There’s a hot tremor throughout the darklands, a sense of warning before a familiar scorching heat tore across the caster’s skin. Dragon fire. He’d felt it when he’d been shown what it felt like to be a Sovereign of the sky, and he felt it now burning through his bond to Gunmar. Not where it was supposed to come from.
Dropping his current projects, Bonely scrambled out of his casting den and charged down toward the crucible. Gunmar wasn’t a dragon! He shouldn’t have dragon magics! Stone and fire magic weren’t meant to mix! Even in the bellies of mountain trolls, their magic was still that of heated, melted stone, not of fire directly!
As he approached, he could see scores of thralls, straining to close the Crucible gates as quickly as they could. But as they did, some of their number seemed to glow orange, their eyes like dragon fire. They staggered, snorted, and with a ferocious war bellow, launched themselves at their nearest fellow. Several howled, bellowed, and roared in response, trying to restrain the seemingly rabid soldier.
“Aw jeez!” Bonely hissed and resisted the temptation to aid the soldiers. Some shouted at him, saying the new orange thralls were rebelling against Gunmar, a crime worthy of death.
“Put ‘em in the cells!” the caster shouted, pointing toward the darklands’ prisons. “We’ll deal with ‘em later!” He turned back toward the gates and blanched when he saw they were almost closed.
“Hold the gates!” he bellowed, forging ahead again. “Hold ‘em ‘n’ close ‘em behind me!”
The thralls looked at each other in confusion but did as they were told, letting the gates grind to a halt as the caster barreled past. Once he was past, the thralls hurried to close the gates and rush to restrain their now fire-mad companions.
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Vanilla.- No that wasn’t right-A...specific kind of vanilla. A warm, lingering scent. The kind that folds itself into the air around you, and wraps your senses in a sugar induced coma hug. And she couldn’t place it. But there was something in it that stirred Waverly’s senses enough to open her eyes.
A golden glow. Overwhelming at first, then gentle. It fell lazily through the warm green canopy above her. And she could feel it on her face as it tangled with the cool breeze. The breeze that brought with it the smell of vanilla.
She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, but she liked it here. It felt safe here.
She closed her eyes to rest. A vine crawling towards her. She wasn’t scared. She did wish she had a blanket though. She also wished, as she fell into her dream, that she could place that lingering scent of- what was it?
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we do not vibe with season 3 and so i’m gonna rework lore this blog. i will still have verses that have more canon compliance but they won’t be what is considered canon.
- the fleim does not exist. black blood is considered to be a sign of reincarnation. they believe those with nightblood have a piece of becca’s soul inside them. novitiates fight in the conclave because they believe whoever is victorious absorbs the other pieces of becca’s soul and are thus the strongest, purest incarnation of her.
- in accordance, after the conclave, the ascension ceremony includes a funeral pier for the fallen nightbloods. the new commander gives thanks for their sacrifice and spends the evening meditating. commanders study the texts and recordings left behind by their forebears. they use jobi tea and other psychedelics to aid them in meditating for spiritual guidance.
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