of sleeping tablets, but in the end it did no more damage other than making him wake up more slowly. He still tried to meet with Therese only to get another rejection via a letter. Kraepelin and other doctors suggested that he focus on getting out of his manic-depression instead of pursuing Therese. Serge left the sanatorium and stayed at the Bayerischer Hof and pleaded with Therese to see her at least one last time before leaving Munich to never see her again. Later Serge welcomed a visit from his mother, who was able to soothe his ups and downs. They briefly went to Lake Constance where Serge's painful nostalgia returned. The location evoked "an aura of the remote past, and it seemed to me as if the spirit...was still hovering over the place. All this invited meditation about the evanescence and futility of human passion and striving, and about the wisdom of resignation." 

Manic depression

Spending time with his family abroad, resuscitated Serge's positivity. Serge told his uncle in Paris of his love affair with Therese. "It was certainly fortunate for me to be in a city like Paris, where the quick pulse of life and even the sight of the streets helped to distract me." On the question of Therese his uncle chimed in. "He thought that it was not a question of 'love' but merely of 'passion' and expressed the opinion that in the view of all these complications at the beginning, no good could have come of it in the future. What is the thing to do if a young man is unhappily in love or if the object of choice seems objectionable to the family? One tries to divert his attention to other women. So my uncle advised me to frequent night clubs and cabarets where plenty of beautiful women 'for one night' were to be found." He also gave him connections to Odessa society ladies.

When Serge returned to Odessa, he waited for his father to return from Moscow. "But more than two weeks passed...Then came a telegram from Moscow with the news that my father had suddenly died." He wanted to go to the theater but a violent storm made him return to the hotel. He was found dead in his bed in the hotel the next day, despite being young and considered in good health. Crucially Serge surmised that "it is true that he suffered from insomnia and regularly took veronal before going to sleep. Perhaps his premature death was due to an overdose of this sleeping medicine." Serge received a condolence letter from Therese who found out what happened. After the funeral and the process of disposing the will, Serge got into arguments with his mother and her secretiveness. He wasn't to get his portion of the inheritance until the age of 28, but it was understandable due to his mental condition.

With this disappointment, Serge moved on with his life, and resumed his painting. He also took lessons. Some of his paintings got recognition, but he fell back into indecision about focusing on painting or continuing his law studies. Eventually he went back to Kraepelin to notify him of his father's death. Serge looked at himself now as a "hereditary case", but there was also a silver lining because he would be close enough to Therese to meet her again. They did meet and agreed to stay in touch by letter. He felt that his meeting Krepelin was just a pretext to see Therese again and that was why he was depressed. Her letter of condolence brought up desires of being with her. His depression abated when he met up with her again. He met up with her in Berlin at the Central Hotel. This time their desires reversed. He now was ambivalent about the relationship and she was more eager to be married since she had a daughter and was suffering financial hardship. It blew up in fight in the hotel. He left for the Schlachtensee and wrote a farewell letter to her with the excuse of his mental condition. As expected, Serge had feelings of regret and fell back into depression. Over time he eventually was referred to Sigmund Freud as an attempt to try something different, and like with many of Freud's patients, he was a last option when other modalities failed.

During this time Serge's Uncle Peter, who had paranoia, died. He was alone and only around animals. He was found later when his delivered food wasn't touched. Rats had been chewing on him during this time. Therese found out in a newspaper article titled "A Millionaire Gnawed by Rats." The law stepped in and Serge was included in the disbursement of his assets, relieving some of the resentment of having to wait until he was 28 to get his father's inheritance.

When he started with Freud, Freud pointed out that his behaviour was normal up until the final break where he was now falling into a pattern of "flight from the woman." But Freud wanted the analysis to continue for some months before returning to Therese. Freud's analysis was hourly, so Serge was able to acquaint himself with the pleasures of Vienna and learned to play card games. Despite Freud's prohibition on Therese, Serge sent a detective to find her whereabouts. "I had learned that Therese gave up her position in the sanatorium, and now was an owner of a small pension in which she and her daughter Else were living. She looked terribly rundown, and her no longer fashionable dress hung about her body which had become so thin that it was scarcely more than a skeleton...In this moment I determined never to leave this woman, whom I caused to suffer so terribly."

The vicissitudes of war

When the war broke out, there were anti-Russian sentiments, and Serge and his mother returned to Odessa for the summer before his planned wedding with Therese. Therese stayed behind in Germany with her daughter. Luckily for Serge, being an only child, he avoided being conscripted. After the war broke out he had to go through a lot of legal work to get Therese a permit to enter Odessa. When she arrived they finally got married, though she sold herself short by saying to Serge "I wish you great happiness in your marriage" as if he was marrying someone else. Despite anti-German attitudes Therese put effort into learning Russian until she was able converse with people. Unfortunately she didn't get a long with her mother-in-law who fought over who ran the household. During this time Serge focused on his law exams and passed, but when things were going well, there was an ever present danger to ruin circumstances. For example, during the Ukrainian independence attempt and the Soviet Bolshevik victory, Serge was caught in crossfire. "In the fall of 1917 the October Revolution broke out. In the late fall of the same year armed conflicts were expected in Odessa. I was advised not to venture too far into the city. Nevertheless one day I went to visit friends who lived at quite a distance from our home. When I set out to return home I was amazed to see how the city had changed in so short a time. The streets were suddenly empty and all the front doors were locked. It was uncanny to walk through this deserted town. Finally I had to turn into a street which ran parallel to ours, from which, in order to reach our house, one had to go either to the right or to the left. As I looked down this street I was terrified to see that it was blocked on the right and the left by armed men. They had formed fighting lines on both sides of the street and opened fire against each other at just this very moment...I crossed the parallel street and turned to the left. The bullets were whizzing and swishing past my ears, but I proceeded at a steady pace, reached the garden gate, and seized the latch."

With the constant flip flop between different revolutions and fighting forces, Odessa finally landed in the hands of the Austrians. This allowed Therese an opportunity to get to Germany to visit her daughter Else who was in serious condition with pneumonia.

The biggest devastation to Serge's independence came with economic shocks during the war. "Our fortune was almost entirely invested in government bonds, held in deposit by the Odessa branch of the Russian state bank. The bonds were destroyed in a fire. Furthermore a constant devaluation of money had been taking place. At the time of the German-Austrian occupation an independent Ukrainian currency had been created, which was expected to drop in value rapidly. The inheritance left to me by my father was still administered by my mother, but I had invested most of my inheritance from Uncle Peter in mortgages. My debtors were now very eager to make considerable payments to me, taking advantage of the devaluated currency." 

By the time Serge made it back to Germany, despite a lot of red tape related to his Russian ethnicity, he brought what money he could. He saw Therese again, but now with a shock of white hair. Else was diagnosed as terminal with her tuberculosis and died a couple of months later.

During this dark time, Serge met Freud again who felt there was still a residue left that needed to be analyzed and this analysis stretched out until 1920. "After WWI there was a catastrophic fall in the value of German and Austrian currency, which finally led to a complete collapse...Because of the currency devaluation I had practically nothing left of the money I had brought with me from Russia. So I was forced to look for some sort of job as soon as possible. By exhausting his connections, including Freud, he was able to find an economics professor who got him an opportunity with an insurance company, a job that would sustain him for years."

Psychoanalytic Mindfulness

Some years after the war Serge was again stuck in obsessions. Freud assigned him to one of his followers Ruth Mack Brunswick. When she saw him he was "now earning barely enough to feed his ailing wife and himself. Nevertheless, things went smoothly with him until the summer of 1926, when certain symptoms appeared which called him to consult Freud. At this time it was suggested that if he felt in need of analysis he should come to me...He was suffering from [hypochondria related to his nose acne and treatments]. According to him, [an] injury [from treatment] consisted varyingly of a scar, a hole, or a groove in the scar tissue. The contour of the nose was ruined. Let me state at once that nothing whatsoever was visible on the small snub, typically Russian nose of the patient. And the patient himself, while insisting that the injury was all too noticeable, nevertheless realized that his reaction to it was abnormal. For this reason, having exhausted all dermatological resources, he consulted Freud. If nothing could be done for his nose, then something must be done for his state of mind, whether the cause was real or imagined. At first sight, this sensible and logical point of view seemed due to the insight won from the earlier analysis. But only in part did this prove to be the motive for the present analysis. On the other hand, the insight was undoubtedly responsible for the one atypical characteristic of the case: its ultimate accessibility to analysis, which otherwise would certainly not have been present." Ruth continued associating his complaint that "I can't go on living like this anymore" to his other statements going back to childhood when he soiled himself and thought that he had dysentery, and when he contracted gonorrhea before his sessions with Freud. It was an identification with his mother. 

His obsession turned towards reflections. "The 'veil' of his earlier illness completely enveloped him. He neglected his daily life and work because he was engrossed, to the exclusion of all else, in the state of his nose. On the street he looked at himself in every shop-window; he carried a pocket mirror which he took out to look at every few minutes. First he would powder his nose; a moment later he would inspect it and remove the powder. He would then examine the pores, to see if they were enlarging, to catch the hole, as it were, in its moment of growth and development. Then he would again powder his nose, put away the mirror, and a moment later begin the process anew. His life centered on the little mirror in his pocket, and his fate depended on what it revealed or was about to reveal."

Despite starting a fresh analysis, Ruth announced that "all the childhood material appears [in Freud's paper]; Nothing new whatsoever made its appearance in the analysis with me. The source of the new illness was an unresolved remnant of the transference, which after fourteen years, under the stress of peculiar circumstances, became the basis for a new form of an old illness...At the end of 1919 he had come out of Russia and returned to Freud for a few months of analysis, with the purpose, successively accomplished, of clearing up his hysterical constipation." Unfortunately Serge didn't have enough money to pay for the analysis. With no work and dealing with a wife who was ill, Freud was able to collect money for him for six years. "The money enabled the patient to pay his wife's hospital bills, to send her to the country, and occasionally to take a short holiday himself." Ruth described Freud's interest in the patient as someone "who had served the theoretical ends of analysis so well..."

Despite the supposed cure, Serge not only continued identification with his mother, but also his sister. Before his analysis with Ruth, just like his sister, "[Serge's] preoccupations on his looks and health continued on his nose, teeth, and his constipation. In 1924- 1925 Serge found that his nose had healed..." Unfortunately the nose symptoms returned with a pimple on his nose. "He [then] saw the movie The White Sister which reminded him of his sister who preoccupied herself with feelings of depression over acne and not being beautiful enough." Serge had suicidal thoughts about his looks, and he went to his old dermatologist to have the pimple removed. The blood gave him a sense of relief, but he began to worry about scarring. In the end he had minor scarring that ended up being "the finest white line."

Like in my review on the treatment of Narcissism, [See: Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorder: https://rumble.com/v1gtj2d-treatment-of-narcissistic-personality-disorder-narcissism-part-4-of-4.html] Ruth appeared to fall into the trap of positive transference, where it's easy for both therapist and patient to flatter each other. "For a time, despite the patient's invulnerability on important topics, or because of it, my relations with him were mostly sunny. He brought the clearest dreams in order that I might show my skill at interpreting them, thus confirming his statement that he was better off in my hands than in Freud's." When Ruth mentioned the death of the dermatologist that worked on his nose, which was the first time Serge heard of the news, he admitted a desire to kill him, sue him or expose him. Ruth then tried to connect this hatred of the dermatologist back to a possible hatred of Freud. Here Serge defended Freud and viewed his analysis with him more as a friendly connection than a professional one. Ruth countered that Serge was not invited to visit Freud and his family, so was not really a close friend. She saw that the patient was stuck wanting to stay Freud's favourite son.

"Our entire concern is with a remnant of the transference to Freud. Naturally this remnant implies that the patient has not been wholly freed of his fixation to the father; but apparently the cause of the remaining attachment is not the presence of unconscious material, but insufficient living-through of the transference itself. I say this in the face of the fact that the patient spent four-and-a-half years with Freud and remained well afterward for some twelve years. It is one thing for the analyst to consider a case complete, and another for the patient to do so. As analysts we may be in full possession of the historic facts of the illness, but we cannot know how much living-through the patient requires for his cure." What he didn't live through enough was seeing his false self in action. Serge wanted to maintain the pleasant feelings of being the star patient to bask in Freud's success. He also had financial needs, needs for social praise and survival needs. 

At the end of Ruth's analysis she declared a cure based on the awareness of his nasal obsession being the same as the gonorrheal infection. An emotional castration. This went back to his identification with his mother and dysentery, and a lingering attachment to his father. "He was now able to realize that his nasal symptom was not a fact but an idea, based on his unconscious wish and the defense against it which together had proved stronger than his sense of reality...At last the patient had sufficiently lived through his reactions to the father, and was therefore able to give them up. The modes of analytic therapy are twofold: the first is the making of hitherto unconscious reactions; the second is the working through of these reactions. The second point involves the primary bisexuality of this patient, obviously the cause of his illness. His masculinity has always found its normal outlet; his femininity on the other hand has necessarily been repressed. But this femininity seems to have been constitutionally strong, so strong, indeed, that the normal oedipus complex has been sacrificed in its development to the negative oedipus complex. The development of a strong positive oedipus complex would have been a sign of greater health than the patient actually possessed. Whether the patient, who has been well for a year and a half, will remain well, it is impossible to state. I should be inclined to think that his health is in a large measure dependent on the degree of sublimation of which he proves capable...All at once he could read and enjoy novels...He could paint, and plan work and study in his chosen field, and again take the general intelligent interest in life and the arts and literature which naturally was his."

In his interview with Karin Obholzer, Serge didn't think that Ruth's analysis helped him as much as his own determination, especially when he didn't agree with the diagnosis of paranoia. "I gathered all my strength, stopped looking in the mirror, and somehow overcame these ideas. In a few days it was gone...That is my greatest accomplishment...I believe I had most success while I saw Mack because I took a stand against the psychoanalysts, made a decision on my own. Stop constantly thinking about your nose!" Despite the accomplishment in using willpower to drop his nose obsession, Serge would have to face more losses and grief.

Endless grief

Things were going well for Serge with his paintings and vacations, until 1938, a bad year for Austria. "When I returned home the evening before the day of the referendum, I wanted to listen to a radio concert that had been announced. This concert should have began within a few minutes, but quite a long time passed without a sound...Suddenly came the voice of the announcer...[Chancellor] Schuschnigg spoke. His statement contained the information that German armed forces had already crossed the German-Austrian border, and that Schuschnigg - to prevent unnecessary bloodshed - had given the order that there should be no armed resistance." Despite Therese being somewhat sympathetic to the Germans, she was starting to deteriorate markedly. "Sometimes she would stand in front of the big mirror in the bedroom, look at herself for a while, and then say discontentedly: 'I am old and ugly!'...She gradually lost contact with her surroundings and wanted neither to visit the few acquaintances we had in Vienna nor to invite them to visit us."

As anti-semitism started to increase in Austria, and many Jews were starting to commit suicide, Therese made a strange remark. She said that "as only the Jews committed suicide and the Christians on the contrary were too cowardly to do so, it was unjust to consider the Jews cowardly. From this remark it was clear that Therese regarded suicide as a heroic deed." Later on she shocked Serge again and said "Do you know what we are going to do? We'll turn on the gas." She quickly spoke of other normal things as if she never said anything so extreme. A week later the couple went for an outing to Grinzing. "As we sat in a café there, I told Therese about the changes which had taken place in the office since the Anschluss [annex] and mentioned that the employees had been asked to produce their so-called family trees which would prove their Aryan descent, or - as people mockiningly said at the time - that they had no Jewish grandmother." Her reaction to this was curious and then one day when he went to work "Therese said goodbye especially tenderly, which I took as a sign that her mood had improved." The morbid scene when he returned home showed that Therese was serious about using gas to commit suicide, and had planned it out far in advance. "I stormed into our hallway where warning notes had been put up: 'Don't turn on the light - danger of gas.' From there I rushed into the kitchen, which was filled with the streaming gas as with a thick fog. Therese was sitting near the gas jet, bent over the kitchen table, on which lay several letters of farewell." She had been dead for several hours. "I lived this day and the following ones as though in a delirium in which one does not know whether what happens is reality or a dreadful dream."

Therese's last letters were cryptic of the cause of her suicidal thoughts. Did she think that she had a Jewish ancestor that would be found out? Did she have a terminal disease that she kept secret? In one letter "Therese tries to justify her suicide on the grounds that she would have died within two or three years, and it would be easier for me if this happened earlier." 

"I ask you a thousand times to forgive me - I am so poor in body and soul. You have suffered so much; you must surmount this also. My prayers in eternal life shall protect you and comfort you, my blessing goes with you. God will help you to overcome everything, time will heal all wounds, the heart must endure the loss of that which is buried in the earth. It is hard for me to leave you, but you will rise again to a new life. I have only one wish, your happiness, this will give me eternal peace. Do not forget me; pray for me. We shall see each other again..."

"Be reasonable, do nothing rashly but act only after you have quieted down. Take care of your health; be careful not to squander your possessions, so that when you are old you will still have something besides your pension. I have saved only for you, I have loved only you, everything I have done has been from innermost love...Think it carefully before you marry again. Marriage could mean your happiness and salvation - or your doom and destruction. You must find a thrifty, hard-working, good woman - not some frivolous creature. Choose a woman from a good home. Then you can make new relationships. You must resume your life."

"W: ...There was considerable enmity between my mother and Therese. This enmity was Therese's fault. Nothing suited her; she wanted everything different. That's the reason I could not have my mother live with me until after Therese's death. It bothered her that my mother was so attached to her relatives and not to us. That was Therese's idea. Her relatives were the most important thing to my mother, you understand, but I was never really aware of it. Due to the quarrel with my mother, the fortune was lost because I couldn't discuss anything with my mother...And she was constantly with her relatives, and those relatives naturally also turned away from me. So it was an awkward situation. 

O: Therese was jealous of your mother.

W: I'd say so. You see it correctly.

O: But your mother also had a prejudice against Therese.

W: Of course. My mother did not like my having married Therese.

O: Because it was a [mismatch]?

W: Of course. She was a nurse - that's a lower class. But you see how it is when a mother is jealous of her daughter-in-law, and vice versa. My mother was always jealous. My father said that he was unfamiliar with that emotion. But she had reason...

O: And a woman after your mother's heart, what would she have been like?

W: Rich, for one thing....Therese sensed her rejection. She was very much attached to her mother, to her parents. She wanted my mother to act toward her as her own mother did....Freud said I was looking for something inferior because she was only a nurse, although...there were difficulties, but...I had...received something very good, you see, because she was a very decent human being." Despite living with Therese, Serge couldn't clearly say why Therese committed suicide. Maybe it was Hitler and she was afraid that her Spanish ancestry had Jewish in it. She also complained about aging and her health..."Freud said that she was perfectly all right psychologically and that only physical illnesses need be considered in her case... Mack said, 'That's where the professor was very badly mistaken...You were married to a crazy woman for twenty-five years.' In the case of my wife, it was real hypochondria that she was so ill. She wasn't ill at all. She imagined she was ill, that she wouldn't live much longer, and so on..."

After the disaster Serge found Psychoanalyst Muriel Gardiner and asked for help "In early spring 1938, shortly after the Nazis had taken over Austria, I came face to face with the Wolf-Man on one of the busy Vienna streets. He did not greet me in his usual polite ceremonious manner but began to cry and wring his hands and pour out a flood of words which because of his excitement and his sobbing were utterly unintelligible." Muriel guided the panicked Wolf-Man to her apartment. Serge used to teach Muriel Russian grammar and talk about his favourite subjects, French Impressionists, Doestoevsky and of course Freud. Muriel couldn't keep up the lessons when she began studying medicine, but she would still be visited by Serge to renew her insurance, since he was working for an insurance company at the time. Serge was in a depressed mood. "My wife killed herself. I've just come from the cemetery. Why did she do it? Why did this have to happen to me? I always have bad luck, I'm always subject to the greatest misfortunes. What shall I do Frau Doktor? Tell me what to do. Tell me why she killed herself."

Serge found his wife Terese dead in the gas-filled kitchen and this was recognizable to Muriel. "Suicides were common in the early days of Nazi Austria, as I knew firsthand from my work in pathology in the autopsy rooms of the general hospital, so of course I thought first of political motives. But this was apparently quite out of the question; neither the Wolf-Man nor his wife was Jewish and they were politically completely indifferent. To my astonishment I found that he scarcely even knew that the Nazis were in power." Muriel managed to get a passport for him and he left for Paris to meet up with Mack Brunswick for more sessions. Muriel went to the U.S. Serge followed Brunswick to England and he returned to Vienna during the Munich Pact. Muriel continued to receive some letters in the United States from Serge until Pearl Harbour. After the war was over news of the Wolf-Man communicated his good mental health and acceptance of his lot in life. He continued to work in insurance and took care of his mother. Though, more sad news arrived about Ruth Mack Brunswick's untimely death. She had died of a fall in the bathroom while on opiates. She had a painful gastrointestinal illness which led to her dependence on painkillers.

On a later visit to Salzburg Muriel negotiated a meeting with the Wolf-Man in Linz. Serge talked about how he benefited from Ruth's comfort but also criticized saying "one could hardly call that a real analysis; it was more of a consolation." He also talked about the kind of women he was attracted to. Muriel pointed out that his taste in women was the same, and connected with his sister's influence. He gained some solace when his mother was opened up more about her own life, which "cleared up for him some of the problems which he had never understood."

Both Gardiner and Pankejeff continued sending letters to each other while Serge continued writing his memoirs. A highlight of those letters was when he got in trouble with Russian soldiers. One day in 1951 he went out to paint, and out of a nostalgia for the Russia of his boyhood he wandered away from the English zone into Russian zone by mistake. He went to the top of a hill and found a nice landscape to paint. When he returned to go home and walked towards a streetcar line he was surrounded by Russian guards. He was interrogated, but strangely, after a few days, the interrogator decided to talk about Russian literature instead. They made an agreement where he would return in 3 weeks to show his other paintings and provide personal documents. Out of a duty to make sure that his case was definitely resolved, he took another chance and returned to the Russian zone. When Serge went back, none of the interrogators were there but instead a different soldier who looked at the paintings and talked about his son who also painted. In the end, they showed no interest in Serge. They warned him that all he needed to do was ask permission and they would allow him to paint.

As age creeped up on Serge he started to admit some of his struggles. "I too am growing older, although, I must sadly confess, not wiser. For many years I thought that I, through the many hard blows of fate which I have suffered, would at least in age become somewhat more mellow and would acquire some sort of philosophic outlook upon life. I thought that in old age I could at least spend my last years at a distance from the emotional struggles of which I had so many in my life. But it seems these are illusions also. I am still far away from the capacity for a contemplative life..." Quoting from later works of Freud he showed how difficult it was to deal with strong impulses. "It is interesting how the 'id' can be. How it can dissemble, apparently following the commands of the 'ego' and 'superego,' but in secret preparing its 'revenge' and then suddenly triumphing over these apparently higher courts. Then the old emotional conflict breaks out, and the apparently subdued mourning for the great loss which one suffered so many years ago makes itself felt again. Freud says that the unconscious knows no time; but as a consequence the unconscious can know no growing old...Unconscious processes [can] gain the upper hand." For Gardiner, much of Serge's complaints about losses, like in his family, and his loss of status, he handled it about as well as many people can. For her "there is no doubt Freud's analysis saved the Wolf-Man from a crippled existence, and Dr. Brunswick's reanalysis overcame a serious acute crisis, both enabling the Wolf-Man to lead a long and tolerably healthy life."

The Ego and the Id - Sigmund Freud: https://rumble.com/v1gvdo1-the-ego-and-the-id-sigmund-freud.html

The Wolfman and other cases - Sigmund Freud: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780142437452/

The Wolf Man by the Wolf Man - Sergei Pankejeff, Ruth Mack Brunswick, Muriel Gardiner, Anna Freud: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780465091973/

The Wolf Man: 60 years later - Karin Obholzer: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780710093547/

The Cries of the Wolf Man - Patrick J. Mahony: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780823610907/

Freud Standard Edition Vol 12: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780701205256/

The Correspondence of Sigmund Freud and Sándor Ferenczi, Volume 1: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780674174184/

The Assault on Truth - Jeffrey Masson: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780345452795/

The Wolf Man's Magic Words: A Cryptonymy - Nicolas Abraham & Maria Torok: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780816648580/

Freud and the Rat Man - Patrick J. Mahony: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780300036947/

Violent Origins: Ritual Killing and Cultural Formation - Walter Burkert, Jonathan Z. Smith, René Girard, Robert G. Hammerton-Kelly, Renato Rosaldo, Burton Mack: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780804715188/

The War that ended Peace - Margaret MacMillan: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780143173601/

The First World War - John Keegan: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9780676972245/

The Origins of the War of 1914 - Luigi Albertini: https://www.isbns.net/isbn/9781929631261/

Lothane, H. Z. (2018). Freud Bashers: Facts, Fictions, and Fallacies. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 66(5), 953–969.

Homosexuality Anxiety: A Misunderstood Form of OCD - Monnica Williams: https://www.psychologytoday.com/sites/default/files/attachments/72634/williamshocd2008.pdf

Misusing Freud: Psychoanalysis and the Rise of Homosexual Misusing Freud: Psychoanalysis and the Rise of Homosexual Conversion Therapy - Jonathan Barrett: https://digitalscholarship.unlv.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1027&context=psi_sigma_siren

How do I know I'm really not gay? Fred Penzel: https://iocdf.org/expert-opinions/homosexual-obsessions/

Sigmund Freud urged his disciple to divorce: https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1987-11-12-vw-20532-story.html

The Master's mad move: https://www.theguardian.com/books/1999/jan/30/sigmundfreud

Conditions for intuitive expertise: a failure to disagree. Daniel Kahneman, Gary Klein Am Psychol. 2009 Sep; 64(6): 515–526

Alan Cumming Is Bisexual — And You Might Be Too: https://www.advocate.com/bisexuality/2015/03/30/alan-cumming-bisexual-and-you-might-be-too

Alan Cumming Sounds Off On Being Bisexual And Being Married To A Man: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/alan-cumming-bisexual-_n_4460070

Psychology: http://psychreviews.org/category/psychology01/

#oedipus complex #sigmund freud #psychoanalysis #sergeipankejeff #HOCD #bisexuality #homosexuality #castration anxiety

[varuunsith]

the dragons of lucraex.

As with religion, some Vrauxian and Carlethian superstitions and legends get mixed up. In particular, about dragons.

The story diverges mostly at the end, but both nations agree on its beginning: the mystical creatures existed long before the first man and woman walked on lands still untouched by humans or elves.

They were as intelligent as the giant wolves that still inhabit the far north, truly terrifying and magnificent wonders of the purest nature. They existed in almost every color ever seen by humans and dwarves, in addition to the colors glimpsed only to elven eyes. They were apex predators of their time, and only one dragon held the power to kill another.

Until men and women appeared in Lucraex. Elves, imbued with their unique magic, dominated the creatures under their care, for eons raising their children along with the creatures' offspring and transforming a once master-and-beast relationship into a bond as strong as the magic that runs through their veins: it is said that in the Golden Age of dragons, riders and beasts could communicate almost telepathically, and to this day bards and poets recite fables and adventures about the legendary Isenatha'Ver: Dragon-Elves.

The humans of the north, however, already experienced in taming large predatory forces such as giant wolves, have patiently gained the dragons' trust. It is even said that the grandchildren of Utmos, The Son Of Magic, learned to decipher the language of the mystical beings. They coerced and cajoled them, nurturing features and feelings that only a human and his loyal dog would have between them. Unlike the elves, who created an almost extremely intertwined relationship with their dragons and had them as brothers, the northerners still remembered that dragons were nature and the elements in their animalistic forms. They treated them with their due respect, but still with cautious distance.

The reason for the end of the Dragon Age is still debated at length among many different levels of schooling and scholarship. Carlethians believe that dragons never stop growing during their long lives, much longer than those of all the elves combined: and when a dragon grew large enough to be able to destroy an island in one step, they lay down in a deep sleep, deteriorating back into their elemental forms, creating the oceans, rivers, forests and mountains.

The elves agree with the first theory. However, they believe in a more pragmatic but no less tragic ending: that their dragons were executed when their sizes began to be an imminent danger to society. All dragons were executed by their Isenatha'Ver, and the latter would soon die within weeks, unable to bear the pain of the loss of their life companions; ancient texts relate the anguish of living without a piece of oneself, as if the dragon were the bearer of their core. Some dragons, in pity for their more sentimental Isenatha'Ver, would commit suicide. The White Mountain, home of the Royal Vrauxian elves, is said to be where the oldest and greatest Great White Dragon of all lay in his eternal rest.

#writeblr #high fantasy #original work #original writing

[ausaplenty]

Answers from a dead man

Crossover fic. Immortals AU x the Old Guard. Kiara. Booker.

Kiara added a roughly splintered log to the fire, no crackle or hiss because it was too damp from the blizzard raging outside. She didn’t need the heat and she wasn’t sure her companion did either.

He ought to be dead after all.

She’d seen death enough that she knew it. Had stumbled upon him in the white, Russian woods with short gasps as he struggled to breathe with a rope biting into his neck. She’d cut him down, intending to leave his corpse for the wolves and foxes desperate for food. And then she heard his heart beat anew.

Entirely new, not restored from something faded or weak. Beat as fresh as a babe’s inside the womb.

The vampire dragged him into a cave, carrying him through the shadows to avoid more of the bitter cold. She did not know if hypothermia was something that would end his second life, but it would be easier to deal with this on her own than to trust a villager.

Her fire was dwindling, the wet wood refusing to provide fuel for the hungry flame.

Kiara eyed the shivering body warily before starting to shed her layers. She piled the furs and wool on top of him before sliding into the darkness.

She was used to those who escaped death. Those, like herself, who became something else entirely; those, like her beloved, who became someone anew; those like Cane and Dorian who just never ceased to live. But those who died and just kept living? She had questions.

She found a farm, ignoring the beasts’ startled cries as she emerged from the shadows in front of the wood pile. A cat, curled atop the stack, hissed and arched its back as it recoiled.

“Hush,” she chastised distractedly as she dropped cord after cord into the darkness. The feline scrambled, darting to the corner to watch her warily. Satisfied with her collection, Kiara slipped back into the shadows and carried her prize with her.

The dead man was still unconscious when she returned, but still alive, his heartbeat loud inside his chest. She tucked the wood into a corner, away from the tree branch covered mouth of the cave, and then set about making her blaze brighter.

She’s lost track of time, honestly, until the muttered French outburst alerts her to her guest’s consciousness and she finds the dead man staring at her naked form.

Well, at least she knew what country he was from.

Unperturbed, she rested on her knees and raised a brow questioningly. “Are you feeling better?”

He groaned as he sat up, pushing most of her clothes away from him. “Where am I?”

“Russia,” she answered back in his language. “Pretty unusual place for a Frenchman to be, especially one as unprepared as yourself.”

Dead man shifted, backing himself against the cave wall. His grey eyes darted toward the cave entrance, hidden from light. Kiara could hear the storm outside, but that didn’t mean he could.

“You can try, if you’d like, to run,” she offered lazily, poking at the flames with a stick. “Freezing doesn’t sound pleasant, as far as deaths go, but who am I to know. You seem to have a better grasp on that. How is your neck?”

His hands fly to his neck, to the raw wound that is no longer there. His eyes widen, staring unfocused at her. She may not be able to read minds as her beloved does, but she knows enough about humans to know he is starting to piece things together.

He’s as flighty as her prey when she gives them a glimpse of her inhumanity – a smile with too much teeth, a grip too strong to break.

She sighs, knowing she won’t get the answers she wants out of him. Not when he doesn’t seem to know them himself.

“Fine,” she said, reaching for her dress on the pile of clothes he’d pushed aside. She pulled it over her head as he averted his gaze. “We can start with something simple. What is your name?”

He doesn’t answer, just warily watches her.

And Kiara is patient. She’s had centuries to learn, so she just sits there and waits, still as a stone.

Eventually, he breaks.

“What do you want?” he questioned, his voice raspy and weak.

“Answers,” she replied nonchalantly. She won’t get the ones she wants but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something to be gained. “Give me them and I promise I will return you to wherever you desire.”

There was a sigh of resignation, tiredness.

“Are you with them?” he demanded.

Kiara tilted her head, studying him. “With who?”

“The people from my dreams.”

“I can assure you. I’m with nobody,” she promised. “What’s your name?”

“Sebastien le Livre,” he answered, dragging a shaky hand over his face.

“Well, Sebastien,” she leaned forward, tossing a log on the fire. “How did you come to die?”

~*~

Kiara lingers on the edge of the crowd, keeping pace with her targets as they blend into the crowd. She knows the methods, familiar because they are her own and the way of practically every immortal.

Sebastien has a pack, the four of them spread and yet connected in a familiar way. She watches them move, watches the flicker of recognition on his face as he sees her. His pace barely falters, but it’s enough to catch the attention of his tribe.

The vampire stills, letting the four pairs of eyes rest on her on the other side of the crowded Manhattan street. A horn beeped, a metallic whine as one of those newfound motor vehicles races between the horse-drawn buggies and carriages. Satisfied that her presence is known, she weaves between the pedestrians toward an alley.

“Hello, Sebastien,” she greeted in French, noticing the way his feet barely make a sound.

He’d changed since Russian and France where she’d left him, more tired and resigned. Someone who had gotten answers to questions he’d never wanted to ask.

“You never gave me a name,” he responded, shifting slightly to try to block something from her sight. Over his shoulder, she saw two of his companions pause at the alley’s mouth, guarding it from curious passersby.

They were deceptively languid, the kind of relaxed that Kiara was familiar with. Like panthers ready to pounce.

“You can call me Kiara,” she supplied. “It’s been a long time.”

“You haven’t aged a day,” he commented, his grey eyes sharp and suspicious as they scanned her face.

She smiled, slow and wide, her eyes gleaming. “Neither have you.”

Kiara saw the fourth one, the woman, enter from the other side of the alley, moving so gracefully and dangerously that she might be worried, were she someone else. The woman was as tall as her, her clothes hiding a lithe form that the vampire would recognize as lethal even if she wasn’t centuries old.

“Calm down, Sebastian, I am not here for trouble,” she promised.  “I only want answers. I’ll even go any where you want.”

His eyes narrowed. “Central Park, night fall.”

She nodded and disappeared into the darkness as the woman reached them.

~*~

Kiara was perched on a bench when he saw her, a heavy coat on as the frost descended on the city.

“Not the same as Russia, is it?” She asked, watching as the lighters made their way around the park with their wicks. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, not with the way your pack seemed spooked.”

“As if you couldn’t find us,” Booker reminded her. Unconsciously, his hand moved to his neck, where the wounds had healed decades ago. “I still don’t know whether our last meeting was real or a fever dream.”

“I think the fact you’re here is evidence of its reality,” Kiara mused. “You found your answers?”

“Not all of them, no, but more than I knew,” he replied, raking his dirty blonde hair away from his face.

She could feel eyes on her, in the nearly empty park, and some part of her felt relieved that he’d found someone to answer them.

“Does it hurt to die?” She asked.

“You don’t know?” he looked at her, surprised. “You’re not?”

“I’m dead of course, but I am not like you,” she answered, leaning back. “My death was more of a … transformation. A painful journey into a new life.”

More than 200 years had passed since Amity, since she’d seen a trace of her beloved. She’d traveled the world, watching humanity change and grow. Cane insisted she was insane, that her beloved’s reincarnation was not a possibility. But what did he know, when she witnessed things such as the man before her.

And sometimes, there was the nagging doubt that she was meant to find her beloved, to usher in the pain that she tended to herald.

“It is excruciating,” he answered, sounding pained. “No matter how many times I come back, the only difference is how fast I will heal.”

“Would you not, if you could choose?” she pressed. Would her beloved choose to return, if she knew Kiara was waiting?

“My friend says we are all meant to die, but we do not get a say in when it will happen.” Sebastian watched her with sad eyes, burdened with pain and understanding. “And I wish so often that I did.”

Kiara smiled sadly.

“It does not seem hopeful, does it,” she wondered out loud. “When all you have to do is wait to die?”

He chuckled darkly, a bitter note. “My friends feel different, because they have another. It is not the same when you know that you will have somebody to live with you.”

The blonde clung to the hope that whoever her beloved returned as, she would know Kiara was waiting for her. Somehow.

#kiara scuro #Immortal AU #CoronaWriMo

[abluescarfonwaston]

I’d know him blind

It didn’t come all at once. He’d really thought they’d made it out unscathed. That the box he’d opened in that mage’s abandoned laboratory hadn’t worked.

As they walked back thick fog rolled in. Obscuring the sky. The path ahead. The trees aside them. Even dimming Geralt and Roach a few paces ahead into off grey.

He jogged closer to them. Geralt gave him a look.

“What? Sorry I don’t want to get lost.”

“Why would you get lost?”

“Because?” He waved at the thick grey mist around them. “The fog Geralt? Not all of us can follow a scent trail. Even if it’s yours.” He fanned the thick smell of Geralt’s sweat away.

He stopped. Turned to him.

“Theirs’s no fog Jaskier.” Grabbed his face. Studying his eyes as the fog rolled in thicker. Obscuring even Roach right behind him. “It’s clear out.”

“Oh.” His hands started shaking and his eyes grew hot. “Then I suppose we have a problem.”

And Geralt’s face; hard and angry and concerned disappeared into the grey.

 “Ah Master Witcher! Master Bard! Haven’t touched your room!” Something wooshed past his ear. Jangled at his side as Geralt moved oddly next to him.

“Thanks.” Geralt grunted moving him through the bar.

“Ah! Master bard!” Footsteps. Creaking wood. People talking. It was. It was a lot and nothing at all because he had no idea where or what or who it was. “You’ll be playing for us tonight yes? Dinner and a bath as agreed?”

“No.” Geralt growled. “He won’t.”

“Of course!” He agreed over top him. “I will however need a stage,” He didn’t remember if the bar had one. He preferred not to use them anyway. Moving through the crowds instead. But he doubted it did. “Or a chair at least. Our little adventure has left me a bit short sighted.” He grinned at where he hoped the man was.

There was a lull. Where the only noise was the bar. He shifted his feet.

“He’s blind.” Geralt said finally. He leaned a little harder into his solid mass. Steady and warm and there.

“Temporarily!” He quickly assured. The arm not wrapped around Geralt’s flapped. Smacking sharply into something. “Ow.”

“Oh!” The barkeep Seemed startled. He was further to the left than he’d thought. “We’ll set something up then! I hope you make a hasty recovery Master bard!”

“Jaskier is fine.” He assured. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” Geralt pulled him from the bar.

 “Why’d you agree to play!” Geralt snapped at him after he’d been deposited on the bed.

“I don’t need eyes to play and sing Geralt. What? Am I supposed to just sit in this tiny room and twiddle my thumbs all week?” He yelled into the darkness.

Geralt exhaled with a forced slowness. “I need to go return this.” Metal sliding on metal. The chain of the necklace they’d been sent to retrieve. That had been locked in the box he’d opened. Very cleverly he had thought. “Stay.”

“Stay!” He barked. “I’m not a fucking dog!” He yelled at after him as the door closed and his footsteps faded away.

Something creaked. He flinched away from it.

The bed was firm under him. The blanket decent but not soft.

He drummed his fingers on his leg.

Someone walked passed the room.

He grabbed the blanket and found the wall. Carefully followed it into the corner. Curled up there with the blanket around him.

He couldn’t read. Write. There was no one to talk to anymore. Just him and the grey darkness.

He hoped if someone came into their room they wouldn’t spot him. Because he couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. Not that he was particularly good at that normally. But he couldn’t tell if he was hidden. Because he couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see.

Geralt was gone and he couldn’t see and every time something made a sound he couldn’t identify he flinched.

Temporary. Should only last a week. Geralt assured.

But Geralt didn’t know that much about magic. Or he might have been lying. To keep him from panicking.

He was panicking now. But there was no one there to see. So he let himself.

And when he was too exhausted to panic more he fell asleep and he hardly noticed the difference because everything was dark anyway.

 Someone was moving in the room.

He shoved himself into the corner tighter as the footsteps creaked the floorboards and he breathed in to scream-

His nose filled with the musk of onion and sweat.

He relaxed in a boneless heap. “You scared me Geralt. I thought you were a thief or something.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Unidentifiable ruffling joined his voice. “If you’re going to play you should go down soon.”

“Right.” He stood. Throwing the blanket in the direction of the bed. “Where’s my lute?”

There was the familiar sound of Geralt’s feet softly hitting the wood even in his boots. Far too delicate steps for a man of his size. He exhaled, the terror receding with the recognition of each step. It was gently placed in his outstretched hands.

He traced the wood. Her finish. Ran his fingers down her strings.

She was familiar. Safe. He didn’t need to see to know her.

“Alright. Help your best friend down the stairs will you?”

“We’re not friends.” He grumbled as he did exactly that.

 Playing was wonderful. Even if he couldn’t dance with the songs. Move with them. Smile and wink effectively to charm the audience of their earnings.

The after was less fun.

People approaching. There was too much random noise to figure out who they were or where exactly they were. Talking to him. He chatted back. He always loved a conversation.

It was harder when he couldn’t see them. Judge how he was coming off aside from their tone of voice and words.

Something touched his knee.

He leaped back. Knocking the chair out from under him. Tripping on it as he backed away.

There were people asking him all kinds of questions at once and reaching out to touch him and-

Geralt’s hand wrapped around his bicep. The exact shape and warmth and way he always did. Hauling him up and away from the crowded room.

“Show’s over.” He growled.

He clung to Geralt as he was hauled from the room. Thrown over his shoulder.

He couldn’t keep track of the room or the people in it or where they were going. His eyes searched the darkness uselessly.

But the leather was familiar under his fingers.

The movement of it steadying.

Something creaked.

“Stop grabbing my ass Jaskier.”

“Wha- is that what this is?” He moved his hands slightly to better feel the muscle moving under the leather. “It’s very lovely. A lovely bottom.”

The world spun and the bed creaked under him as he was roughly dropped into it.

There were several moments of silence. He wondered if Geralt was glaring at him since he clearly wasn’t putting his Lute away for him.

“I know this might come as a shock to you but I can’t actually see you right now so whatever lecture you’re trying to impart with a stern face,” He demonstrated the expected face, “and disappointed eyes I can’t actually see. So they’re actually even less effective than normal. So there.”

“I.” A pause. “You panicked. Why?”

He grimaced into the pillow. Schooled his face and rolled onto his side. Propped his face on his palm facing Geralt’s general direction.

“I didn’t panic.” He scoffed and shook his head. “You kidnapped me from my adoring fans! Very rude Geralt.”

“You fell out of your chair.”

“Sabotage!” He said too quickly. “I was knocked out of my chair!”

“No you weren’t.”

“Are you telling the story or am I?”

“Tell it right then.” He growled.

His smile partially collapsed. It was a silly thing to have panicked over. He knew that. People touched him all the time.

He raised and lowered a shoulder casually rebuilding the easy smile. “Someone touched me and I over reacted. What a shame too. I’ve heard having sex blindfolded really ups the thrill of it and-“

“Stop.” Geralt groaned.

He barreled on anyway. “If anything doing it blind has to be its own experience. Really maximizing the sensory deprivation.” He rolled onto his back. “Put my lute away and come to bed. What are you doing? Standing there like a statue all night? Is that the plan? You are no longer allowed to make plans if that’s the case.”

He heard the quiet thump of her being hung up by the doorway. The soft padding of Geralt’s feet on the wood. He scooched over on the bed for him.

Geralt didn’t get in.

He frowned and pat the mattress obligingly.

“I touched you without asking too.”

He turned to him. The grey was almost black. So it was likely dark out. “So?”

Unhelpful silence.

He patted the bed again. “Either talk or lie down you broody old man.”

The bed creaked slightly. “I’m getting in.”

He snorted. “Gathered that thank you.”

A short huff of frustration. “Don’t want you to panic again.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well excuse me for wanting to know who’s touching me before they do.”

“I wasn’t-“ The bed creaked forebodingly. Hopefully it would stay in one piece. That had been an issue at some of the cheaper inns they’d stayed at.

He popped off his doublet and loosened the drawstring of his pants. He waited to hear the familiar sound of Geralt shuffling out of his leathers.

His side remained eerily silent.

“What are you doing- Sleeping in your clothing tonight? We don’t do laundry enough as it is. Don’t make it worse.”

“I didn’t.” An irritated sigh. He stared judgingly in his direction. “Fine.”

The familiar sound of Geralt struggling out of his deliciously form fitting pants.

He wrangled the blankets over him as he tossed his trousers aside.

“Geralt?”

“What?” Came the grit out reply.

“Stop being weird. I’m blind not glass.”

“I don’t need you screaming bloody murder into my ear if I roll over.”

He reached out into the darkness and grabbed for the irritating bastard.

“That’s my pec Jaskier.”

“You certain?” He fondled it a bit more. “Damn I forget how muscular you are sometimes.”

His hand was knocked away as he laughed. Quickly grabbed the offending arm in his before it could escape.

“It’s fine Geralt. I know you in the dark just fine. It’s not like I can normally see you once the lights go out anyway.”

A quite inhale and exhale.

Geralt shuffled closer. He curled into Geralt’s chest.

“Besides.” He yawned and draped an arm over him. “I don’t need to see you to know it’s you.”

I knew you by the way your feet hit the ground and your hand felt around my arm. He didn’t say. I know you by the way the leather moves over your muscles and you exhale.

Geralt snorted disbelievingly.

“It’s true.” He tucked a leg between Geralt’s and nuzzled himself to a comfortable position. “You’ve got a pretty strong smell.”

#whumptober2020 #no.26 #blindness #fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier #writing #is this a companion piece to the white wolves? #Why yes it is #damn i need to work on that fic #also i wrote this on October 1st and SAT on it for a MONTH #so that takes discipline at least

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Jaime II (Chapter 11)

I'm on my bnf ish today.

At the end of the dock, a flaking shingle swung from an iron post, painted with the likeness of a king upon his knees, his hands pressed together in the gesture of fealty.

[...]

Ser Cleos answered. "This is the Inn of the Kneeling Man, my lady. It stands upon the very spot where the last King in the North knelt before Aegon the Conqueror to offer his submission. That's him on the sign, I suppose."

"Torrhen had brought his power south after the fall of the two kings on the Field of Fire," said Jaime, "but when he saw Aegon's dragon and the size of his host, he chose the path of wisdom and bent his frozen knees."

I'm confident I know exactly what will happen in this story, and it does not involve a Dothraki army travelling north in winter to fight an ice dragon on horseback.

+.+.+

"We were hoping for capon." Jaime heard his companions entering behind him. "The crossbow is a coward's weapon."

Hahaha.

"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. - Sansa III, ACOK

x

Tyrion's finger clenched. The crossbow whanged just as Lord Tywin started to rise. - Tyrion XI, ASOS

+.+.+

"Did you kill them?"

"Would I tell you if I did?" The man spat. "Likely it were wolves' work, or maybe lions, what's the difference?

Robb you are losing this war in more ways than one.

+.+.+

The clink of his chains accompanied his every movement. An irritating sound. Before this is done, I'll wrap these chains around the wench's throat, see how she likes them then.

Props to @fedonciadale for spotting this amazing Tyrion foreshadowing!

+.+.+

"Lord Beric, as it please you, ser. They call him that 'cause he strikes so sudden, like lightning from a clear sky. It's said he cannot die."

They all die when you shove a sword through them, Jaime thought.

No.

+.+.+

"If m'lady cares to wager her skin on that I won't stop her . . . but if I was you, I'd leave this here river, cut overland. If you stay off the main roads and shelter under the trees of a night, hidden as it were . . . well, I still wouldn't want to go with you, but you might stand a mummer's chance."

Get it? Do you get it? A mummer's chance. The Bloody Mummers capture them.

+.+.+

Hundreds of fat black flies swarmed amongst the straw, buzzing from stall to stall and crawling over the mounds of horse dung that lay everywhere, but there were only the three horses to be seen. They made an unlikely trio; a lumbering brown plow horse, an ancient white gelding blind in one eye, and a knight's palfrey, dapple grey and spirited.

There's a theory these three horses represent Hodor, Bloodraven, and Bran. We'll keep that in mind as we read.

+.+.+

The gelding come wandering up one night, and the boy caught the palfrey running free, still saddled and bridled. Here, I'll show you."

The saddle he showed them was decorated with silver inlay. The saddlecloth had originally been checkered pink and black, but now it was mostly brown. Jaime did not recognize the original colors, but he recognized bloodstains easily enough. "Well, her owner won't be coming to claim her anytime soon." He examined the palfrey's legs, counted the gelding's teeth. "Give him a gold piece for the grey, if he'll include the saddle," he advised Brienne. "A silver for the plow horse. He ought to pay us for taking the white off his hands."

[...]

She took the plow horse for herself and assigned the palfrey to Ser Cleos. As threatened, Jaime drew the one-eyed gelding, which put an end to any thoughts he might have had of giving his horse a kick and leaving the wench in his dust.

+.+.+

"Yes," said Jaime, "and the sooner the better. There's far too much horse shit about here for my taste. I would hate to step in it." He gave the wench a sharp look, wondering if she was bright enough to take his meaning.

Are you even a Lannister if you don't believe you're the smartest person in every room?

+.+.+

"He was no innkeep." She hunched gracelessly in the saddle, but seemed to have a sure seat nonetheless. "The man took too great an interest in our choice of route, and those woods . . . such places are notorious haunts of outlaws. He may have been urging us into a trap."

"Clever wench." Jaime smiled at his cousin.

Shades of Catelyn and Tyrion.

+.+.+

What a wretched creature this one is. She reminded him of Tyrion in some queer way, though at first blush two people could scarcely be any more dissimilar.

And here I thought comparing her to the Hound was as bad as it was going to get.

+.+.+

You would not like the truth. He had joined the Kingsguard for love, of course.

I wonder if Prince Aemon the Dragonknight did the same.

+.+.+

Aerys would want a young man to take his place, so why not a roaring lion in place of a sleepy one?

"Father will never consent," Jaime objected.

"The king won't ask him. And once it's done, Father can't object, not openly. Aerys had Ser Ilyn Payne's tongue torn out just for boasting that it was the Hand who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The captain of the Hand's guard, and yet Father dared not try and stop it! He won't stop this, either."

"But," Jaime said, "there's Casterly Rock . . ."

"Is it a rock you want? Or me?"

[...]

He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest.

Cersei Lannister, plotting to destroy her father's empire from the jump. Lol

I wonder if she ever considered this would make Tyrion the heir to Casterly Rock. Probably not.

+.+.+

Instead of being together, Cersei and Jaime just changed places, and he found himself alone at court, guarding a mad king while four lesser men took their turns dancing on knives in his father's ill-fitting shoes. So swiftly did the Hands rise and fall that Jaime remembered their heraldry better than their faces. The horn-of-plenty Hand and the dancing griffins Hand had both been exiled, the mace-and-dagger Hand dipped in wildfire and burned alive. Lord Rossart had been the last. His sigil had been a burning torch; an unfortunate choice, given the fate of his predecessor, but the alchemist had been elevated largely because he shared the king's passion for fire. I ought to have drowned Rossart instead of gutting him.

Sounds like the alchemists have a debt to pay to a lion of Lannister!

+.+.+

"It is a rare and precious gift to be a knight," she said, "and even more so a knight of the Kingsguard. It is a gift given to few, a gift you scorned and soiled."

A gift you want desperately, wench, and can never have.

Hmmm.

+.+.+

"I earned my knighthood. Nothing was given to me. I won a tourney mêlée at thirteen, when I was yet a squire. At fifteen, I rode with Ser Arthur Dayne against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and he knighted me on the battlefield. It was that white cloak that soiled me, not the other way around.

I call horse shit on that one.

+.+.+

But when he closed his eyes, it was Aerys Targaryen he saw, pacing alone in his throne room, picking at his scabbed and bleeding hands. The fool was always cutting himself on the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. Jaime had slipped in through the king's door, clad in his golden armor, sword in hand. The golden armor, not the white, but no one ever remembers that. Would that I had taken off that damned cloak as well.

When Aerys saw the blood on his blade, he demanded to know if it was Lord Tywin's. "I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head, you'll bring me his head, or you'll burn with all the rest. All the traitors. Rossart says they are inside the walls! He's gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?"

🚨🚨🚨

STOP EVERYTHING.

We're solving this ending right here and now.

This requires some backreading. Scroll down to Dark Daenerys Highlights & Laughs, where you'll see the author appearing to build on a theme of the throne "rejecting" (cutting, slicing) those not meant to sit on it.

In the previous chapter, Davos is gifted a dagger, which he plans to murder the fire lady with, after the slaughter in King's Landing. Sounds familiar, right?

We skip forward to this Kingslayer chapter where we're told Aerys liked to cut himself on the throne, there's traitors in the walls, and Jaime ended the king's life.

There's rats in the walls.

Dany could hear sounds within the walls, a faint scurrying and scrabbling that made her think of rats. Drogon heard them too. His head moved as he followed the sounds, and when they stopped he gave an angry scream. - Daenerys IV, ACOK

x

In the Red Keep a man did best to hold his tongue. There were rats in the walls, and little birds who talked too much, and spiders. - Tyrion I, ASOS

x

The hidden doors and secret tunnels that Maegor the Cruel had built were as familiar to the rat-catcher as to the rats he hunted. Using a forgotten passageway, Cheese led Blood into the heart of the castle, unseen by any guard. - The Princess and the Queen

x

Long windowless halls. Right, not left. Rats in the walls. What does this remind you of? The House of the Undying.

Arya in the secret passageways under the Red Keep:

"Dragons," she whispered. She slid Needle out from under her cloak. The slender blade seemed very small and the dragons very big, yet somehow Arya felt better with steel in her hand.

The long windowless hall beyond the door was as black as she remembered. She held Needle in her left hand, her sword hand, the candle in her right fist. Hot wax ran down across her knuckles. The entrance to the well had been to the left, so Arya went right. Part of her wanted to run, but she was afraid of snuffing out her candle. She heard the faint squeaking of rats and glimpsed a pair of tiny glowing eyes on the edge of the light, but rats did not scare her. - Arya V, AGOT

Arya, The Rat.

We already know Arya, the rat, will be underneath the Red Keep when Daenerys goes dracarys.

THE NEXT CHAPTER AFTER THIS ONE.

"You will bring Shae to me through the walls, hidden from all these eyes. As you have done before."

Varys wrung his hands. "Oh, my lord, nothing would please me more, but . . . King Maegor wanted no rats in his own walls, if you take my meaning. He did require a means of secret egress, should he ever be trapped by his enemies, but that door does not connect with any other passages. - Tyrion II, ASOS

King Maegor!

At the end of the war council, Maegor remained behind alone in the throne room to brood. He was found dead the next morning by Queen Elinor, seated on the Iron Throne with his robes covered in blood and his wrists slashed. A spike from one of the swords on the throne behind him was impaled through the back of his neck. How Maegor died was never discovered. Some say he had been killed by Queen Elinor, others that he had been killed by a knight of his own Kingsguard. Yet others say he had been killed by a builder who escaped the slaughter three years earlier and desired revenge, and many believe that Maegor had been killed by the throne itself. - A Wiki of Ice and Fire

x

"Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that chair. - Davos IV, ASOS

x

They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those who were not meant to sit it. - Sansa VIII, ACOK

Arya learned those passageways for a reason! She's the traitor rat in the walls. She'll appear, stab Daenerys with a dagger, vanish, and the smallfolk will say the throne rejected her.

Daenerys can't simply be killed by a Faceless Man, it has to have a unique humbling/hilarious/embarrassing component. The throne "killing her" is about as poetic as it gets.

WATCH.

Also, @agentrouka-blog reminded me of Varys and Kevan in the ADWD epilogue.

We start the chapter with another anecdote of Aerys often cutting himself on the throne. Amazing how that keeps popping up during these pivotal moments. Snow (ash) covers King's Landing.

Kevan goes beneath the rookery where he's greeted by Varys, who appears to have entered the room through a bookcase. He downs Kevan with a crossbow. While dying, Kevan remarks that he's cold as ice (Bwah!). Finally, a bunch of children show up with daggers and kill the man. They presumably leave through the same walls, ensuring Kevan's murderer is never identified.

WATCH.

+.+.+

Rossart says they are inside the walls! He's gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?"

"Rossart's," answered Jaime.

Those purple eyes grew huge then, and the royal mouth drooped open in shock. He lost control of his bowels, turned, and ran for the Iron Throne. Beneath the empty eyes of the skulls on the walls, Jaime hauled the last dragonking bodily off the steps, squealing like a pig and smelling like a privy. A single slash across his throat was all it took to end it. So easy, he remembered thinking. A king should die harder than this. Rossart at least had tried to make a fight of it, though if truth be told he fought like an alchemist. Queer that they never ask who killed Rossart . . . but of course, he was no one, lowborn, Hand for a fortnight, just another mad fancy of the Mad King.

Woah. Wait. Hang on a second here. I'm trapped in a POV.

You're telling me the alchemist Hand of the King, who planned to light the wildfire, was already dead by the time Jaime reached Aerys?

Uh.

Am I missing something here? That tells me murdering Aerys was not remotely necessary in that moment, and should not have been done by Jaime.

Your great deed was stopping Rossart, not killing Aerys, you schmuck. You did that because you wanted to.

+.+.+

Ser Elys Westerling and Lord Crakehall and others of his father's knights burst into the hall in time to see the last of it, so there was no way for Jaime to vanish and let some braggart steal the praise or blame.

Couple of things,

Westerling... father's knight. Ugh.

Jaime intended to vanish after the kill. 👀

+.+.+

He thought for a moment of the boy Viserys, fled to Dragonstone, and of Rhaegar's infant son Aegon, still in Maegor's with his mother. A new Targaryen king, and my father as Hand. How the wolves will howl, and the storm lord choke with rage. For a moment he was tempted, until he glanced down again at the body on the floor, in its spreading pool of blood. His blood is in both of them, he thought.

It's also in someone else.

+.+.+

"Proclaim who you bloody well like," he told Crakehall. Then he climbed the Iron Throne and seated himself with his sword across his knees, to see who would come to claim the kingdom. As it happened, it had been Eddard Stark.

You had no right to judge me either, Stark.

Straight out of Tyrion's playbook.

Why is Ned Stark so hostile towards me???

A lord with a bared sword across his knees is making a traditional sign that he is denying guest right. - A Wiki of Ice and Fire

+.+.+

In his dreams the dead came burning, gowned in swirling green flames. Jaime danced around them with a golden sword, but for every one he struck down two more arose to take his place.

Jaime Lannister has prophetic dreams!

Final thoughts:

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #asos #jaime ii

[cannedcrow]

Mass in Time of War - a 3rd Life oneshot

A/N: In which we spectate holiday celebrations held in a little world fraught with violence and pain.

Features all characters! Please reblog if ya enjoy <3

The Winter has no allegiance. The wind bows to no man, the snow and frost are untameable - even weeds display nature’s wildness in the way they snake through walls, gentle tendrils cracking stone. And so it is now, as snow settles over a little world, indifferently coating fields, woods, and mountains alike. Every building is turned to iced gingerbread, wild sheep blend into the hills they graze, and rivers freeze in their motion.

In a secluded valley bordering the Southern edge of the world, two houses stand, carved in the mountainous walls of the hills. In spring and summer, the hollow would be alive with wildflowers of all kinds - lapping waves of bluebells, climbing buttery honeysuckle, blushing white water lilies, jewel-bright poppies of red and gold - but Winter had swept her snowy mantle over all, leaving all the living flowers attired in silver dresses and the rippling water silenced by ice. As though in defiance of the cold, the valley's residents have draped garlands of holly, ivy, and fir boughs about their home, streaks of an evergreen paintbrush dividing the cold greyscale of Winter.

A man with dusty-gold hair sits on the precarious doorstep of his companion's house, carefully whittling at a piece of pale wood. His skin is ashen, and parts of him seemed scorched, as though he’d been thrown to fire only to be saved at the last moment. The eyes that gaze in concentration at his task are ruby red, though they should not be. Footsteps sound behind him, and another man emerges from the doorway, arms laden with a white wool blanket and a basket of multicoloured candles. Gently, he drapes the blanket over the blond man's shoulders and kisses the top of his head. Then he leaps from the doorstep down the short cliff, the powdery snow muffling his landing.

Between the two houses, there stands a small spruce tree, whose snow-frosted branches are decorated with small decorations made of felted wool or carved from birch and carefully painted, bringing to life all manner of creatures - pale deer, amber-coated foxes, candyfloss sheep, mushrooms and bees. Sprigs of snowdrops and crocuses are tucked among the branches, joined by twines of brightly-beaded holly and mistletoe. Atop the tree, a bundle of daffodil heads takes the place of a star, their golden petals just as luminous.

"Scott, are you going to light it?" Calls the blond man, "I want to help!"

"Come on then," answers Scott, busy with the candles, and Jimmy jumps from his perch, clutching the blanket around him like a cloak.

The two set about affixing the beeswax candles to the tree, accompanied by inquisitive bees intent on admiring their handiwork. Scott hums a tune, and Jimmy picks it up until the two are singing carols, breath clouding the air. When the candles are in place, they light them from thin tapers, bringing the flame from wick to wick in a methodical dance.

Then they sit back in the snow and laugh, happy in defiance of the enigmatic future. In perfect time with the now darkening sky, the golden light of flame glimmers happily. Jimmy throws his blanket over Scott’s shoulders too, pulling him close, and Scott rests his head on Jimmy’s shoulder, blue hair tickling his neck.

To the East lies a refuge shielded by towering walls of cobblestone and spruce. Tall pines shelter much of the ground and under the fields of crops and few structures shelter residents of Dogwarts. Winter does not concern the Red King, whose broad shoulders are mantled with fur and a dark cloak of wool, and his Hand would die rather than leave his side. Tonight though, the rag-tag group are all below ground and clustered around the fireplace. Wolves repose on the hearth, heads on paws as they drowse in the warmth. On a stool sits a man whose silvery hair is held back by a headband. Elbows resting on his knees, he's fiddling with a contraption of glass, metal, and redstone that occasionally sparks, an open chest of redstone-paraphernalia beside him. Cross-legged and leant against the flank of a wolf sits a man whose mutilated suit jacket has been abandoned in favour of a blanket. He seems half-asleep, occasionally drinking from a tin mug of mulled wine, and with him sits a dark-complexioned man wrapped in a navy blanket, munching contentedly on a cookie.

The Red King himself reclines in an armchair. For once he is without his cloak and crown, and his wine-red shirt is rolled to his elbows to display scarred, muscled arms. He too holds a mug of gently steaming wine in a clawed hand, and he is unusually at ease and unburdened as he talks and laughs with his Hand, his red eyes glinting softly in the firelight. In the corner of the room stands a pine tree that brushes the ceiling, hung with glass ornaments in cloudy silver and glinting red, iron and gold-wrought stars, boughs of holly intertwined. Some clever hand has provided beautifully carved ornaments shaped like dogs, painted and collared with tiny slips of thread, and redstone torches throw their scarlet glow on the branches.

The white-haired man exclaims triumphantly and holds up his project - a clear glass orb suspended on a wire and painted with paw-prints, within which glows the fiery light of redstone.

"Very nice," laughs the Hand, as the man stands and moves to add his contribution to the tree, dusting redstone from his hands as he returns.

The Red King stands then, refilling his cup in preparation for a toast. "Season's Greetings!" He roars, lifting his mug aloft. His companions follow suit and echo him, and the wolves add their voices helpfully.

"Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die," quotes the Hand in a theatrical rumble, draining his own cup.

South of Dogwarts towers a hold, a structure admired by every person in the little world, although most would never admit it freely. The Crastle's towers, tall, pointed and snow-capped, give the impression of mountains. From the windows and arrowslits, shafts of golden firelight fall onto the serene snow and the moat, the Stygian water glimmering like obsidian. Around a fireplace on the ground floor, a trio are gathered, and in a corner stands a small fir tree bedecked with paper chains and candles.

One man wears a black shirt ringed with yellow, his red-bannered shield resting by his side. He chats animatedly with his companions, laughing often and filled with the joy of seeing those that one misses dearly. A man with spiked golden hair replies, red eyes mischievous and sharp teeth grinning. The third man, wrapped in a ragged, mossy cape, stands at the small counter and prepares a tray of cheerfully steaming drinks. A snowball suddenly hits his shoulder, seemingly from nowhere. He whips around in shock, shouting something panicked about invaders and crenellations, before seeing the woman laughing uproariously and leaning on the stairway railing above, fiery hair tumbling over her face.

“Your face, Bdubs!” She wheezes, descending the stairway.

“Very funny!” He retorts with mock indignation. “You shouldn’t annoy the guy making you drinks!”

“Was that a threat?” Cleo asks, her voice suddenly serious and quiet. Bdubs pales slightly and the two men by the fire laugh, soon joined by Cleo, who runs to Bdubs and enfolds him in a semi-consensual hug.

“I’ll bring the drinks,” she offers lightly as Bdubs stomps over to the fireside. The red-eyed man snickers at him, commenting: “If you two fight, my bet’s on Cleo.”

The trio snap lightheartedly at eachother until Cleo presents the tray of drinks, which they discover to be some godforsaken concoction of hot chocolate and mulled wine.

“Could you not just pick one?” Cleo asks him in exasperation, making a face.

“Nope,” replies Bdubs, sipping from his own mug happily.

“By the way,” comments Impulse, gently setting down his own mug, “I like the tree! The candles are a nice touch - Etho insisted on redstone torches for the Dogwarts one.” He rolls his eyes, but there is fondness there too.

Bdubs looks pleased. “Cleo wanted to set it on fire,” he informs them, “But I reminded her that it wouldn’t last as long.”

“That’s the only reason you could think of, huh?” Remarks Tango, arching an amused eyebrow as Impulse chokes with laughter and Cleo huffs.

In the far West is a desert, unfrequented by anyone with sense. The expansive dunes of sand are encircled by a river of lava and an unforgiving wall of cactus - to keep out strangers, perhaps, or to protect its inhabitants. A lone river winds through it, frozen, though one would be remiss to test its surface. Winter hasn’t shied from chilling the desert, even if snow doesn’t dare invade.

Atop a mountain of sandstone is a lone tower, home to a pair of renegades whose recalcitrance is considered dangerous and unhinged. The renegades in question sit outside on the sand around a firepit, leaning against the warm flank of a snowy llama draped in a green and red blanket. A broad-chested man is busy sewing something. He’s shirtless but wrapped in a blanket of llama wool that reveals the sun-darkened, heavily scarred chest beneath. His companion is smaller and slighter, a splash of colour in the dull desert. Resplendent wings of ruby, blue, emerald and gold adorn his back, and he wears a thick, red, cape-like blanket tied about his shoulders over a once-white shirt. The second man watches the first at his task, admiring the unexpectedly deft hands that guide a cactus-spine needle through the scraps of white fabric.

Near them is a young dark-oak tree. It has been hung with lanterns, and cactus blossoms perched in its branches. Strands of dyed wool splash it with colour, and from the branches hang painted animal skulls, trinkets found in the desert sands and brought to immortality.

The first man finishes his task, breaking the final thread with his teeth and holding up his creation - a little stuffed llama, a cloth replica of the one they leant against.

“It’s Pizza!” Remarks his companion with a grin of recognition. “Scar, show it to him!”

Scar does so, holding the little Pizza up to his muse. Pizza nudges it with a soft, inquisitive nose, which Scar evidently takes as approval. He stands, then looks at their tree slightly blankly.

“Scar?” Presses the other.

“Uh, Grian …” Scar begins sheepishly, “I made it as a tree topper, but I didn’t really consider that we don’t have that kind of tree.”

Grian bursts into laughter at the image - the imposing red-life, scarred, muscle-stacked and considered a menace, holding a toy llama and looking so crestfallen about a Christmas tree.

Scar grins lopsidedly, “What?”

“Come here,” is all Grian replies, still laughing uncontrollably.

Scar complies and contents himself with placing the little-Pizza on a log by the firepit. They make a meal of anything that can be speared on a toasting fork and blackened on the fire, and Scar begins an uproarious and slightly discordant Christmas carol. Grian joins, laughing, and their voices rise with the smoke from their fire, serenading the silent desert.

One man is alone this night, in a sense, though if you asked him he’d deny the fact. In a little house on a hill lives a man considered as wild and mad as the company he chooses to keep. His dark hair is divided by a forelock of crimson, and his eyes are as red and dark as rich honey. He sits now on the hearthrug in front of a roaring fire. All around him are wolves, but this fact doesn’t bother him. They lounge on the hearthrug and curl on the armchairs and bed. He has adorned their leather collars with sprigs of holly and gold bells. A spruce sapling in a pot is laden with tiny golden bells and wooden silhouettes of wolves, a string of carefully threaded sweetberries accompanying the decorations.

The air has a comforting, warm, animal scent, and a record plays on a jukebox in the corner, scratchy and familiar. The man leans back against the warm, furry flank of a wolf, and he can hear its heartbeat, slow and relaxed as it huffs happily. He sips from his mug of tea, strong and spiced in favour of the season.

Blood can run through the wolves’ teeth tomorrow, he thinks, because tonight is for celebration.

#3rd life #flower husbands #desert duo #dogwarts #treebark #trafficshipping #trafficblr #3rd life fic #3rd life jimmy #smajor1995 #3rd life scott #3rd life smp #sand duo #gtws #3rd life etho #3rd life grian #crow writes things #3rd life oneshot #mcyt #scarian #3rd life ren #the red king #crastle duo #cleo