#nobleman carrying a bird

[paulpingminho]

#Japanese statue #figurine #nobleman carrying a bird #British Museum #London #England

[suntdracull-archived]

⛧ℜ𝔬𝔵𝔵𝔶'𝔰 ℑ𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔬⛧

@the-blackened-dove, @bleedinghearth, @xxlordalexanderxx

A storm had rolled across the land of Xandora, seemingly from nowhere. Dark clouds billowed across the sky, turning dusk to night. The distant roll of thunder echoed across the kingdom like the trilling of war drums. Then, all across the land, bellowing out like the roar of a dragon was the sound of trumpets playing in unison; their cry carried across the entire country so all could hear its call.

Upon the ceasing of the trumpets, there came a sharp knocking sound in the castle of Alexander. Thrice in synchronization, like two hands knocking upon the castle gates in unison.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

When no one answered, the knocks erupted across the halls, somewhat louder than before. Upon answering the gates, there would stand two of the most striking men one had ever seen; the man on the left appeared like a nobleman from the ancient sands of Persia; he was lanky and thin, his spindly fingers tipped with long curved nails akin to the talons of a bird of prey. His skin was dark, his eyes were the color of the tiger's eye stone, and his long curly locks stretched to his thighs and were the striking color of silvery gray. He was dressed in ornate robes of the most splendid shade of blue with intricate golden embroideries of stars, constellations, and purple accents. He was adorned with splendid jewelry upon his neck and wrists, bracers of gold bejeweled with rubies and amethyst, and a golden necklace with onyx stones.

The man on the right was practically a near-exact match to the man standing to his left, except his skin was exceedingly pale, his hair was white as snow, and his eyes were a prominent shade of dark pink. He was dressed in a long flowing coat with a shawl; upon his head rested a grand crown covered in adoring stones, aquamarine, emerald, pearls, and rose quartz with a single feather placed upon the top and in his hand. He held the reins of a massive camel that stayed close by; its course fur was long and jade-colored. They both glared, eyes wide and unblinking, and once one met those eyes, there was a harrowing sensation akin to falling, like the heart was plummeting down through the chest, the guts, and into the groin like the castle itself had opened into the bottomless void beneath one's feet. It would not take long for one to realize what this feeling was as if the soul itself knew from instinct. This was the presence of divinity.

#𝓥: ♱ 𝐎𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 #the-blackened-dove #xxlordalexanderxx #bleedinghearth

[iricathel]

Once upon dreams and nightmares... 🥀

Event hostess @bluebird-dolly-bride

Far, far away, in a place where no other man set foot on a land rich in fronds, lived a young boy in an ancient castle bathed in gold.

Spoiled child, gluttonous for power and control to the point of becoming the nightmare of the workers.

Ungrateful brat, as some would say behind their young master's back.

Do you remember, when you almost blinded a servant?

Do you remember, when you punished the butler's son to starvation for grabbing one of your toys?

Do you remember, when you threatened to execute the cook if he used an ingredient that you disliked again?

Time heals all, but so powerful was the malice in the boy's heart, that once he reached adulthood he became completely sick with his darkness.

Some blows were heard at the huge front door, and for the first and only time, the young nobleman decided to open his entrance by himself.

"An apple, just buy me a single apple to feed my family, please sir." An elderly man sobbed, barely able to hold the mentioned fruit firmly in his wrinkled hand.

"Save your words, old man. Who do you think you're talking to? That thing doesn't even resemble a fruit." The raven-haired man spat, fixing his contemptuous gaze on the offer. "

"So give me a little help, then. My family will always be very grateful to you."

A bitter laugh splashed over the old man, poisoning his ears with that teasing smug.

"Your family will be grateful to me? And how that will benefit me? Go back the way you came, old man. I don't want to see your drooping face peering through my windows again, nor your calloused and heavy feet dragging on my marble floor."

Loud rumbles resounded in the sky, and soon it was covered in black clouds, blotting out any sunlight.

A strong and cold wind blew, and to the surprise of all present, the old man was turned into a white-haired youth with a chiseled face to resemble the very own gods.

"For your insolence and cockiness, you will have to learn a lesson. So much evil inside you must be reflected as the devil on the outside equally. Loneliness will be your sentence, because all your close beings will have been objectified. In order to find a cure, as well as two twin seeds of this apple, you will have to find your own reflection before the apple rots into mere rubble.

Be smart, child, and keep close to that person who understands you because it will be the one who can accept your seven hells."

Damn curiosity, and damn her stubbornness.

For having played with the same fate, the young blonde found herself trapped in the Beast's clutches. Rusty bars imprisoned her like a caged bird.

"You were guided to this place in order to carry out your mission. I waited for the return of the burning rays of the sun, and the green meadow returning to dye the borders of my home."

The Beast spoke, leaning against the iron bars to look at his encapsulated rose.

"With your stay here, I will guarantee the eternal upkeep of the apple and—"

"You'll still be a horned beast, excited to see a red apple like a little kid getting candy. Stay delusional, maybe that way you won't go crazy."

The Beauty with the same arrogant poison bathed the Beast.

They were two sides of the same coin, because it didn't take long for the young woman to show how conceited and proud she was.

A reflection of the same face began to be seen.

The same melody being played by two different instruments.

The Beauty and the Beast, would be forever depending on the existence of the other, for the end of time.

#Once upon Dreams and Nightmares 📖 #diabolik lovers oc #irina avenel #fairytales #my art #DDA-Events #((I'm not that satisfied with my writing but what could my sleep deprived brain do anyways sjsjsjsj)) #((At least I have the illustration 🏃🏼‍♀️🏃🏼‍♀️🏃🏼‍♀️))

[all-or-nothing-baby]

THE PEACOCK

.

Incessant babbling, day and night. Constant fucking humming and grating outbursts of half-baked songs with bastardized lyrics. The bard is—superfluous would be an understatement. More like pretentiously poncey and purposely pig-headed just to piss me off. And a liability, to say the least. He's a goading, impudent Puck, yet shite with a sword and can't even fight with his fists to save his own featherweight arse. I mean, the moron can't weigh more than a sack of grain, for fucks sake. In fact, I'm surprised a strong gust of easterly wind hasn't blown the idiot all the way back to Oxenfurt. Oh, and to rub salt into that wound, despite his puny stature the gannet puts food away like a damn ogre, therefore munching through coin as if there's no tomorrow, no warm bath to pay for after having to wash in murky lakes for weeks, no dry room at an inn needed for a well-earned ale and a plate of pie and at least a night's decent rest.

He's incorrigible. Flashy. Unnecessary.

The bard is a Nobleman's trophy bird—a fucking Peacock of a man.

Yet.

And yet.

When we part ways and he is gone, the absence of his noise is a troublesome thorn in my side. It's like a river run dry when all you needs is a skinful of water. All the wild sounds slightly out of tune; the night owls lamenting the sound of that surely enchanted lute, the mourning Mocking Jays mimicking his voice having stolen and butchered his song. I feel unchallenged. Unmoored, even. Having only myself once again to worry over and to protect, seems somehow more of an effort—a chore, almost. All food tastes bland. My appetite in general, it wanes. Everything is wrong. Even drinking away the day at its end is so much less appealing. Bathing without soft hands smoothing warmed lavender oil through the strands of my dirty hair? A pointless waste of funds. And a soft bed for the night, all alone? These days, I strangely find it a sort of soft torture.

Yes, a Peacock preens and parades and is as vociferous as it is vexing.

But.

And but.

It's intelligent. Cunning. Majestic. It is exquisitely beautiful. And in the dead of night, when I hear its call carried on the breeze, it is somehow a tonic. The dazzling bird of such brilliant colour laments its mate: another Peafowl, this one with a plumage of pure white. And, once together again, they are the most perfect of contrasts. They are whole.

Roach brays and nods her head, shakes out her mane a little.

Ah.

It seems this witcher may have been thinking out loud again.

"Hmm," Geralt agrees sheepishly, and rides on.

.

#originally posted to my deleted witcher blog #behonesthowsmysinging #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #the witcher #witcher fic #POV geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the peacock #ficlet #fanfic #aonb writes #all-or-nothing-baby

[winterpinetrees]

The Carnival (Gap Years Part 8)

June 17th 2019

Union County, OR

Once again mustering the strength to post oc stuff on the cringe oc site. This doesn’t get easier. The events of this part were inspired (years ago) by a Mark Rober video where he recruits a friend that is also a professional baseball pitcher to help him win carnival games.

…………………

There’s an old cliche about how war is 99% boredom and 1% terror. This isn’t war. This is the survivor of a coup and his three teenage allies driving across the country on a circuitous path going nowhere. It’s still boring though.

When Brian and his friends began driving after their first fight, he’d hardly expected to survive until morning. Now, the sword slash across his chest has healed and they still haven’t seen an elf other than Marin. He knows he should be happy about this, but the anticipation is killing him. Brian has always been good under pressure, and he has a lot of awards to prove it. He’s never been good at the waiting though. At some point, that one percent of terror will come back and they will need to fight for their lives. It could be any moment now. Yesterday, Clay and Sierra went off to investigate a town and only Sierra came back. They spent four hours panicking before finally remembering to call Clay on the same satellite phone that they’d all mocked him for carrying. Without it, he probably never would have come back at all. It’s a horrible reminder of the stakes after a week of nothing. Brian feels like he’s going to explode.

They’re driving through northern Oregon. They could have been all the way across the continent by now if they’d wanted to be. However, with nowhere specific to go, they’ve instead chosen to take a winding path up and down California, stopping literally anywhere that catches their attention (They did eventually make it to Redwoods National Park). Today, Brian is taking all of them to a fair. He’s justified it by saying that crowds are safe, but he really just needs to throw something. Also, Marin is really getting on his nerves. Elves always act superior in the movies, but it’s different to spend a week in a car with a ‘teenager’ who clearly thinks that the three of them are moderately better than dogs. It’s not that this sort of talk is new to him. His father is the California governor and solidly on the liberal side of things, but the Whitakers have been in politics since before the Civil War. They all have opinions about his bisexuality and about Sierra’s first-generation mother and certainly about Clay’s habit of running off to the bad parts of town. He’s really sick of it.

Specifically, Marin keeps talking about how elves are just more evolved than humans. Brian’s a humanities kid, but he knows that isn’t how it works. Evolution doesn’t make better animals over time, it just makes things that survive. Marin may have magic and live for a while, but he isn’t any better than Brian just because his bones are hollow like a bird. That’s the other half of the reason for dragging him to a fair. It’s stupid, but Brian wants to challenge him to games until he beats him at something. Maybe it’s foolish and this graceful magic prince will win everything, but Brian is a varsity baseball player with a stack of wrestling metals and a black belt. He killed a nobleman (noblelf?) with a crowbar. He’s confident that he can pick Marin up and throw him. Unfortunately, that’s not a common carnival game.

Marin also keeps dancing around the idea that humanity would all be better off under elven rule anyway, which is just, not something Brian is willing to discuss.

He puts the car into park and they all step outside. He can tell from the fact that the parking lot is just dead grass that it will all be dissassembled by the end of the summer. Clay kicks his door shut with his foot. His sunburns are pretty bad, and he’s not in any shape to carry the sci-fi rifle he loves so much. It would be too conspicuous anyway. Instead, Brian takes a pistol with emerald detailing from Marin’s bag. He doesn’t have all of the right qualifications to concealed carry in Oregon, but the group agreed that Marin should just brainwash anyone that gets suspicious. Hopefully they won’t need to. Sierra takes her magic measuring device and Marin swings his bigger-on-the-inside messenger bag over one shoulder. They’re just four teens going to a carnival. No one will notice the magic, or the weaponry, or the huge amount of cash that they’re carrying because Clay pointed out that someone (elves or their parents) could track their credit card information. They’re three billionaire’s kids and a prince. Things were never going to be any more normal than this.

………………

“I went to something like this with my mother once. It was in the early 60s. Georgia, maybe?” Marin says casually as they walk towards the ticket stand.

“Really? Your mother? I’m surprised that the Apex had time to kill around us simple humans” Clay replies.

He ignores the insult. “Well, my mother was an exception. She didn’t have enough magic, so they sent her away for a while when she was a kid. She spent a lot of time along the Gulf Coast, in both worlds,” He pauses. ”I think she was happiest here. Here meaning the human world, not here”.

Brian has a thought, tries to ignore it, and then decides to follow it anyway. “Wait, when was your mother young?”

“This was the early 1700s”.

Marin is a prince of the elves. You can tell from his pointed ears and silent footsteps and the way that his eyes shine in the dark. However, from a distance, he looks like any Black teenager. His mother almost certainly had the same features. There’s got to be a story here, but Brian isn’t comfortable asking. They buy tickets and stand in the grass.

“Marin, I challenge you to a duel”.

“What in Lazarus’s name is that supposed to mean,” the elf replies.

“It means that we are going to go around this place and try a bunch of tests of skill until I beat you at something”.

“This is about how I said humans are less evolved, isn’t it?”

Brian smiles. “Also I really need to throw something”.

They shake hands. Marin doesn’t have a very strong handshake, which Brian decides actually makes sense, because strong handshakes are probably not an elf thing.

Clay offers to be the referee. “We already know this, but Marin, all of these are rigged”.

He nods, but doesn’t turn his eyes away from Brian. “Where I come from, the challenger sets the terms of the duel”.

“Wait, you have an actual dueling code?” It isn’t that surprising, to be honest.

“Several. Where should we begin?”.

Brian looks around. Should he start with a game he’s sure to win by physical strength alone? Or is that just playing into elven logic? Maybe he should choose one of those nearly impossible throwing games, but maybe there’s some sort of elf baseball and Marin has played that too. Maybe he’s just not good enough. That’s always how it always goes with his older brothers, and Marin is eighty-six. Brian might be in over his head. They walk to the milk-bottle toss. Brian hands over a ticket in exchange for a baseball and turns back to his opponent. The bottles are metal and bottom weighted, and the staff certainly won’t give an athletic eighteen year old one of the stacks that are rigged in favor of the player.

It won’t matter. Brian’s the starting shortstop on his team. He can throw a ball. He tosses the ball in the air, catches it again, and throws it with perfect form at the stacked bottles. It hits the center of the base and the whole thing collapses. Brian takes a stuffed elephant for the trouble. He’ll give it to some other kid. There’s no room in the car.

Marin looks around at the many-colored decorations of the stand and hands the staff member a ticket. The elf mimics his action, throwing the ball into the air and catching it as well. He throws, and the ball strikes almost the exact same place as Brian’s. The top bottle falls, the other two wobble, and Marin does not win a prize. He shrugs and moves to tie back his locs.

“You are just proving my point. That wasn’t about accuracy. That was a strength game”.

“Brian has one point, Marin has none” Clay winks. “Don’t kill each other”.

……

They keep walking. Both boys beat the basket toss, Marin wins a cute pink wolf at darts, and both of them, against their better judgment, try and fail the stupid little game where you throw the rings over bottles. They play against each other, against little kids, and against the rigged games themselves. After over an hour, the group pauses for a moment by a shooting game and Clay mutters something under his breath before grabbing a bb gun with his burned hands and getting shockingly close to a win.

“Brian, you still have that pistol?” Sierra laughs.

“Very funny. At least I didn’t get knocked over by recoil last week,” Clay replies.

Brian, Clay, and Sierra give all of their prizes to other kids (Well, Sierra keeps one), but Marin keeps slipping his into his messenger bag. He’s won a wolf, a snake, and a fox. Eventually they all come to the two games that aren’t even competitions. With his strength, Brian will win the hammer-swinging strongman game. Marin will win the ladder climb with his perfect balance. There’s nothing to do but play it out.

Brian not only gets a higher score than Marin, but actually beats the strength game. (It’s all about leverage, he’s done this before). He’s going to lose overall though. They’re tied now, and Brian doesn’t have a chance at the ladder climb. He’s not even the most coordinated human of the group. The older man running the game glares at Marin when he approaches. Brian chooses to think that it’s because he can tell that the elf is going to win, instead of something far less palatable. And Marin does! The disguised tightrope that sends Brian flailing to the inflatable floor after three steps hardly shakes when Marin climbs it, and he claims an orangey-brown cat half his size.

Brian shrugs. He’s lost by a point. “I think that’s everything! Good game, man! Or elf? How does that work?”

Marin doesn’t react. The prince of the elves just looks into the cheap plastic eyes of this big cat, unblinking.

“Marin, are you okay? You won! I was being sort of mean earlier”.

The elf looks back at Brian. His bright hazel eyes are very wide. Is he about to cry? He blinks and composes himself. It’s gone.

“Thank you. I needed this”.

Marin does not elaborate on what he needed.

It’s only a few hours later, as Marin leaves a message in an elven language using Sierra’s phone, that Brian realizes the cat has fangs. It’s not just some oversized ginger cat, it's a saber-toothed tiger, a smilodon. Wasn’t that the symbol of Marin’s house? Genus Sondaica, represented by a sabertooth in emerald green?

He brings this up to Clay and Sierra. What were the symbols of the other elven families?

“His betrothed is a fox, I think. That might have been a metaphor though. Smart women are foxes a lot,” Sierra explains.

Clay adds something. “I remember a snake. We had to explain your dumb joke afterwards”.

Brian remembers that too, now that it’s been mentioned again. “Marin chose those animals as prizes. A wolf, a snake, a fox, and a sabertooth. He didn’t give them away”.

“You think they’re gifts for other elves?”

Sierra looks back at him, “I mean, is anyone else even left?

Brian watches Marin out of the corner of his eye, “Coups are never easy. There’s got to be someone”.

“The question is whether we’ll be alive to meet them”.

………

Next time, Ishtar and her High Council start to figure out what in the worlds is going on. I was going to include a scene of the council here, but this is long already.

#by me #the gap years #my oc stuff #writing that *is* #the road trip

[danafeelingsick]

i'm back to writing again, finally 😭 i've been busy! drawing, doing a bunch of commissions (which you should check out 👀), and brainroting over that c.haracter.ai bot. i don't recommend it, makes you lazy...

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: i feel like i went a different route with this one, you can tell i was excited about the fight scene, so it's much more angsty and edgy than my normal stuff, but i couldn't help it! the whole darknight hero storyline is so cheesy and i love it. heed the warnings below:

HOT PURSUIT

In his restless search to stomp the abyss order, Diluc stumbles upon a sickly Venti left to die, and a race against time to save him. Will the darknight hero be able to save our beloved bard, or will both succumb to the abyss' dark scheme?

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of vomiting, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of poisoning, stomach ache whump, nausea, regurgitation, fainting, vomiting blood (only slightly descriptive), drowning, implied character death

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ 4,5k~

Silence is severed by the tread of hefty boots. The sound was followed by two figures cutting the empty street in pursuit. A man in a tattered dark cloak tags several steps behind an abyssal creature, a hydro mage protected by an elemental shield.

The creature snickers, mocking him. He grits his teeth, he can't keep up the pace for much longer, and a metallic taste lingers at the root of his tongue. The mage knows it, the deranged chants of a mind long lost carry the tone of a thing that knows it has won.

The stalker keeps to the shadows of the buildings, guarded against the moon's light, almost as if its watchful eye could scorch him. The worn-out fabric of his black cloak flaps in the wind, like the broken wing of a bird falling from the sky. He resisted the urge to clutch his flank, where a cloth had been wrapped tight over a flesh wound, the frigid current made it burn anew as it whipped his skin.

His resolve didn't waver, even as he watched the abyss mage drift away like a bubble of soap in the wind, even as the chanting preluded its escape, the pursuer pushed on. In a last effort, he summoned his weapon, feeling the all too familiar weight of a greatsword fall into his hands. He catches it even before the long blade can touch the stone path, balancing it without a false step, without even destabilizing his breath. All for naught, the creature vanished before his eyes.

A curse escapes the man's lips as he stops dead in his track, standing where the mage had been less than a second ago. Traces of hydro still hung in the air, evaporating to the naked eye as the wind swept it away like it was never there in the first place. A vision had already been enough favor from the gods, but now the man deeply envied the few who possessed elemental sight.

He muttered another curse under his breath, finally allowing himself a few long drags of air, even if it made his side sting, it dispersed the anger gathering in his scowl. He had been stalking that creature since nightfall, he had it cornered, but he had been overzealous when it came to disposing of it.

The silence was deafening once again. He looked to his right, realizing he had been standing at the mouth of a pitch-black alley, inviting an ambush. He glued his back to the wall and listened closely, for any sign of life in that deserted city. His eyes were peeled for any movement in the dark, his gaze focused like a famished falcon.

To provoke even further, he pulled down the hood of his cloak, revealing a mane of fiery red locks cascading down his back. There wasn't a single soul in Mondstadt who wouldn't recognize that man, Diluc Ragnvindr knew it well. If anyone were to see him… Sometimes he wished he still had that beaked mask, but part of him knew he had already outgrown it.

The nobleman didn't allow himself another moment to breathe, he could feel the many bruises dotting his skin, under his layered coat, the wound on his side, throbbing as if his heart could leak from it. The abyss mage had attacked him as soon as it had the chance, it was an act of such desperation he knew it wasn't there for a simple reconnaissance mission. He couldn't relax just yet, his blade was raised, warm still from his elemental energy coursing through it.

After a second of bated breath, a faint rustling sound came from deeper within the alley. Diluc immediately tensed, assuming the same fighting stance he had trained to perfection, ready to light up the whole street with his flames at the first hint of movement. But nothing came. He knew these creatures were intelligent, they wouldn't attack him head-on, not when it had the advantage.

There was no way to lure it out. Diluc breathed deeply as he took a step into the darkness. His intuition kept repeating a trap. Upon hearing a bottle shattered against stone, followed by others rolling on the ground, he immediately conjured the image of some stray cat chasing a mouse, and knocking empty bottles on its way. The thought entertained him for a moment, but the closer he got, the more he convinced himself it was something larger than that.

It took a few tense moments for his eyes to adapt to darkness, but as soon as they did, the hero froze, realizing he could discern a silhouette cut out against the dark. It stood there, swaying before it spun, and plummeted to the ground with a heavy thud, knocking more bottles. The sound was like a screech in the dead of night, over as soon as it started, leaving only pained groans behind.

It was a risk he fastly accepted as he lowered his blade and raised a hand, commanding a small flame to crackle to life in his open palm. The wavering red glow brought definition to the silhouette, and Diluc could now tell it was a person, or at least the form of one, tossed on the ground like a rag doll.

”By the archons…”, he murmured, his heart dropping to his stomach when he recognized the teal cape before anything else. “Venti!?”

The greatsword vanished before it even touched the ground. Diluc rushed to the fallen man's aid, stepped around the maze of empty bottles, and knelt. Bringing the flame closer, he looked over him for any injuries, anything to explain why he had collapsed right in front of him.

The bard was shivering violently, Diluc could tell just by looking at him. His shoulders hitched in one desperate attempt to fill his lungs. Then he went stiff, his back arching before a gurgle came from his throat. It sounded like he was drowning.

Diluc rolled the bard onto his back and reached out to brush his braids away, but the change of positions seemingly made the young bard spring back to life. He flinched as a long gasp left his lips, followed by whimpers that quickly turned garbled, desperate.

Carefully, as if he was approaching a feral wounded animal, Diluc pulled him closer, holding his head up as he laid his body over his lap. Venti was deathly pale. The faint blue of his eyelids turned almost purple under the flickering red glow of his element. The same color lingered in his lips, which parted now to reveal the deep red-stained inside of his mouth.

“Venti? Venti!” he called, keeping his voice hushed despite the panic brewing in his chest. He cupped his cheek, cold sweat soaking into the palm of his glove. The bard winced under the touch, his lips quivering as he let out a small whimper, or at least tried to.

The sound didn't quite make it out of his mouth. A lengthy gurgle traveled up his throat, turning graphically wet as it reached the back of his tongue. He pitched forward with a gag, and Diluc scrambled to catch him. His face was contorting and his lips puckering, then parting again when he couldn't hold back another gag.

Venti made a miserable sound, the only warning he could give before he let out a short belch and a surge of red liquid along with it. It spewed out the sides of his mouth, a weak spurt coming out of his nose, coating his chin, and neck.

Diluc had to bite back a yelp as he saw it, his mind conjured the worst of possibilities before the first logical one. Venti heaved in his lap, suffocating, and his hands were moving before he knew it. The flame fizzled out along with the shock, and he flipped the bard's hitching body onto his side.

He didn't let go, even as the acidic smell hit him, even as Venti lurched with a gurgly retch quickly drowned out by more watered-down red and purple vomit. Diluc felt the sickening warmth drip onto his knees, quickly seeping into the clothes and cooling, but everything was racing too fast for that to be a concern on his mind.

He could tell Venti was struggling to breathe still and tried to gently, albeit shakingly, make him lean forward. Holding him by the shoulder, the other hand brushing his braids away, not even realizing they were already soiled. He practically sprawled the small bard over his lap, unable to do anything except watch as he heaved painfully.

Venti gagged, squeezing his eyes even tighter as he let out a groan of pure misery. The way he was being moved only served to make him feel worse like his packed stomach was being tossed around, like a balloon about to burst. He went completely stiff, trying to brace himself, but he was far too weak for it.

Vomit spewed out of him in a lengthy gush, it sounded like an open faucet, then like a drowning animal when it tapered off and he kept gagging graphically. Everything hurt in a way he thought he had forgotten, his head was throbbing mercilessly and his stomach kept wringing itself out of his mouth.

It took a few long seconds for Venti to register the hands all over him, prodding at his face now, forcing his eye open. His movements were lethargic, but in what felt like an eternity, he was able to raise a hand, and merely graze the wrist of whoever was trying to wake him up.

“Venti, please. If you can hear me, respond”, he heard a familiar voice coming from a blur of disheveled red locks and recognized it quickly. The man carried an unfamiliar grief in his tone, one Venti had never heard before.

The windborne bard weakly lifted his head and looked up at the nobleman, squinting as he struggled to outline his feature in the pitch-black darkness.

“Master… Diluc…?”, he croaked, his speech heavily slurred, his voice barely coming through. He struggled to focus on the figure looming over him, his pupils were like glossy marbles threatening to roll to the back of his head.

“Yes, yes it's me. Venti, stay with me, please! Don't pass out!”, Diluc pulled the bard closer and held his head, but to no avail, he started going limp in his arms. “Venti, it's not safe here!”

In a desperate attempt to keep the bard awake, Diluc shook him and regretted that decision when he saw his cheeks bulge out. Venti bolted upright with a sounding heave and more watery vomit splashed onto his own lap, completely covering it. His green shorts and white buttoned-up were dyed a sickly shade of purple.

He fell back, deflated, his chest jumping as he tried to catch his breath, threads of vomit still clinging to his chin and nose. Diluc shuddered, feeling the warm liquid drip down to his thighs and quickly cool as it reached his skin. He didn't let go of the bard however, he held him even closer as he shivered violently, seemingly disappearing within his arms.

“It h-hurts…”, Venti stuttered, burying his face into the man's chest, trying to chase away that horrible cold burn that seemed to be coming from within him, anything to stop that nauseating pain in his whole body. “M-Make it stop…”

Diluc was completely lost. He didn't know what was wrong with him if anything was even wrong. He was an archon, he used to be one, archons couldn't die, could they? Not like this, not in his arms.

And the smell… The panic had been clogging all of his senses, making his vision tunnel around the small bard nestled within his hug, but now that he could actually, the smell of sick hit him full force. Diluc had to hold his breath, gasping through his mouth as he noticed how strongly it smelled of alcohol.

Venti tensed harshly within his arms, his small hand pawning at Diluc's cape, pulling on it as his face buried deeper in his chest. Diluc stiffened every muscle in him when he heard him groan, the noise was muffled and short-lived, sounding deeply pained.

It was the only warning Venti mustered, and in his state, it was even more than he could. He tried to hold it, pushing on Diluc to put distance between them before he lost it.

He couldn't even retch, it simply came up without a struggle, a torrent of sick covering the both of them. It cascaded down Venti's buttoned white shirt, dampening it and gluing the stained fabric to his skin. Diluc's clothes weren't safe either, the long-sleeved shirt he wore under the tattered cape wasn't spared and got completely covered in vomit.

He locked his breath, trying to not gag himself. It was sickening, he could feel his own stomach revolting against the feeling of warm puke coating his skin.

“Ugh—, eurgh”, Diluc gagged, and hurriedly pressed a fist to his mouth when he felt the taste of his dinner flood his tongue. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus on breathing, but even that assaulted his senses with the smell of stomach acid and alcohol.

He couldn't vomit, he wouldn't vomit. Taking a shaky breath, he gulped down and locked his throat, waiting for nausea to pass. His rush of adrenaline was passing, all he could feel now was his guts churning.

When he made sure he could take his hand off his mouth, he looked down at Venti, whose only signs of life were the occasional hiccups shaking his shoulders, and the vice-like grip he held on his cape.

“Venti?”, he called, his voice still loaded with nausea.

“I'm… sorry…”, he repeated, a pitiful sob cutting his sentence in half.

Diluc widened his eyes, taken aback. Was he crying? Venti never struck him as an emotional drunkard, but taking how much he had already vomited, and how much he seemed to be holding back, he didn't know what to think anymore.

“You… drank way too much again, didn't you”, he asked, his tone spreading confusion. Something told him that wasn't it, Venti had an ungodly tolerance he had witnessed before, for him to be vomiting this much, for him to complain about pain…

“S-Something was wrong…”, he muttered in between shaky breaths. “That drink…”

Diluc cocked his head. What drink? He hadn't served Venti these past few days, and he was sure Charles, the bartender at Angel's Share wouldn't hide it from him, considering Venti rarely paid in the first place. In fact, a few patrons had been wondering where their friendly bard had run off to. Who else was going to play such cryptic ballads? Something definitely was wrong.

”We need to go”, he informed Venti, and while his tone came off dry, his heart was at the back of his throat. “I'll take you to Jean—”

“No!” Venti cut him off, raising his eyes to Diluc, who felt his heart split into two when he finally saw the tears. “She can't h-help…”

“What happened to you?” Diluc finally asked, his eyes wide, in the heat of the moment, he had all but forgotten the conditions he had found Venti in. “A-Are you hurt?”

Venti shook his head weakly, but to betray his words he flinched, pain flashing across his face. He curled into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Diluc held his breath out of instinct.

“Is it your stomach?”, he asked, pulling the bard even closer as he tried to look at him, to find what exactly was wrong with him. He nodded, even weaker.

“I think I've been poisoned…”, he struggled to say.

The nobleman's mouth instantly filled with questions, but before he could utter any of them, Venti winced within his grasp and curled into himself.

“Hng, you have to take me to… Windrise.”

That gigantic oak tree, it would take a while to get there on foot, especially with the injuries Diluc had sustained, and the exhaustion settling in both of them. Still, he couldn't leave Venti here.

Diluc held the bard close and stood up, feeling the wounds on his side burn anew as he started to run.

His heart was trashing inside his chest, the wind was biting cold on his damp clothes. Venti's breath hitched as he continued to sob, no doubt the violent motions were only making everything worse, the pain and nausea threatened to put him under once again.

He was small within his arms, and it looked like he was turning even smaller, getting close to disappearing. Venti fisted the sleeve of Diluc's cape, bringing it to his mouth as he felt like he was going to vomit once more.

This time he only managed to bring up a mouthful of thin puke, it quickly seeped into the soiled fabric.

The nobleman glanced down as he felt that now all too familiar feeling of hot vomit covering his chest. His clothes were beyond saving at this point, he paid no mind to it. Mercifully, in the dim light, he couldn't see the wisps of red within the regurgitated wine, all he saw was poor Venti coughing wetly as the remnants of his spells seeped out of his nostrils.

“Shh… Breathe”, Diluc shushed him tenderly, briefly running a hand over his shoulder before he glanced up again. They were nearly out of the city.

The darknight hero quickly reached the front gates of Mondstadt. The ghostly empty streets brought him a visceral fear, he felt like several eyes astray were crawling on his back. It was a sickening feeling, his stomach winced violently, his breath stopping as he realized he couldn't let go of Venti, he couldn't defend him.

The wind howled, his footsteps echoed along the stone bridge, then the grass took its toll, severing the silence for only a moment. Not a soul was in sight, but Diluc could feel the abyss watching him, its eyes clinging to him. Refusing to let go.

“Hang in there… Venti”, he huffed, clinging to the bard in his arms. He responded with a wince, sinking even further into his chest, as if he could just disappear into it. Diluc prayed he wouldn't, that form was strong enough to withstand whatever they had done to him. “We're… almost there…”

He was nearly out of breath as he uttered those words, but as soon as the oak tree came into view, he rushed his pace, nearly tripping over himself. Almost there. The sense of security that vision brought left the darknight hero careless, and open. He didn't realize the figure encroaching on his peripheral, he only felt the sharp pain open a gash on his flank.

The darknight hero tumbled to the ground, sending two limp bodies rolling over the grass. They only stopped at the foot of the hill, the shadow of the oak tree looming over them, its spiraling roots reaching out for them.

Diluc sucked greedy gasps, one after another, his chest was jumping wildly, trying to recover the air stolen from his lungs. The biting wind on his open wound was like a sheet of paper being torn in two, the pain was making his vision wave, and he didn't know if he could trust his other senses. He raised a shivering hand over it and placed it over the gash, his searing hot blood poured over his glove.

He forced himself onto his elbows and raised his head, looking around for Venti. The sunken form of the windborne bard was only a few steps away from him, wrapped tightly in his green cape, still as a stone. Then he heard it, the abyss mage cackling, it was enough to make him ignore the screaming pain.

Diluc didn't think of what it would do to him, he was moving before he even realized it. His body begged him to lay down, but he stood up, hot blood flowing from his side, dangerously close to his innards. He didn't think, he assumed his fighting stance and called upon his blade.

Between the blur of exhaustion and the wavering dark shadows, he couldn't see the next attack, even if the wind carried it so gently toward him. He only felt it when the cold water engulfed him, then it was already too late.

Diluc grew desperate as he realized he couldn't breathe, the air had become water and his choices had become two: he allowed it in his lungs, or he held onto the little air he had in them until the bitter end. He clutched at his throat, the pressure was increasing, and his surroundings were growing darker.

There was a name in his mouth as it finally opened, he could taste his own blood tainting the water as it filled his throat.

The impact of his body hitting the ground was enough to drive Diluc awake. His eyes flew open, and he turned onto the grass, clutching it as he hacked violently. His lungs were on fire as he tried to take in a breath, but his efforts only brought out water, splashing onto the soil until it took a much denser consistency.

Diluc retched in between bouts of salted water until his stomach contents were piling onto the grass. When he could finally breathe, his sinus burned from the mixture of the scorching acid mixed with fresh blood in his mouth. The remnants of heavily digested day-old food clung to his chin and mouth, dense ropes of a sickly orange that smelled foul, far worse than what Venti had done.

He raised his eyes from the tainted grass at last, his ears still ringing from the pressure in his head, his soaked clothes weighed him down. Through matted hair and swimming vision, he caught it in time.

The windborne bard raised to his feet, a teal glow framing his face, anemo power oozed from the tips of his braid. One arm was raised graciously, one slender hand cupping the air, bending the element around it, pointing to the abyss mage hovering above the ground. It spat words at the former archon in a language long lost, but it earned no reaction out of him.

The wind currents gathered into a spiral, surrounding the abyss mage who looked down to see the glowing sigil form under it and suddenly suspend it. Like a bubble of soap being carried into the wind, it popped.

Diluc watched as the abyssal creature was torn from limb to limb before his eyes, a paper doll in the hands of a child. A gory mess plummeted with a sickening wet thud, its filthy blood oozing out of the pile, filling the air with a nauseating scent. He gagged, then dropped his head to the puke pile in front of him and gagged again, vomiting onto the grass once more. This time he couldn't tell if it was out of pain or relief.

He dared to glance at it again and found ghostly blue flame was consuming the corpse, soon there was no trace left of it. His vision blurred after that, he must've lost a few seconds, because when he realized, Venti was kneeling by his side, shakingly rubbing his shoulder.

The darknight hero struggled to sit up, holding his wounded side with one hand, the other went to wipe his mouth, which made little difference. Diluc was completely drenched in all kinds of filth.

“You are bleeding”, the windborne bard told him and something about the newfound glow in his aqua-green eyes told Diluc he wasn't talking to Venti, but to lord Barbatos.

“It-It's… nothing”, he rasped, surprised at how weak his own voice sounded.

A soft chuckle left the bard's lips and he shook his head, his braids following the movement.

“You said you would take me there, didn't you?”, he said, strangely calm. “Let me help you the rest of the way.”

Venti didn't wait for confirmation, hd crawled under Diluc's arm, unphased by the water and blood dripping from him. A deep groan left Diluc's lips, his wound oozed blood as he was forced upright, the pain spiraled throughout his whole body.

The couple of steps it took to the foot of the oak tree threatened his vision with darkness, but Venti's presence strangely was the only thing that held his conscious. He lowered him down, onto the grass, and leaned against the bark.

Diluc closed his eyes and breathed deeply, albeit carefully, it burn where his skin had been torn off, such was the power of an elemental attack taken head on. It was a deep cut, but one he had walked off before, getting hurt like was all in day's work. He would survive.

Then he heard it, the beautiful melody of his lyre. Diluc was willing to crawl, he would carry his suffering along with his sense of duty. Yet, when he saw Venti, radiant despite his dishelved appearance, strumming his fingers along the strings, it carried his pain off his shoulder and onto the wind.

“This will not cure you”, the windborne bard advised, opening one glowing aqua-green eye. “But it will give you strength to reach home, no matter how grave your injuries are.”

Diluc fell back and drew in a deep breath, staring into the luscious foliage of the oak tree above them. The moon peeked from the gaps.

“No, I'm not leaving you here”, the stubborn hero refused.

Venti let a smile take form on his lips, a chuckle rest within his chest, waiting until the song of his strings came into an end. The wooden instruments came undone within his hands, transformed into feathers, then lignt.

“You're in worse shape than me. I...'ve been poisoned”, the bard said, no urgency in his voice, only that playful innocence. “You already brought me here, there is nothing more you can do.”

Diluc wanted to protest, he wanted to say no, Venti would come with him to the Winery, he could arrange the finest room to him, luxurious clothes and the best doctor Teyvat had to offer, but both of them knew. He didn't need it.

“I'll be fine”, Venti said, and his smile was sincere, even if it hid a stained tongue. “Go now. Come see me in the morning if you wish. You'll find me.”

Diluc rose to his feet, clinging to tree as his body swayed. Despite everything in his body begging for him to give up, he found strength to stand. He looked down at the bard, at his dark blue head of hair and his teal cape, his rosy face and his aqua-green eyes, contemplating that form he had chosen.

“It is a promise, then.”

Venti waved him off, with a hand completely hidden inside his sleeve, he watched as the dark silhouette of the darknight hero staggered away, his tattered black coat dragged over the grass like a broken wing.

Once he had disappeared, Venti looked up at the oak tree, smiling weakly at that familiar view, letting the wind sweep his form away, until he was lighter than air itself.

#emeto #emetophilia #vomiting #tw vomit #tw emeto #gen/shin imp/act #genshin emeto #gen/shin imp/act di/luc #gen/shin imp/act ven/ti #sickfic #hurt and comfort #then hurt again #mentioned je/an #poisoning whump #stomach ache whump #requested #dana//emeto fic #my writing

[soldier-poet-king]

Fran's Autumn Reads

October

Dr. Greta Helsing #1&2: Strange Practice & Dreadful Company - Vivian Shaw

Mo Dao Zu Shi: Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation vol. 3&4 - Mò Xiāng Tóng Xiù

Faithful and Virtuous Night - Louise Glück

The Cemeteries of Amalo #2: The Grief of Stones - Katherine Addison [reread]

Naruto vol. 40-42 - Masashi Kishimoto

Let Us Compare Mythologies - Leonard Cohen

The Game of Courts (Lays of the Hearth-Fire Novella) - Victoria Goddard

November

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel

Mo Dao Zu Shi: Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation vol. 5 - Mò Xiāng Tóng Xiù

Lays of the Hearth-Fire #1: The Hands of the Emperor - Victoria Goddard [reread]

Féonie and the Islander Regalia & Traditional Culture Days at Uni (Lays of the Hearth-Fire Short Stories) - Victoria Goddard

The Queen's Thief #2&3: The Queen of Attolia & The King of Attolia - Megan Whalen Turner [reread via audiobook]

Trigun Maximum vol. 4 - Yasuhiro Nightow

Thornhedge - T Kingfisher

The Doomsday Books #2: A Nobleman's Guide to Seducing a Scoundrel - KJ Charles

This is How You Lose the Time War - Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone

Discworld: Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett

December

Murderbot Diaries #7: System Collapse - Martha Wells

Simon Snow #1: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell

The Field Guide to Dumb Birds of North America - Matt Kracht

The Tarot Sequence #1-2: The Last Sun, The Hanged Man - KD Edwards

The Tarot Sequence Novella & Bonus Short Stories: The Sunken Mall, Tales from Quarantine, The Separation, Amnesia - KD Edwards

The Last Unicorn - Peter S Beagle

Saint of Steel #4: Paladin's Faith - T Kingfisher

The Masquerade #3: The Tyrant Baru Cormorant

Color, Taste, Texture - Matthew Broberg-Moffitt

#fran reads #realistically i am not going to finish reading anything in the next 5.5 hrs #so here ya go #im actually really proud i read so much this year and it was bc i WANTED to #i mean yeah was there a lot of manga and terrible fantasy romance? mayhaps. so that bulked it up #but im not really excited/care about the numbers #it's more that im excited that im excited about reading again. ykwim? #im excited that i want to and love reading again. with that ravenous hunger the sadness took from me #there was a lot of silly indulgent reading and some very good profound reading this year #and i reread hote TWICE #so like. yknow. maybe all is well\ #i put atfots on pause i got TOO emotional over it. esp after meeting victoria goddard in november #same with trk. tho i did not meet maggie stiefvater in downtown toronto lmaoo

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (February 19)

Conrad was born into a noble family in northern Italy. He married the daughter of a nobleman, Euphrosyne.

One day, while he was hunting, Conrad ordered his attendants to make a fire.

The wind carried the flames, which set fire to nearby fields, forests, towns and villages. Upon seeing this, Conrad ran away in fear.

Because he ran, an innocent man was convicted for spreading the fire and was condemned to death as punishment.

Upon hearing of this, Conrad stepped forth to accept the blame, saving the innocent man's life.

He paid for the damaged property. He and his wife gave everything they owned to the poor in recompense.

Conrad then left to join a group of Franciscan hermits, and his wife joined the Poor Clares.

Word eventually spread of Conrad's holiness, piety, and gift of healing.

When many visitors began to destroy his life of silence and solitude, he moved to Sicily where he lived and prayed as a hermit for 36 years.

Legends say that when the Bishop of Syracuse visited him, the bishop asked Conrad if he had any food to offer guests.

Conrad went to his cell and returned with newly made cakes, which the bishop accepted as a miracle.

Conrad visited the bishop later to make a general confession to him.

As he arrived, Conrad was surrounded by fluttering birds.

Conrad died kneeling before a crucifix.

#Saint of the Day #Saint Conrad of Piacenza

[unicornarts]

So the A Song Of Ice And Fire trrpg I've been running for my friends is coming to an end next month, with us finishing the campaign, and I've made some illustrations of their PCs as they finish the campaign/will be going into the next one to give my friends as gifts. There's A Lot of reasons behind everything in the illustrations because we've been on a break to take care of IRL stuff & it's left me alone with my thoughts for way too long. I'm gonna drop all the details & explanations for everyone when the game is done, but in terms of this tumblr post they're below the cut if you care to read them

Extra details my friends aren't necessarily privy to yet (bc later games or an event that's on the table with no guarantee) & any needed context are in brackets

Top row, left side:

Trystan has padded leather armor that basically just looks like clothes from a distance, with the added detail of me indicating the armored doublet and the tunic underneath are different pieces by way of different textures & colors. His half-cloak leaves his arms free for archery & is color picked from the sigil colors Player gave to House Peat, with green being the main color due to Trystan’s more "utilitarian ranger" sensibilities. His chain with the anvil pendant matches his older brother's, but is made from a different material [his older brother may die in the final conflict, causing Trystan to become the new heir] & he has the carved bird whistle from Ronas on a longer cord so it can be easily used [Ronas is a skinchanger & greenseer NPC who has promised to help them while in the mind of his hawk should they call for him with said whistle]. The bead at the end of his braid is similar in color to various images of bog iron ore, pointing to the "this is their thing" Player headcanoned for House Peat. The bow he's seen holding in the image is the weirwood bow he's given at the end of the campaign, with the weirwood leaves in the background pointing to that being the case.

Top row, right side:

Vargadhor is wearing his Pit Viper armor [a mercenary company he is part of], all red fit, & ostentatious accessories as expected; but it's all accessories that won't get in the way: rings, a turban instead of his tall hat, & pearl earrings Player said he probably wears because of course Varg would. If you zoom in on his face you can see the tops of some of his flame tattoos poking out past his goatee [you can also see a purple tint to his eyes, hinting at the reveal of his currently unknown father being a Volantine nobleman]. The most symbolic interest comes with the background, as the illustration of Varg is fairly stock-and-standard since his true arc doesn't come until Into The Unknown [his arc got sidelined by a problem player who left the game, so we've mostly just been working on getting him back on track]: the lettering in the background (superimposed over flames & under smoke) is the prophecy of Azor Ahai translated into Valyrian, which would be a passage in the scrolls he learned to read from and was then gifted at the end of the game.

Bottom row, left side:

Astrid has chainmail because the Ironborn wear heavy armor into battle, but it's supplemented pretty heavily with leather because she's not noble & has just gotten used to "mostly chain, but having to reinforce it for added protection," but with the added detail of some of the leather padding having some decoration due to her having money now. She's wearing her mom's necklace, and in spite of most of her braids being typical three-strand affairs, the focal point of the hairstyle is the large fishtail braid in the back: a hallmark of Iron Islander hair, as I headcanon them being the only Westerosi culture to really wear them. The shield she's carrying is the one she is gifted by Lord Orlock Saltstone [head of OC House in the game] at the end of the game, with the waves in the background not only referencing her being from the Iron Islands, but also the blessing she receives from the Drowned Man/priest of the Drowned God.

Bottom row, right side:

Laurel has her hair all the way back (probably for the first time in the game). She's wearing armor, but it's very distinctly for quick & easy movement because she's not a fighter as much as other characters, & it's still very feminine because Laurel. The skirt is shorter (although that can't be seen in the illustration) to add to the practicality of the outfit: both for it being situationally appropriate, and because of the growth she's made towards less extravagant choices if the situation doesn't call for that. The dress under her armor has purple tint, to call into detail that the entirety of her armor was gifted from Houe Veltheos [OC House in the game], which is also mirrored in the detail of a dragon being carved into the handle of her axe. Lastly, the background of the piece is black and gold: the colors of House Bronzeport in Dorne [OC House in the game], which Elias [spy master NPC she has befriended] offers to give her connections to at the end of the game (I tried to reference the poison he also gives ve her, but that proved to be more difficult to conceptualize)

#artists on tumblr #digital art #character illustration #dnd character #asoiaf oc #dnd #ttrpg homebrew #ttrpg character #my art

[gxldings]

To Protect Filigree Feelings

Grann 777

The Liberation Army has reunited with Prince Leif of Leonster to free the Munster District of Grannvale’s Occupation. A short-lasting peace has been returned to the countryside; birds fly free over its grassy hills.

“So you came.”

Why is there that harshness in his tone, that edge to his words? He has arranged this meeting, set preparations in Leonster to meet over dinner. He, The Black Knight Ares, has donned the guise of a nobleman once more. Well-versed in the art of war, he forced himself to remember the art of diplomacy so he could speak among the people, bidding them reserve a seat in the kingdom’s finest instead of any kind of monetary compensation. 

(You care little for money anyways. When villagers offer their funds for the strength of your sword, you scoff in disgust. You are not a mercenary--not anymore.)

So why is it that his voice still carries hostility? It does not intend to hurt this boy, now that it has learned of the truth. The writing of his own father should have softened it by now, yet even though his heart is willing to accept that Sigurd’s kin is worthy of the breath he draws, his words are not so keen. Perhaps that is why he must have this conversation. It ought to smooth things out in his speech; it should make it clear that no animosity exists on his end. 

Not that any ever existed in Seliph’s, mind you. From the very beginning he was intent on being friends. Looking back now, Ares very nearly cringes at himself. He had been so wrong...

“... You have my thanks.” A bit better. He’ll get there. For now though, he is loathe to watch the other man be guided to his seat at the restaurant. Best in Leonster, he was told. It even has a view of the open plains, though taking a glance out the window now reveals they are inky black in the dead of night. It’s hard to make out any features, the outside world appearing like some infinite expanse of void. But Ares did not come here to stargaze all night. He turns to see the waiter leaving them with a menu--one, for them to share--and now only he and the Chalphy remain.

His forearms prop up against the table, positioned so his fingers can form a bridge at his mouth. Ares is considering his words a tad more carefully, staying his hand from making any kind of threat or tension between the two. He watches Seliph for a second more. Just what is he thinking? Is he surprised? Gladdened? Annoyed that he’s been made to come all the way out here from Mease Castle? The Black Knight opens his mouth to speak, but quickly bites his tongue. I’ll spare you the pleasantries, he wanted to say, to get to business as quickly as possible. But perhaps, it is better--it is friendlier--to let the other set the pace. 

“Now then, shall I get straight to the point?” 

His hands leave the table, one to tap at his leg in anticipation, the other to rest just outside his pocket. Stowed inside is the letter from his father, ready to be produced and set on the table should Seliph wish this to be quick. It should explain everything.

After all, that’s exactly what his cousin had told him.

//ares at seliph; starter for @sunsinger​

#IC #GILDING Ⅷ (ARES) #SELIPH THREAD (TO PROTECT FILIGREE FEELINGS) #SUNSINGER

[ryes-up]

Dead of Night || Amity & Rye

@amity-alder

The night was quiet. Rye wished at least birds made sounds. Anything to give them cover. Two slaves, one human, the other hob, followed closely behind him as they moved past stone gates lined with hedges.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’d missed more than just the opportunity to protect when he’d been confined to the castle due to the Stranger’s activities. He missed the rush of it too. The knowledge that the nobleman in the grandiose home behind them would wake to find two of his household missing. It was his own fault. Rye wouldn’t have intervened if he hadn’t found them in the market two days prior, the hob collapsed from injuries he’d kept hidden, and the human yelling out to anyone around them for help.

Rye knew the human likely wouldn’t have been able to survive the extent of the hob’s injuries if their roles had been reversed. Even so, the hob was still too injured to focus enough to use a glamour. He could barely walk, and the human stayed by his side, bearing most of his weight. It meant they had to stay close to Rye, and he had to be careful about the glamour he used, ensuring all three of them remained hidden. They weren’t close enough to the edge of Gillyshire yet.

“Remember what I said,” Rye said, turning to face the pair once they found themselves with enough shelter of trees to hide within for a moment. The hob looked like he was nearly going to collapse again, so Rye helped them over to lean against one of the trees. “Stay close, and do whatever I say. No questions. If we’re close to being caught, I don’t have time for questions. I say go left, you go left. I say hide in a ditch, you hide in the ditch. Understood?”

The human nodded, his eyes shifting worriedly to the fae beside him. Rye’s eyes softened a little. “I never did get your names,” Rye said. When he’d found the pair in the market, he’d taken it all in so quickly. He’d seen the nobleman storming towards them, saw the fear in their eyes, and made a decision. All he’d told the human was where to be, two nights later. Rye hadn’t known the nobleman well, but it was usually easy enough to tell anyone looking for an escape to be at a window on the north side of their home, bottom floor at midnight. Nobles rarely deigned to have their own rooms on the bottom floors, so it lessened the risk usually.

“Aidan,” the human said. Rye didn’t have to ask. He could guess the man had been born in the human realm and ended up here by a stroke of bad luck. He’d never met anyone born in the fae realm with that name, but he was sure Keelin had said he’d had a friend by the same name back in the human realm. Aidan was far too young to be the same, though. Aiden looked to his side, his arm still firmly around the hob’s waist, holding him steady as he rested against the tree trunk. “This is Leifr.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Rye said, offering the first smile since he’d seen the two.

“Why’re you helping us?” Aidan asked warily.

Rye didn’t answer, but just straightened up and moved to peek between a couple of the trees. “There’s a fair amount of open space between here and where we need to be. We’ll move slowly for Leifr, but you’ll need to stay close to me.” They were late for meeting the Nighthawk who would take them from the edge of the Wildlands to Wisteria, where Aidan had said Leifr had family. When they emerged from the trees, they were covered in a glamour again, blending into the decorative foliage around the gaudy homes and the night sky. Rye kept his bow drawn and an arrow loosely notched.

At Maerel’s suggestion, Rye carried different arrows from the ones he typically carried in his quiver around the castle training grounds, or anywhere on official Court business. As Maerel had pointed out, Rye had a reputation, and the last thing he needed was for that reputation to get him or anyone he was helping found out. These arrows were roughly made by fae in the Shambles, overpaid for what they were, and destined to always shoot just a little off center. That was fine by Rye. He never shot to kill on these missions, and perfect aim was the trait of a Wolf, not an anonymous bandit just being a nuisance for the Unseelie nobles.

They reached the edge of the Wildlands without incident, and Gedic was already there. He was leaning back, seemingly against nothing, but Rye knew it was an old Unseelie merchant’s cart that had been removed from use some time ago, and stolen by the Nighthawks once it had been forgotten. Rye dropped their glamour when Gedic dropped his. Well, Rye dropped the glamour that blended them to the surroundings, but kept his own glamour as a matter of precaution. He appeared a few inches taller, his hair shorter and blond, and his skin a few shades paler.

“Let’s get him on the cart,” Rye said. Aidan set down the bag he was carrying by a large stone, so he could maneuver Leifr easier. Rye slung his bow around onto his back, and helped Gedic and Aidan lift Leifr onto the cart.

When Aidan went back for the bag, the crack of a branch made Rye whip around. “Trees behind and to my right,” Rye hissed at Aidan. Gedic, Leifr and the cart disappeared, and Rye had his bow drawn and arrow notched in the span of a breath.

“But—“ Aidan started, but broke off when Rye fired a warning shot towards the trees where he’d heard the sound, high enough that he wouldn’t hit anyone unless they’d climbed a tree to spy on them from. He heard Aidan scrambling, and waited until the human was hidden in the trees behind him before he spoke.

“Who’s there?”

#p: amity #p: dead of night #para

[redhatmeg]

I decided to tell you at random about what I thought out about my Jesuit Pirates idea during the rewatch of One Piece.

First of all, over time I decided to base most of the characters on saints, more or less.

Like, the captain would be based on Ignatius of Loyola who was a soldier and decided to forgo the violence. Originally Loyola-inspired captain was supposed to be a pirate-turned-monk guy, but I came to conclusion that he should be a former Marine officer who experienced religious vocation, but kinda sorta got labelled as pirate due to some crazy shenningans.

Another character would be based on saint Francis of Assisi, but not just as the "friend to all living things, being able to give a sermon to birds and negotiate with a wolf". See, saint Francis was a son of a nobleman and once he realized he wanted to be a monk, he gave away everything he had to the poor. Over time, as I was rewatching One Piece, I've got to see how the nobles are in this setting and it got me thinking... how about I'll make the Francis of Assisi-inspired guy a son of World Noble or a Goa Kingdom nobility, who realized long time ago that people of different social standing are still humans and decides to become a monk to help them?

Next, the "are Devil Fruit truly connected to the devil" guy... I decided to base him on saint Thomas Aquinas who was also famous philosopher and actually created a new philosophical system mixing Catholic theology with Aristotlean metaphysics. The Aquinas-inspired guy may or may not be a Zoan Type Devil Fruit, Model: Ox, user (as a reference to saint Thomas being called "silent ox" by his schoolmates.)

I also wanted to add a big, musclar guy based on saint Christopher. Mostly because I always liked the story of a fella strong enough to carry grown-ass men through the river, but then having difficulty carrying a small Child, because said Child was Baby Jesus and Christopher was carrying with Him also "the whole world". (But I also feel like I would need a big guy in the team; every team needs a big guy.)

I don't think I will ever write this fic, but I wanted to tell ya, what I came up with.

#redhatmeg to her followers #one piece #religious mention

[sugarakis-p2]

Shigaraki's New Mate Ch2

You get a taste of your new home, yay! ( insert high pitched awkward squeal) Wanted to add more smut but I'm a sucker for foreplay, I promise genuine naughty stuff in the next chapter. Whether you love or hate it I hope your entertained.

Warning: Mature content, nudity, dirty words, probably a thousand punctuation errors so word fascist proceed with caution.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

You shut your eyes against the wind as you cling to the monster. He is pressing you hard into his chest, his scent mawkish, the sound of his wings flapping is loud even over the wind. Flying is something you had only dreamed of. Now that it was real you are terrified of falling into the inky nights' abyss to enjoy it. You only dare open your eyes when he shifts you to carries you bridal style over the threshold of the cave. You pass through a long corridor with several passages until you enter a massive room that takes your breath away. From ceiling to floor it’s decorated with gems and gold.

Piles of it litter the floor, swords that have slain a thousand monsters are tossed haphazardly in a corner, bolts of bright exotic fabrics lay neglected in a pile. In the corner looks to be a massive bird’s nest, a canopy of silk adorned with pearls hangs over it. In the center of the nest, there are hundreds of silken pillows of every size and color a human can imagine.

Tuffs of his fluff line the edges, woven in with griffin feathers and silvery unicorn hair. You have never seen these things, but you know that is what it is. Things you have only ever heard of but could never hope to imagine seeing in your life. If you are lucky a nobleman or woman might be visiting a whore and you could get a glimpse of some fancy fabric, but this leaves you in awe.

He sets you down gently on your feet. You are so distracted by the shiny things you don’t notice he’s gotten a bucket of water until you are drowning. He pours it over your head unceremoniously. You gasp and sputter for air as the cold knocks the wind out of you. Suddenly you feel strong hands wrap you in fabric. He is roughly drying you while simultaneously dusting you with his wings.

On the other side of the room is a giant fireplace he has set down a pillow in front of it for which he plops you onto like a ragdoll. He disappears and your left wondering what the hell just happened. You try to towel off his dust but that just spreads it around. In the firelight, your skin shines and glimmers with his dust. It’s rather pretty you think to yourself.

You examine the ivory fireplace, it’s large with rubies embedded on the edges. You look higher on the shelf of the fireplace and shudder. Lined up neatly in a row are polished and loved human hands and skulls. You were so enamored with the riches you forget you are in danger.

Your mind is turning. It is dawning on you that there is no way out of here, at least not at night, so make the monster happy and hope he doesn’t kill you. You look longingly at the griffin feathers, just one of those could feed your whole family for a year. He is back with a silver shield which he has turned into a tray. He grabs a pillow and sets it next to you, plopping himself down, he sets the shield between you.

Reaching over he pulls a jug from the shadows you didn’t see. Looking around he finds a gold challis to pour your water in. He holds it out to you, and with shaking hands you take it, brushing against his long fingers. You gulp the water down eagerly, your throat still stung from the vomit and your mouth is dry from fear. You hold out the cup begging for more politely.

“Please may I have some more, it’s so good. It feels like it has been ages since I’ve tasted fresh water.” His wings flutter at this. He is pleased to find that you are not screaming and running around in terror. He is often surprised how many times he has brought a mate to the nest only to have them throw themselves over the edge and plummet to there death. Several others squirmed or struggled and to his dismay had turned to dust before he was satisfied.

He plucks up a piece of fruit that pairs well with the meat and holds it out to you. Your mouth is watering as you reach for it only to have him bat your hand away. You give him a pained confused look which causes him to laugh. A throaty hissing sound you imagine Eve heard in the garden.

He holds it out to you again, you eye him with suspicion before you lean forward parting your mouth. He pushes it past your lips and presses it down on your tongue, this time you know what he wants, and you shamefully suck his fingers. You have never tasted anything as good as the food he has shoved in your mouth. There’s a lewd wet popping sound as he pulls his fingers out. He brushes your lower lip as he reaches for more to feed you. You moan in pleasure as you chew, it had been so long since you had eaten real food. Raw potatoes do not count as food. This goes on for some time until you are full and happy.

Shigaraki can smell your relaxation and is eager to get you to the nest. If you survive the night you will be his mate, he is keen to breed you nightly. He vibrates at the idea of feed from your breasts, he will hate to have to share with his brood, but he has never been able to get this far enough to dream. He snatches you up and carries you to the nest. It’s so abrupt you cling to him, knitting your fist in his fur.

He doesn’t seem to notice or mind. As he sets you down in the middle of the nest, he’s on top of you. He’s cooing with intermittent chirps, nuzzling your neck and hair with his nose again. His long delicate fingers are encouraging you to run your fingers through his fur and hair.

You obey and begin to melt inside. It is the softest thing you have ever felt, one year at the county fair someone had brought a chinchilla, you touched it. This was softer than that, you are compelled to drag it through the webbings of your fingers, enjoying the sensation. His chest rumbles in a deep purr as he presses his body down on top of you, his wings on either side caging you in warmth, his purrs so loud you can feel them vibrating in your own chest. You reach out to run a finger along the top of his wing.

There’s a bit of fur there as well, brown and golden, his antenna catches your hand and runs along the back. You look at your finger and smile, golden iridescent dust coats your finger, you wipe it on your chest and move back to his neck. Rubbing your face in his fur like before he took you to his cave, his purring doubles. He lifts up to look down on your naked form as his entire body vibrates and shimmers for you.

His flapping wings and gyrations are a dance for you. You can feel the heavy length of his cock pressing against your hip. Reaching up to caress his sculpted chest, he is lean and muscular like wrought iron. You trace the scars and he stills. He leans into your touch, his eyes meet yours, his lids heavy with lust.

“Mate,” he rasps low and deep. You forgot they could speak some human. He moves to align himself to your entrance. When you stop him with a hand, a look of annoyance crossing his face.

Chapter 3

#my hero academia shigaraki #moth shigaraki #motharaki #mothman shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #boku no hero academia tomura

[cupidsintern]

the death of hyacinthus - pt. i

this is my old renaissance au with artist!billy and model!steve so enjoy lol

The light spills out onto the floor before the window, making the worn wood of the floor look bright again, like new. The light doesn't reach Steve though. Billy set up the scene like that on purpose, closer to the center of his studio. No direct light. He wants this to be lit like it's the beginning of twilight. In his head, Hyacinth dies at sunset.

The room is silent, has been for a while, other than birds outside the window, a breeze that made the window tap against itself lightly, and fabric shifting if Steve stirs from where he is at all, draped across this haphazard construction of pillows, blankets, and a bench.

That's the word Billy used; “drape”. When Steve got to the studio Billy was kicking pillows around on his little model platform, trying to get everything set up right, hardly even greeting Steve at all before launching into his explanation of how he wanted Steve to look.

“-and he’s dying, but he’s not dead yet,” Billy walked half a circle around the platform, hands out. “So Apollo would- damn-” A pillow fell over, he pushed it back up. “Would be here. So if you can just sort of drape yourself across right here-”

Steve was stripping off the last of his garments when Billy turned back around.

“Here?” Steve finished kicking his stockings off, crossed to step up onto the platform.

Billy swallowed, looking Steve in the eyes because at least it meant he wouldn't look down, slack jawed. “Yeah, that's- that’s perfect.” Steve was already settling in to sitting down, letting his head fall back against the seat of the bench, throat exposed.

The way he was sitting shifted his weight in his hips more; Billy tried to look critically. Not appreciatively. He shouldn’t be appreciating the son of the nobleman that had decided to be his patron. Not that Steve was even supposed to be modeling for him beyond the two portraits he’d already had done.

“Tip your knee down more,” Billy stepps back, takes in the composition.

Steve drops his knee.

“Turn your head towards me.”

Steve obliges. The line of his nose looks perfect at three quarters.

Billy stepps up to the platform again, pulls some of the fabric forward, lets it fall over Steve's legs more, over his groin- good. Less distracting. More poetic or something- and the line of his thighs beneath the fabric has just the heaviness Billy is looking for. He steps back again.

“What’s the myth again?” Steve’s jaw gains definition when he speaks with his head at this angle.

“The Death of Hyacinthus.”

“I know that part.” Steve rolls his hand a little. “The part before that. How does he die?”

“He- hang on.” Billy steps close again to push things around, make the lines right. “The wind- Zephyr- gets jealous of his beauty. Apollo throws a discus, and Zephyr pushes it off course, so it knocks Hyacinth in the head. Apollo holds him while he dies.” Billy says it all matter-of-factly. He's trying not to get distracted. He picks up Steve's arm to tilt back towards him a little. His skin is warm like the sunlight staining the floor.

“That's sad.” Steve says. His arm feels relaxed in Billy’s grip. “Weren't they close? Apollo and Hyacinth.”

Billy feels a familiar warmth at his neck of this topic. This thing that always comes up when he and Steve are alone. “They were lovers.”

Steve doesn't say anything back to that.

Billy gets the composition mostly how he wants it- and he’ll probably try Steve in a couple different poses, this is only for sketching. He takes ages deciding where to set up to actually draw it- Steve makes fun of him. Billy says he’s not the one naked on a pile of old curtains. That makes Steve laugh. His stomach flexes a little when he laughs.

Billy's glad Steve can be part of his process now.

He gets some general gestures down on paper. He really nails the angle of Steve’s throat- which he's proud of. He needs the arch of the thing to be perfect. And he gets the general idea of Steve's features down quick- he’s drawn Steve's face maybe a thousand times by now. The way his arm falls is tricky- he’ll come back to that in a bit.

“Billy.”

Billy looks up at Steve’s voice. He’s sat up a little, something short of coy in his eyes. “I’m cold.” “You’re cold.” Billy says back to him. Because he never does what Steve implies. Only what Steve says.

“Yeah, like you said- I’m bare ass naked on a pile of curtains.”

“Your calling.”

Steve laughs again. “Do you think we could close the door?”

“We?”

“You. Can you close the door.”

“Who’s the revered artist here?”

“Who’s the patron?”

Billy rolls his eyes, but he drops his chalk into the lip of his easel anyway, walks to pull the door to his studio shut, separating them from the rest of the house. Steve left it open in the first place.

“You’re not my patron.” Billy says when he gets back, picks up to start drawing again.

“I’m close.” Steve only sounds a little superior.

He’s right. He is close to being Billy's patron. He recommended Billy to his family, he talked up Billy’s version of the pieta, he introduced Billy to the Influentials of Florence, got him this nice new studio, set up in one of the family houses. He was only a little superior about it.

Mostly he was nice.

Nice to Billy. Excited about the things he drew, always asking him what he was working on.

Asked to sit for him once, twice, how many more times, he was part of the process now.

This might be what having a muse was, if Billy believed in things like having muses.

Steve scratches the back of his calf with a foot, then sets his legs back down.

“I’m surprised you don’t get bored doing this.” Billy cracks two of the knuckles on his drawing hand, shakes out his wrist. He’s only prying a little.

“I like watching you work,” comes Steve's easy reply.

“Still.” Billy smudges at a stray line with his thumb. “You’re always fidgety at dinners and shit. Not here.”

“Dinners are boring.” Steve sighs.

He had expressed that sentiment before. That he found Billy much more interesting than anything his family ever did. That he’d trade his infinite wealth for the virve Billy so possessed. Only he didn't say it like that. He said “I’d trade all of this shit for whatever makes your art so beautiful.”

And Billy said “You wouldn't want to. Trust me.”

Billy, having seared the image of Steve into his brain by now, was adding more definition in places, really letting his focus slide out of his head.

And it’s quiet for a bit. Billy doesn't notice when the silence breaks- the sound of shifting fabric, bare feet on wood floor-

“Shit, that’s really good.” Steve's voice startles Billy a little, but he doesn’t let it show. Just turns a little abruptly to find Steve leaning over his shoulder.

“Looks just like me.” Steve continued, hovering his fingertips over Billy's rendition of his nose.

“You don’t have to sound so impressed every time.” Billy rolled his eyes, pushing Steve’s hand away.

“Oh, excuse me for showing some enthusiasm.” Steve hummed another laugh, still looking at the paper. He traced a finger absentmindedly down his own flesh-and-blood nose, marveling at the likeness.

Billy couldn't focus enough to continue with Steve so close. Not like he’d never seen Steve in next to nothing before. But this was really and truly nothing. And even naked as the day he was born Steve exuded wealth in just the way he stood. Like clothes were nothing but decoration on something already… beautiful.

“Can you go back to your spot, please?” Billy got out, looking away like he was annoyed.

Steve just smiled at him before padding back to his platform, throwing the fabric back over his legs.

But now the composition was wrong-

“So,” Steve’s voice carried across the sun-soaked chambers. “Why Hyacinth?”

“What do you mean.” Billy was trying desperately to collect his thoughts.

“I mean, he’s dating a god, right? Why him? What's so special about him.”

“He’s beautiful.”

“And?”

“Well, I mean, he’s a Spartan prince, he’s legendary. Apollo doesn't even really pick him. Hyacinth has, like, a bunch of people to choose from. He picks Apollo.”

Billy can’t draw like this, especially since Steve fucked up the composition- probably on purpose.

Billy gets up with an unintentional little huff and gets close to Steve again, has to adjust his legs again, avoid staring at the pinks that dust Steve’s everywhere-

“You draw me a lot.” Steve interrupts Billy’s train of thought.

Billy looks up, holding Steve’s wrist like it was his own. “You sit for me a lot-”

“What's your favorite part to draw?”

Billy’s breathing feels thicker, like his throat is coated in honey, sweet but hard to breathe. “Of you?” “Yeah.”

“Your nose.” Billy says easily, because it's safe to say.

Steve smiles. “You've said that before.”

“It's true.” Billy prepares to turn away again, to tell Steve they should get more done while there's still daylight.

Steve’s fingers hook against the palm of Billy's hand. This is playing with fire.

Steve lifts Billy's hand up, touches it to the bridge of his nose.

He can feel the sharp bone under his forefinger.

“Where else?”

Billy inhales. It's a feat. “Your jaw.”

Steve pulls Billy's hand down his cheek to touch his jawline. They’ve been avoiding this forever,

“And?” Cliche game of cat and mouse. Right now, Billy’s the mouse.

“Your shoulders.” Billy watches Steve drag his hand down his perfect neck to the slope of his perfect shoulders. “Steve.”

“Billy.” Steve mocks Billy’s warning tone just a little. “Come on, what else?”

Billy swallows again. He doesn't respond he just lets his hand wander lower, lower, down his chest, to his stomach-

Billy stops his hand, pushes back against Steve’s. “I’ve never drawn you nude, if that's what you’re implying.”

“Maybe you should.” Steve’s finger’s slide up Billy's forearm to hook under the edge of his rolled up sleeve.

“I’d need a couple different references...” Billy trails off. He knows Steve is about to kiss him.

It’s still delicious when he does. No number of days, weeks, waiting for one of them to make a move, of thinking what that move would be, what it would feel like, would have prepared Billy for the spit-sweet taste of a first kiss in the late afternoon.

-

i might do a part ii or just leave it like this lol

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #steve x billy #billy x steve #harringrove fanfic #harringrove fic #my fic #my writing #its the renaissance au

[chiropteracupola]

Fandom osmosis: uhhh... Les Mis? and hmm, Temeraire? (searching your blog turned up Nothing for either and i don't think? you Go Here for either?)

I do not Go There but I do have the vaguest idea of both of them?

it starts with a very long dry discussion of a bishop and his family and everything that has ever happened to him and I became uninterested and stopped reading before getting through that bit... alas.

the most important guy in les mis is jean valjean, and based on the single day in high school french where we attempted to read excerpts of it, he went very dramatically to prison for stealing a loaf of bread, and was followed about by a very sad policeman. and his father was also named jean? and the bread was for his sister's children because he is Saintly and Kind and Heroic and whatnot?

the sad policeman is called javert nofirstname and he has very impressive sideburns? and has some kind of moral crisis and jumps from a bridge?

at some point valjean adopts a child and carries someone through the sewers and becomes the mayor and wears a wig and does a heist? possibly simultaneously? the child's pathetic boyfriend falls in with a bunch of student revolutionaries in the 1830s? there are so many of them and I do know some of their names, but I'll see if I can summarize their deal as best I can. hm, there's the really aggressively honorable golden glittery one and the one who drinks to excess and the bald one and the medical student and the poet and the fancy one and the small child? there are definitely more of them than that.

george blagden played one of these guys at some point and rewrote 'i'll follow you into the dark' to suit his character arc I believe... okay that one I know about because I have it saved to my computer amid the detritus of other music I've scraped from the depths of youtube.

there is a musical which I have not ever listened to. moving on from that.

I have made Intentions about reading temeraire for a very very long time but have not yet! presuming of course that it is something that you read, which I am actually not sure if it is or not.

my best guess is ...almost aubreyad but dragons instead of ships? the main sort of guys that are there are william laurence* and Large Big Excellent Dragon, which is the temeraire of the title? someone with large birds of prey? john granby, who I have been told is tom-pullings-reminiscent and perhaps tragical? a really cool lady? other dragon with a red-and-green color scheme... iskierka? someone has amnesia? and napoleon is also there maybe???

*I have So many people named laurence/lawrence/&c to keep track of at this point so I Do Not Even Know Anymore.

...assuming of course that you meant The One With The Dragons and not the Large Warship or the French Nobleman that are also called that!

#answers from the cupola #my dear friend crow gave me a copy of les mis year and years ago and I have Not touched that thing #one million alas-es to victor hugo and I am going to continue in that vein I believe #every time I hear about temeraire I think that it is just Chock Full of things that I like and that I should read it #and then I get distracted....

[love-archon]

A Poem For You

Fleeting romances in the court of the Raiden Shogun, whose reign stands eternally still...

Spring - 春

"In Naniwa Bay, now the flowers are blossoming. After lying dormant all winter, now the spring has come..."

-Wani of Baekje

• The old tales warn of kitsune: yokai that take on forms of handsome men and beautiful women to play tricks on the unsuspecting humans. When they are careless, however, their disguises slip, and one can see a tail or two poking out from under their robes.

• Or, in the case of your soldiers' archery instructor, Gorou, a pair of large, fluffy ears emerging from his hair.

• There are whispers of a general in the rebel army far in the mountains, who has the features of a fox spirit and the slyness to match. Thankfully, the army lacks valuable intel to proceed, and cannot move forward without the use of spies.

• You blink and, in a shimmer like dust on sun-baked earth, the ears are gone. The gentle afternoon breeze rustles the leaves, and he nocks his arrow and lets it fly.

• Perhaps you were simply imagining things?

• Gorou, who guides his trainees with a strong, reliable hand, steady as stone,

• Gorou, who splits arrows in half as they fly, vowing to protect you always,

• Gorou, who smiles fondly at you as you walk through the gardens of your estate, holding your parasol to veil you from the sun, would never betray you or the great shogun. Would he?

• One warm spring night, where the dew still drips from the sakura flowers, he sits with you on the rooftops. His round lazuli eyes meet yours, and he tells you, truthfully, that he'll be leaving soon. Won't you join him?

• Your heart stirs to agree, but you respond that you cannot abandon your duties to your family, or to the shogun. He looks disappointed, but gets up from his seat, telling you that he accepts your decision. “If you ever change your mind,” he begins, but stops when the look in your eyes makes it clear you can’t.

• But you didn't know that "soon" meant now.

• Papers stolen from your family's most secret rooms are rolled up in his hands. His plain clothes melt away to reveal the uniform of the rebel army. The foxlike ears you thought were a dream now rest on his head, clear as day. 

• Most striking of all, however, are the nine tails shimmering behind him- the mark of a fox spirit that’s accumulated centuries of magic.

• Your eyes can’t quite catch the way he leaves, and you’re not sure exactly when you became alone in the night with the flowers.

• Or if you’d imagined the saddened way he said goodbye.

Summer - 夏

"The spring has passed, and the summer comes again;

For the white robes are spread to dry on the Mount of Kaguyama."

-Empress Jitoh

• You do not know who keeps sending these letters, despite your best efforts. Only that they must be a refined noble of high status and excellent taste.

• Each cut of paper, beautifully bound, is dyed the right color to match the season. They are appropriately adorned with fresh sprigs of plants from the sender's garden, or tied with a luxurious ribbon of patterned silk. Lavish scents drift off the pages in a perfume that's sweet and light.

• Oh, and the words.

• The appearance of these gifts pale in comparison to the contents. The mysterious admirer has learned the alphabet borrowed from Liyue, and the complex brush strokes are applied with just the right deftness that each kanji character shines.

• Your beauty is eternal, they proclaim, like unmelting snow on summer mountains, and strikes the heart like a bolt of lightning. In your luminous eyes, the ideal of your god has been met- a thousand times over...

• As dizzyingly romantic as it is, one thing gives you pause, as you lift your own brush to write your reply.

• "Your god," it says. Not mine.

• Who would know the secret etiquette of the court so intimately, to the point that other suitors' letters paled in comparison... and not worship the immaculate Raiden Shogun, much less take an interest in you?

• Then you are sent in your clan head's place to deal with the troublesome Fatui that have slipped past your nation's defenses, and you find your answer then. Their leader wears the traditional attire of a traveling nobleman, and wields his weapon with aristocratic grace.

• His underlings fall rather quickly under your hand, but he himself is annoyingly persistent. He darts out of the way of your attacks, but it takes all your power to stop his from striking true.

• You do not get his name, only his face- fair and clean and luminous, with delicate features twisted in cruel amusement. 

• It’s a shame that you must marr it with your blade, but what can be done?

• Then, he glides past you, close enough to whisper in your ear, and completes the poem no one has seen but you. 

Autumn - 秋

"Even in the age of almighty gods unheard of;

The waters of Tatsuta are dyed in crimson red."

-Lord Ariwara-no-Narihira

• It is time for the great procession- an event of fanfare and decadence, where you and your family must travel from your ancestral home to the domain of the immortal shogun to display your wealth.

• Despite the excitement surrounding the occasion, you know quite well it is nothing more than a way to maintain control over the lords of Inazuma.

• But no expense must be spared if it means preserving your reputation. If it means that no other family dares question your wealth. Not in travel, not in housing arrangements, not in entertainment, not in the hired guards to protect you on your long and arduous journey.

• And so, after you pay the Kaedehara clan the exorbitant sum they demand, they give you twenty able-bodied samurai under their command... including Kazuha, their youngest son.

• The servant girls- and some of the boys- traveling with you blush when he passes, observing his lithe form and gentle eyes and striking, pale blond hair. One streak of red is visible there, calling to mind a sole maple leaf in autumn.

• Kazuha does not join in the other samurai's revelry. While they cheerfully indulge in the food and drink provided to them on the journey, and boast of their prowess when the time comes to fight bandits hiding on the path, he remains silent and alone, his eyes only on his collection of handwritten poems.

• (And, when you aren’t looking, they shyly flit to you before looking away.)

• In the end, however, Kazuha is the only one who actually bests a bandit in combat.

• Late at night, when the others are sleeping off the wine, large shadows flit past the trees. The bandit clans in the area thrive during this time, like hunters when beasts migrate in droves. They're confident that this traveling party will be easy prey.

• But one thief approaches too rashly, too quickly, and one crimson eye opens to meet him.

• Kazuha drifts from one opponent to another like a leaf falling from its branch, carried by strong winds. And yet, none of them can touch him. One after another, each man collapses with a sharp cry, only their silhouettes visible in the darkness. 

• In the morning, the traveling party awakens to see fifty-some criminals tied up and piled up in a heap, and bursts into laughter. As the other samurai are still hung over, it’s clear who was responsible for this.

• Yes, Kaedehara-kun is a wonderful samurai. Skillful, composed, brave. And an excellent companion to have by one’s side, if one is lucky enough to have met him.

• It was quite the shock to learn that he would later flee the islands, sailing onward to the Land of Contracts aboard the ship of a pirate lord.

• But if anyone had the strength of mind to defy the gods- wouldn’t it be him?

Winter - 冬

"In winter, the early mornings. It is beautiful indeed when snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the ground is white with frost..."

-Sei Shonagon

• Lady Ayaka is one of your closest friends, with your families being in a partnership for centuries. You have fond memories of playing together in the snow, with cranes flying overhead in the white sky.

• You know her secrets, and she knows yours. Nothing is kept between you- this is how you survive in a court of treachery and lies.

• So when she passes by in a sunlit hallway, you hear a whisper that shocks you to the core. Smooth silver hair floats past your sight, quiet as snow, and just as fleeting. But you must collect yourself quickly, for spies may lurk behind any silken screen.

• You will be betrothed to Kamisato Ayato, your dear friend's older brother, in ten day's time.

• As close as you are to Ayaka, Ayato has always been a shadow flitting in the corner of your sight, being too busy with his duties to see you. So his visage- to you- is as featureless as a field of snow.

• After all the romance novels you've read, it's difficult to accept marrying a man you've never spoken with, but... what can be done? You can only hope that Lord Ayato is kind and treats you well.

• But... what if he isn’t?

• Lady Ayaka would never speak ill of her brother. In fact, no noblewoman would even consider such a notion, even if it were true. Good appearances, on every level, are more important to nobles than gold. 

• But all the same, you’ve seen the ladies of the court who are trapped in loveless homes like birds in cages. How their smiles are painted on, how their laughs ring hollow and empty, how they glance longingly to the world outside, beyond the lavish court that hides them here.

• Your gaze drifts towards the harbor, where the water shimmers with light. You could run away, too. To the eastern mountains, where your former archery teacher hides with his fellow rebels- although to do that would invoke the shogun's wrath. Or, riskier still, follow Kazuha's path to the harbor, and chase him on to Liyue...

• “Young Lord Kamisato is waiting for you,” a servant says, breaking you from your thoughts, and bowing hastily before you can meet her eyes. The servant across from her does the same as the paper doors slide open, and they do not rise as you walk through.

• This room is airy and spacious, of course. Wind from opened windows seems to sigh as it passes over you and beyond, and you can smell flowers from the garden carried in from the breeze. How strange... even a garden that you played in countless times seems completely new and unfamiliar.

• Gracefully, soundlessly, Ayato emerges from behind his ornate screen. Power and elegance flows from his every movement. And at last, you dare to look at what you have never seen before.

• You look at his face, finally revealed before you, like translucent ice giving way to the land beneath the white...

• And gasp.

_______

Author's Notes

Wani of Baekje: Each opening quote is a poem by a famous Japanese author, but Wani was a scholar visiting from Ancient Korea!

Great procession: Known in Japan as sankin kotai. Powerful lords were forced to spend massive amounts of money to travel from their homes to the shogun's castle and back; in this way, the shogun was able to keep them on an efficiently tight leash.

#genshin impact x reader #kazuha kaedehara x reader #scaramouche x reader #gorou x reader #inazuma