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dwellordream · 2 years

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“We remember the fascination of the villain from when we were children: Captain Hook, the old hag in “Hansel and Gretel,” the Wicked Witch of the West. As T. S. Eliot recognized, “It is better, in a paradoxical way, to do evil than to do nothing: at least, we exist” (344). The Romantics, those poets who always admired the view from the eyes of the child, were everywhere mesmerized by the villain, by strangeness in beauty, by the corrupt, the contaminated, the imperiled. The Brontës held onto the richness of their childhood imaginations and from this kept treasure Rochester and Heathcliff emerge. Yet Rochester was not the first character to wrap up the contradictions of lover and enemy into one subjectivity.

The tragic hero whose main energy comes from villainous actions, self-destructive impulses, or character flaws can be traced back to Elizabethan and Jacobean tragedy, and even earlier, to the Nietzschean will-to-power of Machiavelli’s The Prince (1532). Such early magnetic scoundrels range from the cursed ambitions of the ur-seeker-of-other-worldly-knowledge, Marlowe’s Faustus (c. 1588); Promus, the just man who wrestles with his desire for Cassandra and loses in George Whetstone’s Promus and Cassandra (1578); and Guise in Fulke Greville’s Alaham (1590s), who displays the sublime but wasted subjectivity of the Byronic hero.

An erotics of evil develops out of these characters and their ambitious will for destruction coupled with the genius of an all-seeing eye. Shakespeare’s Richard III (1592–94) combines a dreaded cruelty with a witty intellect and an insatiable drive. Hamlet (1600–1601) brings into this history the important characteristic of the tragedy of impotent melancholy, a sense of a world too barren for action, for an attempt at change. Running through Jacobean tragedy, the tormented, sympathetic reprobate appears in such characters as Vindice in Cyril Tourneur’s The Revenger’s Tragedy (1607); the atheist, D’Amville, in The Atheist’s Tragedy (1611); and Giovanni in John Ford’s ’Tis a Pity She’s a Whore (1633).

Lucifer in Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667), the serpentine tempter of Eve, falls from grace as later dangerous lovers will. And Eve’s seduction by this demon lover, causing her own fall from grace, is repeated again and again in the erotic historical where the heroine, after her seduction by the devilish rogue, becomes outcast with him. As Gilbert and Gubar point out, this gives a new meaning to the “fall” in “to fall in love.” And this fall stands always in relation to knowledge, whether it be occult knowledge, which gives one too much power to live in the world, or a cynical knowledge that comes to know the world too well, emptying it of mystery and possibility.

Luciferian dangerous lovers always cut a devilish figure with their sneering rebellion and refusal to bow to any power but that of their own tortured subjectivity. Considered by many to be the first romance (some even call it the first novel), Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded (1740–41) places the villain as both the heroine’s worst foe and her final blessing for virtuous behavior. An early example of the reformed rake formula, Pamela centers around the scoundrel/suitor Mr. B., who plots Pamela’s ruin by seducing her but, so impressed is he by her strict sense of the virtuous and dutiful place of a young serving maid, he marries her instead.

In Pamela, as well as in the Gothic, eroticism resides in texts—letters that Pamela keeps in her “bosom” and then are purloined by Mr. B. While these missives masquerade as virtuous tracts on how to stay away from a scheming rake, they become a nexus for erotic activity with Pamela’s flurried excitement in her letter writing, her exhaustive recording of the minutiae of her seduction, and her bringing the texts to bed—nailing Mr. B’s sadistic letter to her bedstead as a masochistic reminder to “be good.” The letter even becomes a substitute for sex when Mr. B. reads Pamela’s letters instead of continuing his seduction.

The highest point of sexual satiation is the text, and furthermore, the text that does not reach its proper destination (her letters are addressed to her parents). These dead letters represent the love that becomes, at least temporarily, a kind of dead letter: love is misunderstanding itself. In Radcliffe, the most romantic of the Gothic novelists, the virtuous heroes are quickly forgotten; in their paleness they fall away next to the bold chiaroscuro shine of the cruel villain. The villains in much of the Gothic create the central development and complexity of the narrative by their inexplicably meaningful actions, their deeply perturbed spirits which precipitously race toward ruin on a grand scale.

These villains and their violent machinations against the heroine’s virtue steal the show while the characterless lover is lost in the background with his transparent tenderness and adoration. Both Schedoni in Radcliffe’s The Italian and Ambrosio in Matthew Lewis’s The Monk contain the erotic complexities and fascination of a manifold and fearful enemy, while the lover in contrast seems easily read. Schedoni’s fallen greatness and gloomy violence disclose a hidden world of darkness and death.

There were circumstances, however, which appeared to indicate him to be a man of birth, and of fallen fortune; his spirit . . . seemed lofty; it shewed not, however, the aspirings of a generous mind, but rather the gloomy pride of a disappointed one. . . . Some few persons in the convent . . . believed that the peculiarities of his manners . . . were the effect of misfortunes preying upon a haughty and disordered spirit, while others conjectured them the consequence of some hideous crime gnawing upon an awakened conscience. . . . His figure was striking . . . there was something terrible in its air; something almost superhuman . . . gave an effect to his large melancholy eye, which approached to horror . . . and his eyes were so piercing that they seemed to penetrate, at a single glance, into the hearts of men, and to read their most secret thoughts. . . . (34–35)

His penetrating glance exposes the hidden body of the other, without itself showing anything, making the other’s interiority known. Schedoni’s melancholy self magnetically pulls the other who desires to know; he is like an emptiness which draws in a material to fill it. In The Monk, a Gothic bildungsroman, Ambrosio begins as the adored “Man of Holiness” but develops into a corrupted malefactor when he is seduced by a temptress disguised as a monk (herself a dangerous lover). The Gothic enemy moves, changes, hides a riveting past and future, while the Gothic lover’s insipidity comes from his stasis as a character, his ability to be only one thing. The Brontës knew this in spades.

With the collapse of the blackguard and sweetheart into one Rochester, Brontë can begin her story with the intriguing Gothic stranger, and only later transform him into the domesticated and dependent lover. The evil double contained in a single character is itself a Gothic mainstay, as in James Hogg’s Confessions of a Justified Sinner (an interesting case of a homoerotic haunting by a devil-self). A variation on this theme is being haunted by a double represented in another subjectivity, as in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and William Godwin’s Caleb Williams. In post–Gothic Victorian novels, these Gothic doubles continue to proliferate, as in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and even Jane Eyre with Bertha as Jane’s double.”

- Deborah Lutz, “The Spectral Other and Erotic Melancholy: The Gothic Demon Lover and the Early Seduction Narrative Rake (1532–1822).” in The Dangerous Lover: Gothic Villains, Byronism, and the Nineteenth-Century Seduction Narrative

#gothic #renaissance #regency #georgian #literature #deborah lutz

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huntinghags · 2 years

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2. Bakar’s Folly

(An insight into Bakar’s motives)

Bakar knew he would soon receive the specifications of his orders and was finishing up the last of his preparations. His swords were sharp. His horse had been to the farrier the day prior and was fit for the long journey ahead. The witch hunters had a central location in Willowside and various outposts throughout the land. They were safe places to gather and provision. The rations they supplied were tough and tasteless, but they filled the belly all the same.

Bakar squinted as the door opened, casting the room in a harsher light than his eye was ready for. Musa entered with Bakar’s studded leathers slung over his shoulder, and a bound scroll in his hand. A full head taller than him, Musa looked down upon the preparations that Bakar had made and gave a curt nod. He tossed the missive to Bakar and let the armor thud onto the worn wooden table.

“It will either be a long one, or no mission at all.” Musa jerked his chin at the scroll as the other hunter broke the wax seal. Bakar raised a brow, but didn’t look up, his gaze sweeping over the details of his quarry. There was talk of a changeling in a faraway village. Nothing more than hearsay, but the hunters took it all rumors seriously none the less. Hags were notoriously secretive and difficult to ferret out which meant any lead was a lead worth pursuing.

“Try not to completely shred your armor this time. Ardwin had some choice words for you about the repairs.” The taller hunter gave a wolfish grin, but Bakar returned a frown. His armor hadn’t been the only thing his previous mark had gotten her claws on; the skin on his chest was still stiff and tender from the tangle.

“Thank you, Musa. I’ll be leaving now.” Bakar was eager to get on the road, he had no stomach or patience for swapping stories with his fellow hunters. Musa, like many of the others, was a braggart and a drunkard. Bakar made for the door before he could start a tale or pour an ale.

When Bakar arrived in Kelias, his mark came to him. Moments after his arrival, he met the stable hand. She was a girl with dark hair and mismatched eyes. At the time, he thought fate had smiled upon him; that he had been saved the effort of seeking her out. He would later realize that fate was a cruel mistress indeed, for none of the business with Adder was to be simple.

The hunter preferred to watch potential changelings from a distance, gauging their threat and taking his time to be certain of their heritage. Once a changeling felt the Call it was only a matter of time before they would lead him to the mother hag. This girl seemed about the right age for it, judging by her looks she was in her early twenties. If she hadn’t felt the pull yet, it would be soon. There was a chance that she was just a normal child with odd eyes and an unfortunate hair color to match. Asking around the village and observing her would help him deduce what she really was, for the children of hags often harbored other misfortunes and peculiarities.

Adder refused to be watched from afar, she doggedly pursued Bakar. She seemed hellbent on prying a conversation out of, despite his efforts to ward her off. To Bakar’s frustration, she wormed her way closer to him, often sharing an ale with him in the evening. Though usually stoic and tight lipped, Adder had a way of making him share his stories. She had an earnest interest about her that made one feel as if what they were saying was of the utmost importance.

He knew it was a foolish choice to teach her magic. Yet, when she showed an aptitude, he taught her. Her talent for mischief, and knack for spying made it nearly impossible to hide his craft from her. She was an avid and tireless student, and a fine sparring partner. He would regret it each night as he chided himself while reciting his mission. He would swear to distance himself from the girl and cease his teaching… he somehow always managed to find himself caught in another long chat with her. He always ended up standing in their dirt practice ring, wooden swords ready. As time went on Bakar found himself hoping all the signs of changeling heritage that he saw in Adder were coincidences. Perhaps she wouldn’t hear the call. He began to let himself hope she was just an unfortunate orphan. Soon she would be in the clear, for the call almost never came so late in life.

It was a year after their meeting, when Bakar was nearly sure Adder was safe, that she finally felt the call. She had come to him in tears, knowing of his aptitude for magic, and begged him for a way to quiet the voices that had all at once entered her mind. He shouldn’t have told her what she was on that night, he should have told her that he knew nothing of what the voices were, or how she might quiet them. Not knowing the origins of what plagued her would make her more likely to seek after it. Bakar ought to have let her follow the call and do away with her and the hag that had spawned her, it was his way, the way of the witch hunter. Instead, he had embraced her, quieted her sobs, and told her all that he knew. His heart had ached that night, though he wasn’t sure if it was guilt or true sorrow that tore away at him.

Bakar told Adder of her heritage, and the signs she bore of it. He told her of how others might notice them and resent her for them. Bakar showed Adder how she might hide by dyeing her hair. He did not tell her of his own mission, or how his brethren would not have hesitated to strike her down. He did not tell her that by dyeing her hair, she was hiding from them. Bakar told Adder that the call beckoned her towards her mother, and that if she found the hag her life as a human would be over.

Over several months he taught Adder what he knew of how to fortify the mind through meditation, and how to quiet the call. It could not be silenced, not until the hag was slain. If she could resist it, she would be safe, he told himself. She wouldn’t be a danger to her village. Perhaps he could find the hag without her. To allow her to follow the call and lead the way would be sending her to death. In his heart Bakar knew it was folly, and each truth he told her stung his tongue, each lesson he taught her seemed to go against all he had ever known, but the words still came forward. Each day they became closer, and while he had abandoned the notion of distance, the pain grew deeper. Bakar cursed himself, and his decisions that had led him to this point. There would be no easy solution.

Each status report he sent to the hunters was more difficult to the last, he was running out of lies that would extend his time in the village. The easiest path would be to declare her dead, but he would have no hag head to show for it. Bakar supposed he could say that the call had never come to her, but it was a risk. Word could get out of her peculiarities and her nightmares that made her cry out in her sleep. They would send another hunter, and Bakar knew they would not hesitate to put her to the blade. So, Bakar left to seek out the hag on his own, and when Adder had begged to come with him on his travels, he had bidden her to stay. Though he could hardly choke out the words, he lied about his mission and about her readiness. She was as good as any apprentice magus, better than he had been on his first excursion… but he would not bring her into her mother’s clutches. She would be safe here, as long as he left. Though it hurt to lie and hurt even more to leave, Bakar said his farewells, not knowing if he would ever return to Kelias. Not knowing if he would ever again see Adder, the changeling who had captivated him and made him betray his oaths.

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nevofthewilds · 2 years

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S56: On The Meaning of Power

Rucker awoke to find himself alone- all of his Mudwang allies had already vacated their beds. Only Rat, snoring and drooling over a book of law texts, remained. Vax left a note behind explaining he was following a hunch, while Taerus had business to attend to at ConsMyst. The goliath found the final member, Shakan, practicing his movements under the great Copperleaf Tree. Taking in the gifts from his journey to the Feywilds- his neon t-shirt, an engraved acorn, a glowing bracelet- he pondered how much he'd changed since he first met his new tribesmen.

Shakan finished his rituals and joined Rucker, still anxious despite his meditations. With the trial approaching and little progress made in gathering evidence or momentum, he was troubled. Rucker shared a story from his goliath tribe, a lesson in honor and strength of character. Shakan appreciated the tale, and the two friends waited for Taerus to rejoin them before heading up to meet with Elder Gikandi. As the men began walking in the chilly winter air, Captain Galva shares what he learnt from meeting with Syster Odimin, (older sibling to Biose student Odimar):

The two spoke of Thelandria, and how the goddess of storms found each of them. Sharing a recent dream of his featuring lost allies and a Stag Mountain besieged, Taerus listened to the cleric's theory how this vision supported her fear that the gods power in Virpresque was fading. She then tested his faith by blasting him with wind and lightning (and, in doing so, releasing him from the curse placed on him by the Delta hags coven.) Having proved his conviction, she challenged him to spread Thelandria’s word by acting the guide for souls lost in the tempest.

They are eventually seen up to Gikandi’s quarters in the Tower of the Archives, where Shakan is greeted coldly by a former classmate who blames him for their masters fall from grace. On edge again, the genasi introduces his allies to his former instructor. Speaking casually and warmly, the tortle wizard welcomes the group and provides drinks of choice. Gathering around his study table, piled high with books, journals, and missives, the four men begin to share their thoughts on the upcoming trial.

Having seen and studied much over his many years, Gikandi's concern was not about influence or legacy. Rather, he had agreed to stand in Shakan’s place on a matter of principle- allegations needed to be answered for. For that reason, he was pleased that Shakan had returned so that the matter may be truly settled. He further emphasized the trial is a reckoning for Shakan as a representative of the Academy itself: what damage has he done to not only the rectory, but Bøfkasmaur’s reputation?

Gikandi then offered to help the men with any personal challenges they were facing, reasoning that though it may not be related to the trial only calm minds could make sound decisions. Dictating the questions and answers to a glowing orb of magic over his shoulder, the master listened as Taerus shares his concerns regarding Thrembreglaxx and his followers. Gikandi too pondered what designs the followers of the god of entropy might have, and that normally such anarchists had historically had trouble organizing.

Rucker then took the chance to ask about the curse he carried, explaining his history with the lich that had left some vestigial powers within him. Rucker also shared he'd recently learned the name of his enemy- Balefroar. Speaking the name, the room instantly darkened as the studies candles' winked out and the sky outside began to cloud over.

The turtle’s affable tone ceased, and Gikandi very carefully chose his words as he warned the three men to never utter that particular name on the campus of Bofkasmaur again. The magic of Names was mysterious and powerful, and this name could be ruinous. Respectfully, the Mudwangs resolved to only refer to Rucker’s lich as… Tracy.

With personal queries satisfied, the group resolves to help defend Shakan and Gikandi. If the Academy placed such high value on the merits of its students and members, then how could they build a case to show Shakan an asset rather than a liability? Perhaps by finding who hired the Open Hand, though their leads in that department were slim. Maybe by demonstrating his good acts across the Stag Lands, with summoned witnesses to speak to his integrity? However they proceeded, they had only 7 days to bring it all together, and Gikandi gave them a pair of scrolls to aid them as they prepared to leave.

It was at that moment that a knock at the door revealed Gikandi’s next meeting was with none other than Larry Dennit Jr. himself. Speaking brusquely to the men, he set down a tray of food for he and Gikandi to share, urging them to run off. Taerus and Rucker began to challenge the Acting ConsArc Elder, even threatening him with a Zone of Truth before Gikandi effortlessly quelled the spell and the fight, ordering them to cease squabbling in his quarters.

Thus humbled, the Mudwangs left Larry and Gikandi to meet as they continued their search for the truth amidst the towering stone monolith of the Academy…

#stagstory #s56 #sosm #trial

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spiltscribbles · 3 years

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Here’s a prompt from the tag! “ Giving them your dessert when you eat out because it’s their favorite.” bc I have a feeling Remis would be the type to end up eating Sirius’ dessert instead of his bc he doesn’t know what to order but Sirius knows his taste dkfjsjaha

~Notes: Oh no baby! I read this wrong, thinking it was Person A ordering for them instead because Person B didn’t know what they wanted.... And well this came out-- I can totally write a different prompt though to match this one! Just LMK! <3 <3

Send Me A Prompt | Reblogs are like the tastiest dessert!!

Remus pads softly into his and Sirius’s room, a mug of steaming Darjeeling in hand and clad only in a his robe as he gazes longingly at the sleeping form of his partner for nearing on three years now.

The early morning sun pans across the wide expanse of Sirius’s shoulders, and dips into the planes and valleys of his muscular torso and angular face. Lying there, with his dark hair fanning the pillow and the blanket slung lazily around his hips, he looks like some sort of fallen angel. Beautiful and remote and impossible to touch by sullied hands that aren’t half as sacred. It makes his heart thud an uneven staccato when he remembers that he’s his— Sirius chose Remus, Sirius loves Remus— Maybe even nearly as much as Remus has always loved him.

How remarkable of a revelation indeed.

Gingerly, Remus sets down his tea and crawls back into bed with Sirius, insides thrilling when the dark haired boy subconsciously snakes his arms around him and curves around Remus’s body like so many times before, so often that Remus reckons it’s become by rote, an ingrained response to whenever they’re in close proximity to one another.

With a quiet laugh, Remus stretches around, begins peppering Sirius’s chest and abs and the space surrounding his cock with tender kisses, slowly rousing him to wakening the way Sirius always appreciates after a night of patrols for the Auror’s academy. And as usual, it doesn’t take long at all for Sirius to begin moaning out appreciative sighs, thrusting languorously for the warmth of his mouth, making Remus chuckle as he tugs down his pants, and kisses the length of him, peering up to watch as Sirius’s gorgeous, gray eyes flutter open.

“Wh— Moony?” He says in a peculiarly squeaky voice that Remus can’t ever remember slipping out of his mouth.

“Yes— Problem, Paddy?”

Another discontent, borderline terrified noise rumbles in his throat, and before Remus could even ask what’s got his boyfriend acting like he’s touched in the head, the door to their flat flings open none too gently, and it’s an irate looking James who storms into the bedroom— fists clenched and jaw set as he glares daggers into the face of his practical brother.

“You’re dead Potter!” Is all he shouts before madness ensues— Madness that’s James’s flying fists for Sirius’s face, Peter’s choked laughter flowing in from the other room, and a Lily who looks stuck between horrified and amused

And Remus is so fucking bewildered as he slides off of his boyfriend to avoid any untoward hits accidentally aimed his way.

“Lily?” he presses expectantly, but is totally unsurprised when all she replies with is a bout of uninhibited cackles.

Fifteen minutes, a magically healed split lip, and a physically restrained pair of animagi later, finds the ragtag group of friends surrounding the kitchen Island while a terse James and enraged Sirius are explaining what had happened the previous night. Namely, them getting hexed by a sour faced old bint with a Guinness in hand, after Sirius had driven his motorbike through her rosebushes.

“You guys got bested by a drunk hag!” Peter guffaws for the third time in a singular minute, clutching at his stomach while his body wracks with a continuous stream of laughter

“I will singe your bollocks off Wormtail,” Sirius seethes from Remus’s left— Except no, it’s not Sirius. It’s James, his best mate James who’s now inhabiting the body of his lover. And God how strange of a fucking turn of events. It’s seriously unnerving. He’s just standing their, all too familiar arms crossed against his chest and thick brows furrowed. And God, Remus really wishes he wouldn’t do that— worry on his bottom lip mid snarl. It’s such a quintessentially Sirius thing to do. a look Remus knows well. One that Remus would always coax away with a gentle kiss and a hand carding through his hair and—

“Oof!”

He glances over to where Sirius— wearing James’s face— is glowering at him with pure irritation after having elbow checked him. “Eyes front and center Lupin!”

Remus flushes, glancing over at Lily since she out of everyone here could understand his plight. But of course she’s only snickering to herself in her cup of coffee, the trader.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just because ’s my body doesn’t mean you get to give another bloke the come hither eyes!” Sirius fumes, a sneer caught on his features that Remus never thought the face of the easy going James Potter could ever conjure. “Crikey, it’s plenty that you decided to give him a full on show already.”

“How was I to know this would happen!” Remus sputters the same time James defends that they even barely started, which of course made Peter fall over on his chair with pure delight and Lily walking over to the kettle so she can hide her own laughter.

“Lucky you,” Sirius snipes back, glaring darkly at James and snatching Remus’s hand to interlock with his— erm James’s?— own on his lap.

Remus is so totally fucked.

Graciously, Professor McGonagall— who told the graduating Gryffindor class of 78 to always reach out if they ever needed help with a strangely wet glint in her eyes— Replies to the pleading missive Remus had sent almost immediately, giving Remus the proper instructions to reverse the jinx and wishing him and Lily the best for the impending tribulations about to befall them.

“She’s totally loving this,” James mumbles moodily as Lily massages his head. And Merlin, is that a strange sight— Lily not only deigning to touch Sirius at all, but look at him sympathetically on top of that. Remus has to constantly remind himself of the body swap before his ridiculous envy begins carving at his insides when James only looks appreciatively back up at her, a gentle, open expression painted over his face that is ordinarily reserved for Remus and Remus alone.

“God this is weird,” Lily tells him, slowly inching away and sitting besides Remus instead. “I usually can’t stand even the sight of Black, and now I’ve got to treat him like the bloke I’m in love with.”

“That’s not what you said this morning Evans,” Sirius goads from Remus’s other end, suddenly reverting back to looking like the James of fifth year— when he was still too cocky for his own good and still didn’t understand how much it made Lily want to hex him to hell for it. “I actually think I recall a lot of back robs and straddling action this morning.”

Lily casts him a look that would absolutely scorch lesser beings, and Remus reasons that his own glower is emulating the same energy because Sirius quickly presses their foreheads together and squeezes Remus’s hand between both of his own in silent repentance. “I knocked her off once i realized it wasn’t you love.”

“Didn’t even bother to aim for the bed you absolute sod.”

“It was fight or flight while you had your grubby little hands all over me Evans!” Sirius airily sniffs.

“Oh I’ll show you grubby little hands!” Lily seethes, pouncing forwards right when Sirius hides behind Remus’s back.

“Children,” Remus intones, beyond over it. “Did you all not realize the massive problem with this little mishap.”

“You mean besides dealing with James’s pitiful little knob.” Sirius asks, faux owlish.

“You touch my knob Black and I swear to God I’ll shave off all your hair.” James snipes, which really isn’t all that fair considering how Sirius doesn’t even care about his perfect locks half as much as Remus does.

“Bloody hell! That’s brilliant!” Peter squawks from the loveseat, absolutely glowing. “James, you think you can get Moony’s name tattooed on his arse.”

James’s face goes sly, Remus’s favorite smirk toying the edges of his lips and his stormy eyes glinting with mirth that Remus only ever sees on his boyfriend’s face before a prank or while Remus is undressing in front of him.

“What did I say about that look Moony!” Sirius shouts, scathing and skewering him with a look James only ever employed as Head Boy on the third year students stupid enough to get caught while trying to pull off a prank.

“Erm— Ahem.” Remus adjusts himself in his seat, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Yes well, that is rather besides the point.”

“So what is the point, Rem,” Lily asks smugly, and Remus absolutely hates how much she’s enjoying this. She should be suffering just as much as him for the sake of Circe.

“Well didn’t you have that lunch date set up with your older sister and her husband for today?” Remus points out, a mutinous little part of him preening at how her face goes a sickly sort of pale at the reminder. Finally someone is as ill over this as he is.

“Oh bloody shite! You’re right! And Professor McGonagall said that this incantation can only be done at night, the same time as it was originally cast!”

“We’re not in school anymore Evans, you can just call her McGonagall. Or Minnie if you’re so inclined.”

“Shut the fuck up Black!” Lily shrieks, and Remus can’t help but unfavorably liken her to a banshee. “I promised Petunia that I’d see her before she leaves on holiday tomorrow! And she bloody hates Black!”

“nasty harpy.”

“What are we going to do!”

“Erm— Well maybe you can explain to her the switch up?” Peter offers, always meek in the face of Lily’s wrath.

“She already thinks I’m a freak for being a witch Peter! I can’t bring James looking like that and expect her to be fine with it!”

“Most people would consider James having upgraded,” Sirius argues.

“The tattoo will be bright pink I reckon,” James muses loudly to himself, pretending not to have heard Sirius. “A nice contrast to your pasty white arse don’t you think Padfoot?”

Sirius bares his teeth at him and Remus feels an impending migraine while Lily continues to lament the idiocy of their boyfriends.

Remus idly contemplates how normal his life could’ve been if he had fought harder with the sorting hat to be placed into Ravenclaw. It would be a much less wonderful existence, to be sure, but it’d be so blessedly normal. Remus would probably have gone steady with that Hufflepuff prefect, Andre, and they would probably still be together. And Andre didn’t have a best friend who he got into insane and improbable situations with, so Remus definitely wouldn’t have been forced to do this. To be forced to go to lunch with his best friend’s wizard hating sister and her pug faced husband and not look longingly over the table at the face of his other best friend where the love of his life is inhabiting his body.

Jesus, is Remus’s life confusing as fuck.

“I need to take a pis— Oof, I mean. I have to use the gents,” Sirius declares as everyone’s entrees are being served, giving a pointed glance to Remus. And he supposes he should talk to him about that, how incredibly obvious Sirius can be when he’s flustered and isn’t trying to show it.

Five minutes after his boyfriend, Remus leaves to meet him in the first open stall, finally feeling less wrong footed for the first time today when Sirius takes him into his unfamiliar arms.

“I’m going to stab my eyes out with a fork Moony!” He hisses, and it’s odd how alien his face— James’s face— is to him. How Remus has never spent the time to memorize the precise slope of his nose, or the shape to his lips. How Remus can’t understand what it means when he squints his left eye or when he flares his nostrils with a slight curl to his mouth. But Remus does recognize the way Sirius has always grabbed his hips in that desperate way when he’s fed up, and how he always presses his nose to the curls behind Remus’s ear when he needs to be grounded. And it’s a bit awkward now that they’re the same height instead of Sirius needing to stoop slightly, and how Sirius now smells like that pricy cologne that James has always sprits with gusto. But it’s familiar enough to make Remus’s shoulders relax from the tension sown through them all day, and breathe out with relief with how the pair of them still understand one another with an innate sort of knowing.

Gingerly, Remus wraps his arms around Sirius’s now less defined torso, and they stand their, tangled into one another amidst the hush settling over them.

“Oi! You berks!” James hisses from the doorway all too soon, clambering inside and stomping his feet. “I swear to Merlin if you pricks are fucking inside there!”

“Don’t worry Jamie, I’d never put my Moons through the indignity of dealing with that after he’s had me,” Sirius jeers, preening when James replies by throwing something hard against the doorway.

“C’mon you idiot,” Remus sighs, tugging on a lowly chuckling Sirius as they meet James by the exit of the loo.

“I’ve had three different birds sliding their numbers into my trousers on my way here alone,” James complains, shuffling foot to foot and looking more awkward than Sirius ever has. “It’s obscene.”

“It’s the life of the beautiful,” Sirius corrects as Remus swaths his hand away from his arse.

“I’d rather not have Petunia getting a heart attack when she sees her sister’s boyfriend copping a feel of another bloke,” he chides before looping his arm through James’s and begins strolling back to the table.

The rest of the lunch is thankfully uneventful, but as stilted as expected, filled with Sirius needing to be kicked in the shin every time he starts gazing absentmindedly at Remus, and Lily flickering her eyes over to James disappointedly while he pouts at her with Sirius’s best puppy dog eyes. And Every time Petunia starts eyeing them all as if they’re all fucking each other behind the scenes, Remus clumsily changes the topic to the weather or how lovely her engagement ring is or asking Vernon about bloody drills— Even if all he wants to do is reach across the table and hold Sirius’s hand.

But thankfully, it all seems to be going along decently enough— That is until the waiter comes around to take their orders and spends a little too long leering at Remus, asking if he’d like a cinnamon roll on the house.

“He’d like a slice of the chocolate fudge cake and he has a boyfriend that probably wouldn’t appreciate the extra service.” Sirius growls out, specs gone askew and dark knuckles paling from where he’s clutching his spoon vindictively.

The waiter only smiles at him, shrugging in that what can you do kind of way before dashing off to place the orders in with the kitchen.

“Hmm,” Petunia levels him with a glance, unimpressed looking. “So James.”

It takes a beat too long for Sirius to respond and Remus silently curses his every damn star.

“Erm, yes Petunia.”

“How long have you been fucking my sister’s friend behind her back?”

Lily goes shellshocked and James looks ill while Remus sinks lower in his seat, trying to force Sirius to get it together through his eye contact alone.

“Hah— Wow, you’ve been watching those silly Muggle dramas have you Petunia.” Sirius says in a mangled tone of voice, but of course that’s the precise wrong thing to have said.

With matching red faces and spluttering words of indignation— a few curses thrown in for good measure— Petunia and her husband rise from their seats and make a hasty retreat to their car towards the back of the building.

“Oh Christ,” Lily groans, jumping up to sprint after them— but not without swinging a perfectly aimed cuff to the back of Sirius’s porcupine head. “I’ll hex you once you’re out of my boyfriend’s sodding body Black!”

“I understand Evans!” He calls after her before swinging his head over to James and Remus with a mischievous grin. “We tried didn’t we?”

“You just couldn’t keep your bloody jealous temper in check,” James scolds with no real heat.

“Oi! And what about you lusting over Lily so blatantly you tosser! It was revolting.”

“Yeah, well maybe you’ll remember that next time you’re gazing at Moony’s arse out in public you mongrel.”

Exhausted, Remus just rises and tells them to stay behind and make sure Lily’s alright. “I need a bath and some quiet.”

“Can I join,” Sirius pouts. “I miss you.”

“Only once you’re my Sirius again,” Remus instructs, brooking no arguments before he finds a safe place to apparate, telling himself that he deserves an entire bottle of that cheap merlot they bought last weekend.

#REMUS LUPIN #SIRIUS BLACK #WOLFSTAR #SIRIUSXREMUS #REMUSXSIRIUS #MARAUDERS #HARRY POTTER SERIES #spilt ink #I feel bad I didn't post a Remus Bday FIC tho #rip #sorry angel child o'mine

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natalieironside · 3 years

Text

(x)

Describe your character from the point of view of someone who hates them

Oh, this should be good.

***

For distribution to all knights, paladins, clerics, bondsmen, and chapter-masters of the most holy Order of Carolian Sword Brothers:

By the hand of His Holiness, Brother Militant Albertus Theoderich Brando, aide-de-camp and spiritual advisor to the Grand Master of our most sacred Order:

In the name of His Excellency, Karl Friedrich Augustus Maximus Carolus the 18th 19th, our most beneficent Emperor, God’s vice-regent upon the material plane, may his reign be long and prosperous:

My Brothers, of all the foul, flesh-eating demons that infest our galaxy, the one known as Nirtovi is perhaps the worst. Nirtovi Warbringer is the daughter of the late and unmourned Hellilni the Accursed, may her bones be crushed, and the niece and apprentice of the most hated Lotherte Warbringer. Though she is relatively young by the standards of a demon, we believe she has already surpassed her aunt in cruelty and perfidy.

As an individual, Nirtovi Warbringer possesses all the innate slyness and intelligence of a predator. She has consistently evaded capture since the Battle of Vogelsong some hundreds of years ago, and she should not under any circumstances be underestimated. From what we know about the political makeup of the demons’ courts, this Nirtovi is the rightful heir of the most loathed Hellilni, making her the rightful Death Hag of the Queendom Undying. I trust, Brothers, that I do not need to remind you of what an age of strife and butchery our blessed galaxy suffered under before we broke the back of the Queendom Undying upon the bloody fields of Vogelsong, and I’m sure you can guess how disastrous it would be to see the demons once again united under a single ruler.

Our agents have divined that Nirtovi now travels with a band of pagan pirates led by the bloody-handed Helga Helruna of Isa, a cruel and recreant sodomite who deserves a missive of her own. While it remains a standing order for all Brothers to exterminate the demons wherever they are found, I caution you to take especial care where this Nirtovi Warbringer is concerned. If encountered, she is to be destroyed utterly and without mercy.

Yours in Christ,

Brother Albert

#voidsong #wordsnstuffcharacterdevelopment #writeblr

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a-room-of-my-own · 4 years

Note

Have you read "An Apology to JK Rowling" by Petra Bueskens on Areo? I'm pathetically grateful to read something so clever and well articulated on the subject after the amount of abuse JK has been subjected to

It's a great piece so here it is, thank you anon!

Rowling recently published an eminently reasonable, heartfelt treatise, outlining why it is important to preserve the category of woman. There’s only one thing wrong with it: it assumes a rational interlocutor. Rowling outlines why the biological and legal category of sex is important: in sports, in rape crisis shelters, in prisons, in toilets and changing rooms, for lesbians who want to sleep with natal women only and at the level of reality in general. Rowling marshals her experiences as an androgynous girl, as a domestic violence and sexual assault survivor and as someone familiar with the emotional perils of social media, in ways that have resonated with many women (and men). Her writing is clear, unpretentious, thoughtful, moving, vulnerable and honest. At no point does she use exclusionary or hostile language or say that trans women do not exist, have no right to exist or that she wants to rob them of their rights. Her position is that natal women exist and have a right to limit access to their political and personal spaces. Period.

Of course, to assume that her missive would be engaged with in the spirit in which it was intended, is to make the mistake of imagining that the identitarian left is broadly committed to secular, rational discourse. It is not. Its activist component has transmogrified into a religious movement, which brooks no opposition and no discussion. You must agree with every tenet or else you’re a racist, sexist, transphobic bigot, etc. Because its followers are fanatics, Rowling is being subjected to an extraordinary level of abuse. There seems to be no cognitive dissonance among those who accuse her of insensitivity and then proceed to call her a cunt, bitch or hag and insist that they want to assault and even kill her (see this compilation of tweets on Medium). She has been accused of ruining childhoods. Some even claim that the actor Daniel Radcliffe wrote the Harry Potter books—reality has become optional for some of these identitarians. Rowling’s age, menstrual status and vagina come in for particularly nasty attention and many trans women (or those masquerading as such) write of wanting to sexually assault her with lady cock, as a punishment for speaking out. I haven’t seen misogyny like this since Julia Gillard became our prime minister.

The Balkanisation of culture into silos of unreason means that the responses have not followed what might be loosely called the pre-digital rules of discourse. These rules assume that the purpose of public debate is to discern truth and that interlocutors on opposing sides—a reductionist bifurcation, because, in fact, there are many sides—engage in argument because they are interested in something higher than themselves: an ideal of truth, no matter how complicated, multifaceted and evolving. While in-group preferences and biases are inevitable, these exist within an overarching deliberative framework. This style of dialogue assumes the validity of a persuasive argument grounded in reason and evidence, even if—as Rowling does—it also utilises experience and feeling. By default, it assumes that civil conflict and opposition are essential devices in the pursuit of truth.

Three decades of postmodernism and ten years of Twitter have destroyed these conventions and, together with them, the shared norms by which we create and sustain social consensus. There is no grounding metanarrative, there are no binding norms of civil discourse in the digital age. Indeed, as Jaron Lanier shows with his bummer paradigm (Behaviours of Users Modified and Made into an Empire for Rent) social media is destroying the fabric of our personal and political lives (although, with a different business model and more robust regulation, it need not do so). The algorithm searching for and recording your every click, like and share, your every purchase, search term, conversation, movement, facial expression, social connection and preference rewards engagement above all else—which means that your feed—an aptly infantile descriptor—will quickly become full of the things you and others like you are most likely to be motivated to click, like and share. Outrage is a more effective mechanism through which to foster engagement than almost anything else. In Lanier’s terms, this produces a “menagerie of wraiths”—a bunch of digitised dementors: fake and bad actors, paid troll armies and dyspeptic bots—designed to confect mob outrage.

The norms of civil discourse are being eroded, as we increasingly inhabit individualised media ecosystems, designed to addict, distract, absorb, outrage, manipulate and incite us. These internecine culture wars damage us all. As Lanier notes, social media is biased “not towards the left or right but downwards.” As a result, we are witnessing a catastrophic decline in the standards of our democratic institutions and discourse. Nowhere is this more evident than in the contemporary culture wars around the trans question, where confected outrage is the norm.

This is why the furore over Rowling’s blog post misses the point: whether we agree with her or not, the problem is the collapse of our capacity to disagree constructively. If you deal primarily in subjective experience and impulse-driven reaction, under the assumption that you occupy the undisputed moral high ground, and you’ve been incited by fake news and want to signal your allegiances to your social media friends, then you can’t engage in rational discussion with your opponent. Your stock in trade will be unsubstantiated accusations and social shaming.

In this discombobulating universe, sex-based rights are turned into insults against trans people. Gender-critical feminists are recast as immoral bigots, engaged in deliberately hurtful, even life-threatening, speech. Rowling is not who we thought she was, her ex-fans wail, her characters and plots conceal hidden reservoirs of homophobia and bigotry. A few grandstanders attempt to distinguish themselves by saying that they have always been able to smell a rat—no, not Scabbers—and therefore hated the books from the outset. Nowhere amid this morass of moral grandstanding and outrage is there any serious engagement with her ideas.

Those of us on the left—and left-wing feminists in particular—who find trans ideology fraught, for all the reasons Rowling outlines, are a very small group. While Rowling is clearly privileged, she has also become the figurehead of a rapidly dwindling and increasingly vilified group of feminists, pejoratively labelled terfs, who want to preserve women’s sex-based rights and spaces. Although our arguments align with centrist, conservative and common sense positions, ours is not the prevailing view in academia, public service or the media, arts and culture industries, where we are most likely to be located (when we are not at home with our children). In most of these workplaces, a sex-based rights position is defined a priori as bigoted, indeed as hate speech. It can get us fired, attacked, socially ostracised and even assaulted.

As leftist thinkers who believe in freedom of speech and thought, who find creeping ideological and bureaucratic control alarming, we are horrified by these increasingly vicious denunciations by the left. The centre right and libertarians—the neo-cons, post-liberals and the IDW—are invariably smug about how funny it is to watch the left eat itself. But it’s true: some progressive circles are now defined by a call out/cancel culture to rival that of the most repressive of totalitarian states. Historically, it was progressives who fought against limits on freedom of speech and action. But the digital–identitarian left split off from the old print-based left some time ago, and has become its own beast. A contingent of us are deeply critical of these new directions.

Only a few on the left have had the gumption to speak up for us. Few have even defended our right to express our opinions. Those who have spoken out include former media darlings Germaine Greer and Michael Leunig. Many reader comments on left-leaning news sites claim that Rowling is to blame for the ill treatment she is suffering. Rowling can bask in the consequences of her free speech, they claim, as if having a different opinion from the woke majority means that she is no longer entitled to respect, and that any and all abuse is warranted—or, at least, to be expected. Where is the outrage on her behalf? Where are the writers, film makers, actors and artists defending her right to speak her mind?

Of course, the actors from the Harry Potter films are under no obligation to agree with JK Rowling just because she made them famous. They don’t owe her their ideological fealty: but they owe her better forms of disagreement. When Daniel Radcliffe repeats the nonsensical chant trans women are women, he’s not developing an argument, he’s reciting a mantra. When he invokes experts, who supposedly know more about the subject than Rowling, he betrays his ignorance of how contested the topic of transgender medicine actually is: for example, within endocrinology, paediatrics, psychiatry, sociology, and psychology (the controversies within the latter discipline have been demonstrated by the numerous recent resignations from the prestigious Tavistock and Portman gender identity clinic). The experts are a long way from consensus in what remains a politically fraught field.

Trans women are women is not an engaged reply. It is a mere arrangement of words, which presupposes a faith that cannot be questioned. To question it, we are told, causes harm—an assertion that transforms discussion into a thought crime. If questioning this orthodoxy is tantamount to abuse, then feminists and other dissenters have been gaslit out of the discussion before they can even enter it. This is especially pernicious because feminists in the west have been fighting patriarchy for several hundred years and we do not intend our cause to be derailed at the eleventh hour by an infinitesimal number of natal males, who have decided that they are women. Now, we are told, trans women are women, but natal females are menstruators. I can’t imagine what the suffragists would have made of this patently absurd turn of events.

There has been a cacophony of apologies to the trans community for Rowling’s apparently tendentious and hate-filled words. But no one has paused to apologise to Rowling for the torrent of abuse she has suffered and for being mischaracterised so profoundly.

So, I’m sorry, JK Rowling. I’m sorry that you will not receive the respectful disagreement you deserve: disagreement with your ideas not your person, disagreement with your politics, rather than accusations of wrongspeak. I’m sorry that schools, publishing staff and fan clubs are now cancelling you. And I’m sorry that you will be punished—because cancel culture is all about punishment. I’m sorry that you are being burned at the digital stake for expressing an opinion that goes against the grain.

But remember this, JK—however counterintuitive this may seem to progressives, whose natural home is on the fringe—most people are looking on incredulously at the disconnect between culture and reality. Despite raucous protestations to the contrary, you are on the right side of history—not just because of the points you make, but because of how you make them.

#Jkr #Team jkr

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geraskierficrecs · 3 years

Text

Part One

Sorry for the long delays, but Tumblr ate the story the first time I posted so I had to rewrite.

Watching Jaskier run from the house with devastation carved into his face hurt worse than any blow he’d been dealt.

Geralt started forward, numb legs sluggish with a grief too terrible to bear, but familiar hands pulled him to a stop.

“Don’t--” Yennefer’s voice was rough with her own demons, but she clung to him with determination in her strange eyes, “--we had to do this.”

“Did you see him?” he snarled, trying to summon anger in an effort to push aside the reality of all he’d just broken. “He--he’s...”

“It’s the only way to keep him safe.”

“He’ll never forgive me.”

Yennefer opened her mouth, but it was another voice who answered him.

“How could you?” They both turned to see Ciri standing next to the doorway Jaskier had disappeared through with a cold fury in her eyes. “He trusted you. He trusted both of you!”

He loved you, she didn’t say. They already knew.

“Ciri...” Yennefer began, but Ciri shook her head.

“How many times will you break his heart before you’re satisfied?” Ciri hissed and Geralt flinched like she’d struck him.

His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he could feel his eyes burning at the thought of how easy it had been to destroy everything they had built with Jaskier here. Geralt tried to remember the way Jaskier had smiled at him--wide and trusting--just that morning when he’d declared that he was heading into town to get some things from the market. Already the house felt empty, cracks appearing in the walls like without the bard to hold it together the house began to fall apart.

If he closed his eyes he knew he would see the look in Jaskier’s eyes the moment he’d seen Yennefer and Geralt. It had been so easy for him to believe the worst.

“It’s not what you think,” Yennefer tried again, hands held out to match the pleading in her expression. “We’re trying to save him.”

Ciri’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and Geralt wondered if she would attack them for what they’d done. “What is there left to save? You’ve taken everything.”

His child surprise didn’t give them a chance to respond. She just turned on her heel and left the house to chase after Jaskier. After a beat, Yennefer followed.

Geralt stayed behind, listening to the ghosts of his own happiness die in the silence of the empty house.

_____________________________________________________________________

It started with a whisper.

“They’re coming for you, Witcher.”

Geralt hadn’t taken the dying words of the hag to heart. It wasn’t the first time one of the creatures he’d hunted promised revenge with their dying breath and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. His mind had been full of anticipation for returning home to his family. To Jaskier.

The next mention had been a fluke.

He’d been passing through a town and, through habit, checked the message boards for any odd jobs he could complete for a little extra money on his way to Novigrad for work. There had been a few of the usual missives from locals searching for missing livestock or begging for someone to assist in work. He scanned them without interest until his eyes settled on a rough piece of parchment, faded by the weather.

At the center of the page was a roughly drawn medallion that burned with dark flames. The page made no mention of any work or needs, just the strange symbol and a short message beneath.

Feras morte.

Death to monsters.

Geralt stared at it for another moment before carefully pulling the page free from the message board and tucking it into his pack. He resolved to find out more while he was Novigrad.

____________________________________________________________________

They called themselves The Order.

They were the kind of fanatical movement that made Geralt want to avoid humanity for good. Their focus had originally been altruistic--to protect humanity from the beasts and magical nightmares that roamed the land when Witchers didn’t arrive fast enough. They traveled in groups to areas plagued by barghest and noon wraiths had terrorized villagers. Through luck and growing skill, they began to make a name for themselves as champions of the people--a more palatable alternative to calling a Witcher for assistance.

With their popularity growing, a more sinister element of their beliefs became more obvious. Since the first Witcher had stepped foot on the Continent, they’d been targeted almost immediately for their unnatural new biology and abilities. Geralt had been run out of more than a few cities just because of the odd color of his eyes so the news that a group of human labeled his Witcher brethren in the same categories as the monsters they hunted wasn’t surprising.

Whatever the Order’s altruistic intents originally, they had wandered into darker realms once they gained a following.

Anything that was not fully human was considered a threat. For the first time in centuries, the Continent was home to witch burnings and mob attacks on children born with strange birthmarks or eerie features. They followed the path of wars and fed on the bitterness that lingered among the survivors. The Order gave the people of the Continent a new target for their anger.

Monsters--though the term became more flexible the longer they were around.

His contacts in Novigrad weren’t sure where the group had begun, but it was easy to track where they’d moved from the trail of bodies left in their wake. Dopplers. Hags. Hedgewitches. All burned to ash on massive pyres left at the edges of each village as a warning to the next--along with anyone foolish enough to try to protect them.

Geralt’s disdain for the blatant abuses of power and widespread violence slowly became tempered by a new fear. The Order seem able to move as they wanted without any response from local leaders too afraid of risking their wrath. They seemed an unstoppable force eager to continue their bloody crusade against anyone or anything that did not meet their standards for purity and innocence.

He was in Temeria when he found the dead Witcher.

There was little left of the warrior aside from burnt, tarnished medallion that had once hung proudly from his neck and the steel sword he must have wielded.

Silver for monsters. Steel for humans.

The blade had been shattered into two pieces that were tossed alongside the burning remains of his bones. Geralt crouched beside it, hands passing over the scarred metal and meager remains of a life spent fighting for people who’d turned on him just as easily.

“Did you know him?”

Geralt turned at the soft voice, frowning at the woman standing at the edge of the trees. Her face was marked with age and deep sadness that seemed unending.

“No,” he said gruffly.

She hummed, looking back at the pyre. “Perhaps it’s better that way.”

“Why’s that?”

The hand that trembled out was blackened along the fingertips with ash as she pointed toward the smoldering pit. “Those he loved lay there beside him.”

Geralt froze, something like horror in his expression. He looked back at the pyre once more, eyes picking out the bits of bones. “What?”

“That’s how the Order got him to surrender,” she said, “They told him they would spare the woman--Anna--and her child that he liked to visit in the village. He’d saved them from the creature who’d taken the girl’s father, you see, and he liked to check up on them whenever he passed by. Sirret was a gentle soul despite his calling--he only wanted to make sure they were safe. So he threw down his sword without a fight when the Order called for it and let them beat him and drag him through the town to the sounds of their mockery.”

“Then they killed him.” Geralt’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white.

The old woman’s eyes were dark with tragedy. “They killed the girl first, after a time. Then the mother was put out of her misery when her injuries became too much. Sirret...the Witcher held on for much longer.”

The broken sword suddenly seemed as morbid as a tomb.

He took a breath full of smoke and death and tried not to think about a bard choking on blood and a foolish wish. “Where did the Order go?”

____________________________________________________________________

“They’re too close. We need to do something.”

“What can we do that we haven’t already tried?” Geralt snapped, “I’ve been hunting them for months, but all I’ve managed to do is kill off a few of their soldiers.”

He carefully didn’t think about the promises they’d spat at him as they lay dying. Promises of pain and suffering beyond what anyone should bear.

Yennefer tossed back the last of the wine in her goblet and scowled down at the mess of messages, maps, and bits of notes sprawled across the table. They’d met at the tavern in the city closest to their cottage in an effort to keep the information far away from Jaskier and Ciri’s wandering eyes. So far, it hadn’t seemed to help.

Yenn had been the only one he’d dared to tell about the Order--as though admitting their presence would allow them to creep closer. Her contacts through Aretuza had made it easier to track where the Order had been most active, but continued to offer no solutions as to how to stop them. Ciri and Jaskier were far too important to risk as targets in someone’s campaign to destroy everything they considered dangerous.

“Whoever they are, they’re going to come for us soon. You know this. They know we’re hunting them--that makes us a threat.” Yennefer’s voice was firm despite the anxiety he could sense hanging in the air around them.

Geralt didn't respond. It was the same argument they’d been having for weeks. How could they protect Jaskier and Ciri from these horrors?

“Ciri will have to stay with us--she’s too valuable to risk letting them get their hands on her. They’d probably consider her to be a ‘tainted’ bloodline anyway.”

“And Jaskier?” he bit out, “Do you intend to leave him behind while you run off with Ciri?”

Yenn glared at him. “You know I don’t.”

Whatever their relationship might have been at one time, the mage and the bard were practically inseparable now.

Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “We can’t let the Order torture him to try to hurt us. He has to be safe.”

The burnt Witcher’s medallion in his pack seemed to laugh at him.

“There’s...” Yennefer sounded oddly reticent and he looked over at her curiously, “We could make Jaskier leave us.”

He shook his head. “He would never do that. Especially if he knew that we were in danger.”

“So we don’t let him know the Order is after us.”

“And say what? ‘Hey Jask..why don’t you stay at the University for the season?’ He’s not an idiot--he’d want to know why.”

Yennefer ran a finger over a drop of wine left on the table, face downcast. “What if we made him want to leave?”

________________________________________________________________

Days later, Geralt watched Jaskier run out of the house and pretended it didn’t feel like his world was burning down around him.

#angst #misunderstanding #miscommunication #breakup #established relationship #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier loves geralt #hurt/comfort #hurt jaskier

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way-to-the-future · 4 years

Note

12. the timeline in which they had a person in their life when they needed one the most.

“Castor! Castor, wait!” Bloody little prick won’t listen. “By the Twins, stop, Castor! Hear me!”

The grating sound of plate mail shaken by swift motion echoes down the alleyway. Castor keeps up his pace as he goes; she’s just behind him, now. Howling Gale growls at him.

“You knew! I told you the day that you entered the order’s service, Castor.” She gives another frustrated cry, accompanied by the sound of a particularly heavy step out of time with her gait. “You knew!”

“Shut up.”

She makes to seize him by the arm; she is stronger, but he is faster. He tears himself away with a hiss, and they stand for a moment, like two couerls circling one another for a fresh kill. Of course, he can’t look at her. If he looked at her, he’d come apart again, and then what would be the point of defiance?

“Why?” She’s still angry. She won’t try to hit him again, but she’s still angry.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t fuck with me, boy. You owe me an answer.”

Castor tears at his hair, clenching his jaw to fight back tears. “I don’t want to.”

“You’re not a child! Tell me!”

He tries to speak, either to bite back or to comply; he can’t. He lets out a pained cry, more like a shriek, and hits himself, so hard that he feels a buzzing in his ear. He wails, desperate and inconsolable, as he doubles over.

“Castor! Stop it!” She grabs him, clamps a hand to his mouth. He struggles, but he’s not truly trying to defend himself. It’s more like seizing, all the ugly, repressed violence of the past few bells let out in a few exhausting, exultant spasms. She holds him until he stops fighting – and, to the surprise of some distant, muddled corner of his mind, longer than that. Her grasp is uncomfortable, almost violent, but she holds him.

“You owe me, Castor.” She takes her hand off his mouth, spinning him to face her as though he were no more than a child. That’s just as well – he feels small, and cold, and so upset.

“Why? What’s it matter now, Scowling?”

“Castor – “

“Everything’s gone up in smoke. You should look out for yourself, now.”

“Castor.” Her voice is worn down. Scowling, the iron lady of the order, sounds more tired than Castor has ever seen her. “I’m out.”

He looks at her at last, accusation, hurt, and shock playing across his face. “What?”

“I’ve been sacked, boy. They were within their rights.” Now it’s her turn to look away.

“But – they can’t do that! You didn’t break any vows!”

“Did you, boy?” Castor can only grimace, and she shakes her head bitterly. “It’s just as well. Pricks.”

She’s tough; but she’s not that tough. Castor whines – a truly pathetic sound, coming from a boy of seventeen summers and almost six fulms – and he rests his forehead on the cool adamantite of her breast plate.

It’s an unfamiliar gesture. In all their – gods, five years together, they’ve never been so close. He hangs his hands from her pauldrons. “I’m sorry, Scowling.” She never wanted a mewling, mongrel brat. She knew he couldn’t be any more than what he was when she agreed to bring him to the order.

“Castor.”

“Aye?”

“You don’t have to be sorry. They didn’t ask me to leave. I left.”

Castor steps back, staring up at her with wide, tear-stained eyes. Hadn’t she taught him not to cry yet?

“Why?”

“… I couldn’t live with it. It’s not what the order does. Not what the order I joined did, any how.”

Castor can’t bring himself to say anything; regret crashes across his face and chokes a sob from his throat, and he falls to the ground, kneeling before her and weeping like some kicked bitch. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he’s saying.

“Castor, get up. Get up!” She doesn’t wait for him to comply, the idiot. She heaves him to his feet by his dirty collar, forcing him to look her in the eye. “We’re in this shit together, now. You’ve bought us that with your antics, just like I bought it with my bull head five years ago and today. Now, are you going to cry about it, or are you going to do as I bloody taught you?”

“Ma’am –“

“Belay that shite. I’m no lady; the paint scrapes off easy, you brat.” She sighs. It isn’t worth it, getting angry at him. Scowling is a committed woman. She walked the path of the order for sixteen years. Some of them were the best of her life, but they’ve all been shite too. Now she’s chosen a new path, and she’ll bloody well stick to it.

___

“Scowling, letter.” Castor’s voice is bleary – out drinking again, the daft whelp.

“Aye, bring it here, you lay about.”

“Keep your knickers on, hag.” Castor passes the sealed missive, and Scowling works her knife against the red wax emblazoned with the scales of the Twins. “Camp talk says it’s a promotion. Coming down from the First marshal, himself. Look at you, Captain.”

“Bollocks and shite. You start getting proper with me after all these years on the outside and I’ll pull your tongue out through your arse.”

“Delicate of you, Scowling. Old habits die hard.”

“Save that fancy mouth for your cocksucking, runt.” Scowling holds up a hand before he can get in another word; oh, this is rich. She lifts up the missive to check her eyesight isn’t fooling her, and slaps her knee in satisfaction.

“Seems like the talk was on the money, Castor. Or ought I say, lieutenant?”

As Castor busies himself standing jaw agape, Scowling allows herself a laugh at his expense and a small sigh. He can’t be much more than he is – even ten years ago, he wasn’t order material. But he was more than just Saidiya’s half-breed whelp then, too. Without realizing, that’s what Scowling agreed to all those years ago – helping one mouthy, weepy, vicious brat be the best mouthy, weepy, vicious brat he could be.

(Thanks Adisa :D)

#put me out to pasture folks #this one gets schmaltzy #anyways canon Scowling isn't willing to stick her neck out for this bitch #and I don't know what changes in this timeline to change that but either way that's not my problem #asks and answers #narrative #mens sana

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ariesmode · 5 years

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as requested by @kestrel-of-herran ❤️

nikolai, the triumvirate, the twins and also nadia (henceforth known as the palace squad) are all twenty-somethings having the worst (best) time of their lives rebuilding something that was on its way to become a failed state, which is pretty scary, so their meetings are never 100% serious. some headcanons on what probably went down:

nikolai’s first meeting with zoya, genya and david was basically everyone acting like they knew exactly what should be done (rebuild the second army!!), but they really had no fucking idea how to go about doing things and were like “let’s just make shit up as we go along for now, I guess”

ofc nikolai had a vague idea/plan, and zoya was probably up with some suggestions on matters like how to deal with the people who defected from the crown etc but they just had the realization that this was going to be really, really hard

obviously zoya was the one who suggested that they use the darkling’s war room for their secret meeting because she’s that petty (“that sounds like a wonderful idea” – nikolai, equally petty)

zoya, genya and david like these meetings so much more than the ones at the grand palace because they get to be candid and not deal with cabinet ministers who are only condescending to them because they’re grisha and “too young” to actually know anything. they can hold against snide comments well enough on their own, but it is pretty annoying to listen to an old hag talk about how he has more experience than them every single time

(zoya calmly reminded him that his experience has only been sitting in war rooms in a seat that was granted to him only by his privilege as nobility and not merit while she has personally been on the battlefield, thank you very much. genya cackled so much when the meeting was over)

nikolai also likes these better because there aren’t any mind games. they all know exactly what they want and aren’t afraid of challenging him, especially commander nazyalensky

it’s also never been really specified in the books, but i like to think that: david obviously specializes in military engineering, while genya organizes state events (nikolai was very impressed with how she handled his coronation) and oversees training in the little palace along with zoya, who also took on handling grisha matters abroad that are of interest to the state (imo it’s also pretty obvious that she’s the de facto leader of the triumvirate and it’s just not my bias talking)

the meetings sometimes stretch for hours on end – especially in the beginning when they had so much work to do – and it really is exhausting so at some point they start getting distracted and talking/doing some ridiculous stuff

david hardly pays attention half the time (his mind starts wandering when they’re talking about something that isn’t science or grisha-related) though sometimes he’ll just randomly give his opinion about something he doesn’t even know about and it actually makes sense

they’ve all definitely dozed off at some point, except for tamar and zoya. nobody knows how they do it

before the poetry ban tolya could be persuaded to recite epic poems for a long time (“we have WORK to do” “we could do more of that later but that last verse was intriguing tolya please do go on”)

and then they’d end up having a literary analysis discussion that tolya is all too happy to lead, which zoya pretends she can’t be bothered to participate in and they think david isn’t paying attention but then he’ll end up giving his own take and everyone’s like, well that was a good point, how did we miss that?

there was a chess tournament once. everyone immediately agreed that it should never happen again

david, nikolai and nadia, as the respective science nerds™ get really excited explaining new inventions. occasionally they’ll even come up with a brand new design on the spot, which would be pretty impressive if they hadn’t gotten completely sidetracked

nikolai once accidentally doodled on a Very Important document and they’ve never let him forget it

tread carefully when zoya and/or genya are hungover the morning after they’ve had a drinking session or there will be consequences. nikolai learned the hard way

tamar flexing that she and nadia are the first to get married because why not (they have definitely been told to get a room at least once because they’re so disgustingly cute)

genya planned the wedding, of course. they + adrik were the only ones present but that doesn’t matter, it’s still a wedding so it counts as something to be planned. yes, tolya cried

speaking of: adrik definitely tried to eavesdrop on their meetings at some point. we all know that didn’t end well for him

everyone has since learned that it’s not recommended to question genya when it comes to her plans for events. except when it comes seating arrangements, and even then you’d be on thin ice (this is especially so when it came to her wedding ceremony)

one word: hangman (plus crossword puzzles from the ravkan daily)

nikolai called zoya by her last name for the first time during a very long meeting about funding for grisha things while everyone else was half-asleep/already snoozing. needless to say that jolted everyone awake and raised eyebrows

genya whispering to tamar like did i hear that right. are my ears deceiving me and tamar is like no he actually did that and zoya didn’t even care (while they continued to argue)

the banter (flirting) was funny at first but now the ust has become absolutely unbearable and they’re all just suffering. nadia hates them both so much. tolya reminds her that she’s not even present for all of their meetings and “imagine having to witness all of THAT [angry hand gesture] every day when you’re by the king’s side!” + nobody is profiting from genya’s betting pool which makes it worse

the silence™ when nikolai casually told zoya that he wanted her to be the one to lock him up every night when he started escaping from the palace as night mode nikolai would be remembered for years to come

when zoya had to go off to recruit more grisha overseas the rest of the group took turns to read her missives out loud in their best zoya impersonation. they all unanimously agreed that genya and (shockingly) tolya could not be surpassed. they just missed her a lot!

talking shit about some of the old hags that they have to deal with and gossiping about palace drama because tamar’s spies always end up learning... interesting stuff

also talking shit about the lantsovs because wow a) worst rulers in the history of ever b) all that inbreeding LMFAOOOO c) some rooms in the grand palace were really badly decorated. and have you seen some of the heirlooms?! so ugly!

squaller² bringing up stories from their training days: nadia talks about them having a rivalry and zoya is like pfft, i never even considered you as one

tolya and tamar sharing embarrassing childhood anecdotes when they’re getting annoyed with each other

LOOK, I REFUSE TO BELIEVE TOLYA DOESN’T HAVE HIS OWN FANCLUB IN BOTH THE LITTLE AND GRAND PALACE. POSSIBLY EVEN IN OS ALTA. he is a tall, Strong and Silent™ man who is loyal to the king and really likes poetry!! he definitely makes people swoon!! nikolai, genya and tamar love teasing him about this especially. it embarrasses him

on a more serious note, nikolai, genya and david are always the more optimistic when it comes to dealing with politics. tamar and zoya are the more pragmatic ones, and tolya and nadia are somewhere in between

the ravkan economy is in a very sorry state and it’s absolutely depressing so the least they can do is make jokes about how everyone’s too broke to do anything ever

“Your Majesty, how’s the budget?” – nadia “HA, what budget?” – zoya

a few years down the road they’ll start wondering when, exactly, did they start looking forward to these meetings because state affairs were something of an escape from the very exhausting job of parenting

#kos #zoyalai #this is not so serious im sorry jdoisjf #and got too long #and isn't exactly about what goes on in them #anyway can you believe they're running a country #and not just any country! FANTASY RUSSIA #please help them #i'm including nadia here bc i love her and bc i can #i just really like their dynamics a lot where is the workplace comedy au #(also slowly going through my drafts atm)

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hearthhag · 2 years

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hey, if you’re pagan/wiccan/witchy: click here

if you’re non-Jewish and/or non-Muslim: click here

if you’re an american, especially if you’re white: click here

learn to hear dogwhistles so you can protect those most vulnerable around you.

#missives from the hag #be the hag you wish to see in the world #resources #pagan #wiccan #celtic #norse #magic #witch #witchcraft #witchy #witch community #witchblr #witchtok #witch tumblr #advice for baby witches #advice for beginner witches #advice

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merritidings · 4 years

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Unsent Letter: Thinking of You

Merrinyn held the quill poised over the scrap of paper, thinking about what she could write.

My Dearest Darling Moon,

It’s been a while. I had just bought myself a magic trident before I decided to stay at a nearby tavern, watching young couples laugh and smile and talk. I just couldn’t help myself. I started thinking about you, about us, and remembered how you said I should write and keep in touch and never forget. This is me doing that. I hope you’ve been well.

Your old flame,

Merrinyn.

No, that wasn’t quite what she wanted to say. Blue was the color of her heart. She shook her head, unable to commit it to paper and banish forever the image of the scorned lover, and even before she could set the first letter down, her mind was racing with another, more creative missive.

You Know Your Name, Evil Incarnate

Do you know what I want? Right now, more than anything, I want to see you suffer. I want you to suffer for everything you did to me, for everything you failed to do, for reminding me of how I was a fool to let you come anywhere near me:

I want you to hang, your feet dangling inches off the floor.

I want you to drown, your hands slapping at my arms as I hold you down.

I want you to suffer a silver arrow between your eyes, a stake through the heart, sunlight and crucifix, an ancient curse, set ablaze by a mob of angry villagers, eaten by a school of hungry sharks, decapitation, disembowelment, defenestration...

That last one’s a great word, isn’t it? Doubt you’d know what it means but all this thinking about you is good for my vocabulary.

That’s a lot of ways for you to suffer, some of them were good enough for the worst of the worse, but shall I tell you a secret? Not a single one of them is good enough for you, Moon.

Piranhas aren’t good enough. A plague isn’t good enough. A thousand cuts? That’s not even creative. How do you kill a demon in the first place? Blessed flat-ware from the kitchen of the gods? Boring. There has to be a better way.

Curses? Sacrificing a virgin? Sacrificing a wizened old sea-hag? Nibbled to death by clown fish? Hmm, I rather like that last one.

What you and I had wasn’t love. You should stop thinking about me, as I have of you. You are but a nightmare, a relapse into memories long forgotten and boarded up at the back of my mind. Be gone forever and never return.

She grinned, delighted with herself. Then doubt set in. Was it wise to reveal her hand so early? Forewarned, forearmed and all that. Could he find a hexproof armor? Finally, she wrote:

Dearest Moon,

It’s been a while. I hope you’re doing well. Stay safe.

All my love,

Merri

#unsent letter #romtask

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dalethesnail-blog-blog · 4 years

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I finally DMed for my Best Friend and his Wife. An open letter to under confident aspiring DMs

So I started D&D 7 years ago with my best friend, his wife, and his mother as our DM(she had serious DM mojo back in the day so her son convinced her to play with us, his wife did DM a session one night for shits and giggles). His Wife and I were new to the idea of d&d, I remember my only relationship to it was I knew a couple inside jokes from a few people I went to school with but I had no desire to try it until my best friend found out I hadn’t even tried it before.

We played 3.5 that first campaign, and I loved it. Freed a town from a tyrant, slated a wyvern and uncovered the secret backstory of one of our party members.

Eventually his life saw him headed to the east coast, and I, living on the west coast, was left to dream of playing another campaign with them someday or even continuing the one we already had(Azoth Drake my gestalt Knight/Fighter is immortalized in character sheet pdf form on my pc to this day). I can’t tell you how many ideas I had for settings and characters, how many homebrews I made with hopes I would show it off to my first d&d group one day.

One day we three reconnect and start playing a PS4 game online together, him, his wife and I that is. We decide next time we get a chance we will play a new 5e campaign(since I learned 5e and studied the books thanks to other d&d groups I recently played with in the past 2 years preferring those rules to 3.5 or pathfinder).

I get the news they are coming for New Years around September. I have months to work on things and I’m worried I will either overprepare and railroad them, or I’ll underprepare and it will be All Sunny in the Forgotten Realms(but in a bad way). Also CR, the hardest thing to do is make a fair CR for a party that is just two adventurers. We decided to do it gestalt(like our first campaign, just take two classes and get features from both each level, sounds complicated, really easy and it makes the player a bit overconfident despite still having a normal amount of health for their level and just one turn in combat) that way they can fit two roles of the party instead of having to play two characters or having me play a healbot for them. And my best friend loves the idea of making it a “Witcher” type campaign with bounties on monsters and a political plot in the overtones.

With New Years looming we tidy up the final loose ends as far as what we need to know about the world and the characters and I get the opportunity to write in a few new things for precise flavor. I even made a failsafe that I’m glad I had prepared in case of premature player character death(My interpretation of Terry Pratchett’s Death will meet them on the road to the afterlife and check one of many pocket watches, the particular one designed so that it reminds the character of themselves, he’ll then tell them their deity would be angry if he let them pass on before their time and direct them away from the light).

I got more than I bargained for for certain. They followed the first clues I gave them and solved the problems I posed in ways I didn’t expect, so I had to ad lib most of the first contract they had. At the end of it his wife’s character lobbed a rock at the fleeing commoner NPC that was the key to complete the quest, being capable of killing it with 1+ her strength mod damage. Still they came up with a way to make it work reasonably and I let them get paid.

The first night they roleplayed staying at a tavern inn. My best friend’s character off put by his traveling partner’s homicidal tendencies decided to sleep alone. His wife’s character stayed up all night partying and we rolled on the carousing table for the result. She apparently gambled and won a lot of money and became a local legend. We had a lot of fun roleplaying after that.

On the way out of town I rolled on a table for an encounter, 1d4 Goblins, and I rolled 1. 1 goblin, oh well,that’s all I would have them encounter then. I created a lovable scamp goblin who considers the roadside to be his personal kingdom, and I named him after the Tomb of Annihilation’s Queen Grabstab. They didn’t kill him despite his annoying posturing, in fact when he asked for a toll my best friend’s wife decided to toss him a gold peice, but more about him later.

The next contract I made too difficult, admittedly on purpose(not every story has to be a happy ending), they could certainly solve the mystery but getting the full amount involved saving children from an entire Night Hag coven that had already eaten them. They faced only one Night Hag and after a long battle the Night Hag retreated leaving the child they followed into the foggy marshes behind. Even then I had the payment come in the form of an IOU from that one child’s parents who weren’t able to scrounge more than a few copper at the time. They settled for a larger sum later. I plan on paying them more money the longer they give the family to earn it(and I want them to forget about it if possible so I can surprise them later with enough gold to get their characters something nice like 1d4x10 for every week they give them).

Then it happened, I underestimated 4 cultists and 3 cult fanatics. That battle was more brutal than the single Night Hag I had thrown at them before. The strategy could have used some work admittedly, they had ranged attack options they forgot about that could have been effective rather than getting overwhelmed by 7 weaklings. Also his wife didn’t move from the center of the dogpile, despite me giving her hints that she was the most logical person to attack for four out of seven enemies so long as she remained there, meaning she was taking a lot of damage every round, I was trying to convey the message without metagaming but she was confident that she could survive. Just before the end of combat her character died, a tense moment for me as I’ve never had a character die in one of my campaigns and her husband’s character managed to barely survive the final 2 enemies left after her death. He had 10 health and a new cart to carry his dead companion back to town with.

I continued the session by using my one time resurrection failsafe, I’m glad I thought ahead but I felt I had to really exaggerate that I prepared the way I would give them a chance to come back once they first died, honestly a party of two is easy to overwhelm. Hey, even all knowing gods can fuck up and install a reset button, even great DMs aren’t perfect? I don’t like fudging rolls so I had to think of a clever way to make it seem like Death itself(Kelemvor, if you will) was giving them mulligans.

Then we partied in the tavern again and her character once again made slightly less than a mountain of gold by gambling and my best friend’s character broke even. They found a royal missive asking for experienced adventurers to join an expedition to an island to investigate some strange goings on. They decide to head to a new location to hop on a boat headed for the island. On the way out of town they ran into Grabstab and allowed him to join them for the next part of the adventure.

They fought an ambush of giant wasps. Grabstab even delivered the killing blow to one of them. The fight was mostly interesting because it was on horseback while pulling a cart and the wasps could just barely close distance at full speed, it made for an action packed fight. The players even tried to get away at first, and their speed turned out to be the thing that saved them.

That was the session. I established a homebrewed world, had them hunt monsters that were in their own right the mystery to solve, I killed a PC, brought a PC back because of divine intervention(death is my employee and does what I want), and I gave them a companion character with a wacky personality.

We plan on continuing in discord, maybe in a month or two. I feel like I impressed them though, I could tell they were enjoying their time in my world.

In hindsight; convincing them to have a companion character would have been better to do sooner, I could have used it to save a character from death before having to blow a secret deus ex machina. Also, the cultists were searching for them in the background right after they entered the first town, I could have warned them that they were being hunted, it may have derailed things but at least the ambush would have been better justified. The Night Hag was a good fight, and the bleakness of the result of that quest could have been fixed, I’m thinking about having the Night Hag’s sisters strike back at some point and somehow they save more children than just the one. And I should be clear that a commoner has 4hp and a rock to the head can kill them.

If you’re ever interested in DMing I suggest you put yourself into it with the best intentions. Players will end up doing things you don’t expect, like holding their ground and fighting to their death, if you think you’re putting them in too much danger find a way to save them before they are dead, not after, I’m fine with the way I fixed it because it’s what I wanted to do eventually but I wanted to hold onto it for after a bigger fight than where I used it.

This experience was supposed to be my masterpiece but it really taught me that I have a long way to go before I’m we’re I want to be as a DM. But all the same, I appreciate my DMs more than ever. And if you are worried you might not be ready my advice is to try it out and be surprised. I wasn’t a failure, but I gotta work on this campaign for next time I run it, I know I can’t get it just right, and my players still seem invested. I can say that I’ve gotten pretty good at eyeballing the challenge rating of a fight at least. I could have killed both of them if I decided to put more than one Hag in the second quest and they reasonably could have beaten the cultists but one of them being overwhelmed without knowing it is something I didn’t see coming.

#d&d #dndthoughts #brightest timeline #dungeon master #dungeon master diaries

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madamebaggio · 5 years

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“You’re cute, I’ll give you that. But not cute enough to get away with that.”

Margaery’s face was beautiful in its innocence. Roan didn’t buy it for a second. “My King…”

Roan snorted. “I’m not ‘Your King’.” He turned her around and pulled the letter from her hands. “I was under the impression I said no letters.”

“It’s just a short missive for grandmother.” Margaery insisted. “I worry about her health.”

“That hag is going to outlive us all.” He showed the letter to her. “I don’t give second chances, Lady Tyrell.” He reminded her. “Don’t make me regret letting you come here.”

“I would never, My King.” She smartly retreated. “Or… Since you are not ‘my king’ as you said… Should I just call you Roan?” Her voice was soft and sweet, and Roan wasn’t stupid, despite those people of Westeros might think.

He took a step, getting closer to her. He derived a certain pleasure in doing it, because he could see the battle in her eyes every time he got too close; should she step back? Be humble? Teasing? Margaery Tyrell was excellent at playing people. Too bad for her Roan wasn’t the type of man to be played with.

“Don’t start making promises you can’t keep, Lady Tyrell.”

****

Based on the fluffl bit of this prompt list. It’s a beautiful work, check it out!

Also, don’t forget to choose a letter from here! The most voted letter will be used tomorrow for all Marge’s pairings.

The gifs do not belong to me. I will confess I searched Google and saved them indiscriminately. If you know who they belong to -of if you are the person responsible for them -please let me know. I can take them down or give the proper credits.

#madame baggio #CrossOver #Crossover Pairings #game of thrones #The 100 #margaery tyrell #king roan #roan x margaery #margaery tyrell crossovers #gifs not mine #rose and king

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xenodross · 5 years

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Greenest, Scattered

Eleint 1489 DR, 4th Day

Time is strange, Scholar of Tomorrow.

I see from my journal it has only been six days since my last entry, but I feel as though more than half a year has passed before my eyes. The sundry wounds on my body are knitting and I am safe, along with my companions, in what remains of the once proud town of Greenest. So strange that with a single page turn of this journal Greenest is turned to rubble and ruin. A turn - we sit comfortably in the Green Rest Inn, drinking terrible tea and laughing over breakfast. A turn - we sit together in a small corner of the Keep, drinking water and listening to the quiet dirges of the survivors. The memorial for those lost was this sundown. If only I could so easily bring them back as turn the pages of this account!

It has been two days since the dragon and the gathered bands of mercenaries departed. I have thrown myself into study: the identification of some various artifacts we discovered, my own neglected studies of essential spellcraft, and even some small sorties across the expanse of the Tome of Katra. Ah, but this will never do, please forgive me Scholar. I begin at the end and that will not serve. It as been a comfort to spend my hours among the clean and abiding wonder of my arcane studies, but tonight I -- I feel it is important to speak to you and at least provide the bare essentials of what has transpired.

I shall endeavor to be brief, to force the unruly events of the past days into concise order. Now, with a few hours to breathe, I feel that these events are signs that I have not read carefully enough - that I have missed some essential pattern. Perhaps with the advantage of your perspective you will glean the heart of the matter - how I wish you could return a missive to me from your vantage!

- Accompanied Lord Goldhaven to Ambush Site, in search of his Missing Property. Found nothing but more aberrant dragonoid canines and some black-armored mercenaries. Master Bellamy fell off a cliff.

- Returned to the outskirts of Greenest the following day, to Discover the City under attack by a Blue Dragon and several bands of mercenaries, loosely allied. Mercenary groups encountered: Red Sash, Black Armor, Blue Boar

- Did battle with mercenaries, narrowly escaped death by Blue Dragon attack. Odd blue kobolds sighted, Some Connection with Dragon?

- Assisted some Greenest Citizens in their escape and made our way to Keep. Castellan informed us of long forgotten tunnel underneath that would allow us to move in and out of Keep undetected. Tunnel was full of some small dangers, but we Dispensed with them.

- Mill investigated. Overheard conversation between Master Bellamy’s black-armored Paramour and some guiding Leader behind attack. Mercenary bands are searching for something specific beyond normal plunder, but unclear what their Objective truly is.

- Sighted large dragonborn warrior of Ominous Bearing.

- Made way to Temple of Chauntea, where some Hundred Citizens were sheltering. Mistress Tambledorne and Master Binderwall lead half down through (another!) secret tunnel, the remainder we made parley with the Blue Boar commander to allow them safe passage under our protection.

-Escorted Citizens to Keep, then Mistress Mouse consulted Local Wildlife for information on other secret tunnels. Helpful Creature suggested a place with an odious stench, leading us to the foul Staggered Goat Inn. Where we reunited with Mistress Tambledorne and also found Master Sildare. The ranger led citizens from temple out of town for safekeeping. We returned into catacombs to find Master Binderwall.

- Discovered Master Binderwall in a State of Excitement, believing he had found the lost fortune of Darva Scatterheart. We also found the odd guide from our adventures at Durlag’s tower (who having escaped from the mercenaries) - joined us, but a fortunate use of Arcane Detection by me revealed their true nature - the third hag!

- Defeated the Final Hag. Claimed treasure of Darva Scatterheart (details in Research Journal, pg. 89). Also some various boxes of rubies - company agreed to keep some small portion for travel expenses, but then gift the remainder to the people of Greenest to aid in their relocation or rebuilding efforts.

-Discovered hidden chamber of Loesin, the bard - the strange quarry that had brought us all together at the outset of our company. It seemed he had been researching for many days or weeks many of the same mysteries we had - but most of all how to enter safely into Scatterheart’s Trove. The use of one of her descendants (Mistress Tambledorne) was his plan, casting their entire relationship into the most troubling and enraging light. We all have made compact to question this bard most fiercely on this point when at last we bring him to heel.

-Emerged from catacombs. Blue Dragon was shockingly rude. We fled back into tunnels for safety.

- The last portion of town left to search was the Green Rest - we found some dozen men and women being held hostage by the dragonborn warrior, Cyanwrath. He offered to duel one of our party in return for their safe passage. Mistress Mouse accepted the challenge and was very nearly victorious. Cyanwrath limped away, but kept his pledge. I know from experience that even the darkest of hearts understand the meaning of honor.

Ah, Scholar. My fingers and eyes ache, though there is candle light to spare. It seems so incomplete, such a bare sketch of what has transpired. We have faced down death - under the earth, from the skies. We have uncovered secrets hidden from the waking world for a hundred years - but I fear there is still so much that we do not know.

The hag spoke of some hidden thing in the catacombs, some relic that Scatterheart found in Durlag’s tower, but kept all unknowing. We found a strange disc, black and white. On one side words of life, on the other words of death - elvish against the stern runes of the dwarves. Could this be the secret thing? Could this be what the dragon and the mercenaries sought - that they burned and killed to obtain? It sits even now in the bottom of my pack, as drab as a cast-iron pot, wrapped in the remnants of my travel-cloak. (which I must mourn, for it shall never be in wearable condition again!)

I am proud of my fellows. If not for their skill and strength, many more would have died in the attack. Much of Greenest is despoiled, but blood cannot unspill as my uncle would sometimes say. How fortunate for the people of Greenest that the four of them were here when needed.

One last thing, then I feel the tendrils of sleep will no longer loosen their grip upon me. Mistress Mouse accosted me yesterday with a most interesting argument. She asked what was different between my magic, and the magic that she and Mistress Tambledorne bring to bear. She asked what was different - and why I was so dismissive of it. To my chagrin now, I WAS dismissive of her argument at first - but her unshakeable faith ground me to a halt. I have for some time now been consumed by the theory that the walls that separate the arcane spells of wizards and the ‘divine’ ministrations of acolytes and clerics are not so solid as we think. But now I must consider the walls that were before now invisible to me. The power that stands behind my spells, the force that gods can command and bestow -- could it be the same energy that bards and druids and --- whatever Mistress Mouse does with that acorn -- employ?

A startling perspective. One, I admit, I would never have found behind the walls of the Veneficium! All these distinctions, these names, these masks -- all illusions before the true source of Magic Itself.

Perhaps I will read some few small minutes into the Tome of Katra before I sleep after all. I felt at times that I was crossing a river that none had dared before me - and now I feel that I may be on the shore of an ocean. I shiver with wonder. The possibilities are blooming in me like daffodils in spring.

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