#the splendour of fear

[spilladabalia]

Felt - The Stagnant Pool

#felt #the stagnant pool #lawrence #maurice deebank #mick lloyd #gary ainge #psychedelic pop #psychedelic rock #jangle pop #the splendour of fear #1984 #Youtube

[wonder-worker]

What are your favorite Plantagenet-related novels, and why do you love them?

Hi! I'm so sorry, I don't read lots of medieval English historical fiction, and the ones I have read are pretty terrible (three guesses which).

Once again: sorry! If anyone else has any recommendations, feel free to share them!

#ask #I've heard that Sharon Kay Penman's Plantagenet trilogy is pretty good? I haven't read it though so I can't say #'The Sunne in Splendour' (Penman's WotR book) was absolutely terrible though #It has all the hallmarks of a classic Ricardian novel. It IS one of the classic Ricardian novels I think? #Richard is an entirely innocent selfless righteous man with a glorious and divinely-blessed reign who's the victim in every situation #Isabel Neville was treated awfully. Margaret of Anjou was treated awfully #Elizabeth Woodville was somehow treated worse than both of them combined and was ridiculously sexualized on top of it #Penman's tagline for her should've honestly been 'You thought THIS character was bad? Never fear - Elizabeth Woodville is 10x worse!' #The book goes out of its way to emphasize how she was the worst thing to ever happen to England; how the Woodvilles made the 1450s look #like 'petty squabbling'; how Elizabeth made Margaret of Anjou look like a 'veritable saint by comparison' #also I distinctly remember her own husband yelling at her that she would sleep with a leper if it meant her becoming queen #This line just about sums it up: 'Warwick doubted there had ever been a Queen as little liked as the woman Edward had taken as his wife' #I'm like 99% sure that Cersei Lannister was primarily based off Penman's Elizabeth. The similarities are uncanny #Though Cersei is nonetheless treated better and given infinitely more depth than Elizabeth was - that's how badly she was depicted #I want to call her a Disney villain on steroids but frankly that would be inaccurate because even they are given more respect #I was always interested in Elizabeth but this book was one of the main reasons I became so defensive of her #What else...? #Penman's characterizations of Thomas Gray and Edward of Lancaster were pretty on par with classic Ricardian novels so I wasn't surprised #(though I will say that despite Edward of Lancaster being treated terribly he was still afforded more depth and sympathy than Thomas was) #What did surprise me was the fact that she wrote ANTHONY WOODVILLE as a violent scheming thug. Yes really #Honestly anyone remotely related to the Woodvilles is portrayed as cartonnishly evil #And EDWARD V oh god. This 12-year old kid is depicted as a cold cruel capricious tyrant who's more Woodville than royal (classism anyone?) #I'm 99% sure Joffrey Baratheon was based off Penman's portrayal of him. His dynamic with Elizabeth certainly matches Cersei's with Joffrey' #... anyway this rant has nothing to do with anon's question #sorry

[reflectionswithbella]

MAGNIFICENCE

#Beauty #Magnificence #Life #Light #Change #Determination #Overcome #Tool #Conquer #Darkness #Sorrow #craftsmanship #inspiration #words #quotes #Poetry

The spiral form, Of a staircase, Are ornately crafted, To be witnesses, A living demonstration, Of the Greatness, Immense Success, Which unfolds,  Magnificently, Flowing silently, Like the wind, To be an ally, A harbinger of Change, For those full of Confidence, Forging ahead with Determination, To snatch the Crown of Victory, From the clutches of Misery. The regal form, Of a…

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#Beauty #Character #fear #Goals #Imagination #Inspiration #Life #Magnificence #overcome #Possibilities #Shinning #Sorrow #Splendour #Staircase #Steps #Triumph #Uplifting

[confused-wanderer]

We all know Damian’s not one for physical or verbal affection. So I raise you: drawings

Drawings and paintings are the easiest way inside Damian’s mind. The more angry or disturbed he is, the more details the drawing is and the palette depends on the emotion. Fear? Bright lights with one pitch black spot. Anxious? A mixture of dark and light colours.

No matter what he draws, the batfam always looks for how detailed it is. On days he’s happy or content the drawing looks a bit abstract, like too many ideas were flowing and he didn’t mind making a mess (not having a specific direction) of his drawing.

But it’s also how he shows affection.

On Dicks birthday he once painted the entire circus along with a little dick laughing and swinging on the trapeze with his parents with the crew doing their acts and the animals having fun.

That was the first indication Dick had of Damian’s change in behaviour that showed him he was willing to open up, to care and change…even if it took time.

Jason found a particularly striking portrait of his favourite scene from a book, painted with a magnificent splendour with every detail and symbolism present, with the characters drawn just as he’d imagined. It’s so beautiful he hangs it in one of his most visited safe houses, and it isn’t until later when he realises it could have been the reason Damian stole his favourite book which contained notes on each scene.

Alfred catches a glimpse of Damian painting something he insists is for Bruce’s eyes only, but the palette was a mixture of bright colours.

Only on his parents death anniversary, when all his siblings are in town and sitting in a room with Bruce when he taps on Dick, Jason and Steph’s shoulders and asks them to come with him. They’re hesitant at first but the vulnerability in his eyes finally wins them over.

Damian knows how to draw, but not how to present, especially when everyone’s watching and he doesn’t know how they’ll react, or rather how Bruce would.

So they help him figure out how he wants to show Bruce, and on his request together take the painting and unveil it in front of Bruce when they’re all standing on the Balcony.

It’s a picture of the entire family, with all the newest members and in the background homages of their superhero identities, along with Easter eggs for poison ivy, Harley, the justice league and so many others.

But in the centre was Bruce, standing in the centre of his parents and all the other members in order from oldest to youngest, surrounding him.

It was the first time Damian learnt that tears aren’t always a bad thing.

#batman fluff #batman #Bruce Wayne #superman #Clark Kent #dick Grayson #nightwing #Stephanie brown #spoiler #Robin #Damian wayne #Jason todd #red hood #poison ivy #harely quinn #batfam #batfamily fluff #batbrothers fluff #Alfred pennyworth #heartwarming

[neotaissong]

"And I think its a really fearful time for young writers with a bellyful of fire. It's a fearful time cos if you listen to the voices (the market forces, the distractions) you're not going to get fire out of you, you're going to get water out of you. But for godssake, I want you to get fire out of you and that's why we've been having this conversation, to reawaken the fire, the wonder, the splendour, the misery, the mystery, why is it we write?

We don't write to be polite on the page. We don't write to get nods in the mind. We write to explode the inner rooms of people. So that the rooms in which they read, opens out into the whole world and they feel the radiance touching everybody and they can feel for one moment, that they can be anything or nothing if they chose to be, but just to be hit by that extraordinary vigour and power that a true piece of writing - whether its a sonnet, whether it's a poem of four lines by Rilke, whether it's a short story by your beloved Chekov, whether it's a punch by Toni Morrison or a head-butt by Ralph Ellison, that's what we want. We want the raw, fire.

(Thats what we were trying to contribute to here) you shouldn't pay any attention to the market forces, we should write from our spirits, whether that gets published, I don't know how we break that hegemony, I don't know how we do that. (how do you get a contract? how do you pay your bills? how do you pay your rent? how do you feed your children? - There was a time when writers formed co-operatives and published each others works, that's gone now that's all disappeared) He (Cornel) talks about being a prisoner of hope, me too, as far as literature."

Ben Okri in conversation with Cornell West, University of Cambridge, 2013

#neotai's song #undeniable #master teacher #ben okri

[callsigns-haze]

Oh, How She's Changed...

Pairing: Acotar x reader Warnings: Contains mature themes, including violence, romance, and adult situations. Summary: YN, the immortal descendant of gods, reunites with her friends Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel at a lavish gathering in the Night Court's grand ballroom. As they reminisce about past adventures and observe the antics of other courtiers, they marvel at YN's transformation from an innocent girl into a captivating woman. However, their reunion is cut short when one of YN's guards arrives to escort her away, leaving Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel with lingering thoughts and a sense of longing as they watch her depart into the night.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue across the Night Court's palace, YN, the immortal descendant of gods, found herself ensconced in a lavish chamber. Intricate tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of ancient battles and celestial beings, while flickering candles bathed the room in a soft, ethereal glow. At the heart of the chamber, YN stood surrounded by the opulent splendour of her surroundings, her gaze drawn to the figures of Mor and Amren bustling around her.

Mor, her fiery locks cascading in loose waves around her shoulders, moved with a grace born of centuries of battle and camaraderie. Dressed in elegant attire befitting her station as a high-ranking member of the Night Court, she approached YN with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Well, YN," she said, her voice carrying a note of playful anticipation, "are you ready to grace the fae with your divine presence tonight?"

YN, radiant in her own right, adorned in garments woven from the finest silks and adorned with jewels that shimmered like stars, offered Mor a warm smile. "I hope I can do justice to the legacy of my ancestors," she replied, her voice infused with a hint of humility.

Meanwhile, Amren, the enigmatic being of ancient origins, moved with a fluidity that spoke of eons spent mastering the arcane arts. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned forth threads of celestial magic, weaving enchantments into the fabric of YN's gown. Each stitch pulsed with otherworldly energy, resonating with the divine power that flowed through YN's immortal veins.

"Fear not, YN," Amren reassured her, her voice a melodic echo of distant thunder, "with Mor's impeccable taste and my arcane prowess, you'll be the epitome of divine elegance."

Mor nodded in agreement, her gaze sweeping over YN with an approving smile. "And let's not forget your own innate charm and grace, YN," she added, her eyes alight with pride. "You were born for moments like these."

Grateful for their support and guidance, YN felt a surge of confidence coursing through her veins. "Thank you, both of you," she said, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "I'm grateful to have such wise counsel."

Amren's lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glittering with ancient wisdom. "The honour is ours, YN," she replied, her voice carrying the weight of centuries past. "Now, let us ensure that you're prepared for whatever the night may hold."

But as YN caught her reflection in the polished mirror, something stirred within her. Gone was the innocent girl she had always been, replaced by a woman exuding an air of confidence and allure. With a subtle sway of her hips and a coy smile playing upon her lips, she realized that with this new look, she was ready for some spice.

And so, as she stepped out into the night, her heart brimming with anticipation, YN knew that she was not just a descendant of gods, but a force to be reckoned with—a goddess in her own right, ready to conquer whatever challenges lay ahead.

--

In the heart of the Night Court's grand ballroom, the air hummed with the vibrant energy of celebration. The room pulsated with music, the melodies weaving through the throng of fae dancers swirling gracefully across the floor. Amidst the lively festivities, three figures sat at a secluded table, their voices mingling with laughter and camaraderie.

Rhysand, the enigmatic High Lord of the Night Court, reclined in his seat with an easy grace, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Beside him, Cassian and Azriel, his loyal companions and warriors of the Night Court, shared a toast, their laughter echoing through the hall.

"Another round, gentlemen?" Rhysand suggested, raising his glass in a playful salute.

Cassian grinned, clinking his glass against Rhysand's. "You read my mind, Rhys."

Azriel nodded in agreement, his usually stoic demeanor softened by the warmth of the moment. "To old friends and new beginnings," he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated with quiet strength.

As they sipped their drinks, their conversation turned to memories of times long past. They spoke of battles fought and victories won, of challenges overcome and bonds forged in the crucible of war. And yet, amidst the tales of triumph, there lingered a sense of longing—a yearning for something—or rather, someone—missing from their midst.

"I can't wait to see YN again," Cassian remarked, his eyes alight with anticipation. "It's been far too long since she graced us with her presence."

Rhysand nodded in agreement, a flicker of excitement dancing in his gaze. "Indeed. It will be interesting to see how she's changed over the years."

Azriel's expression softened with a hint of nostalgia. "She was always a force to be reckoned with," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "I have no doubt that she's only grown stronger with time."

As they spoke of YN, the immortal descendant of gods, their voices filled with a mixture of fondness and admiration. Though separated by distance and time, their bond with her remained unbreakable—a testament to the enduring power of friendship and loyalty.

And so, amidst the revelry of the Night Court, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel raised their glasses once more, toasting to the promise of a long-awaited reunion—a moment that would soon bring together old friends and new beginnings in a celebration of life, love, and the enduring bonds that unite them all.

As the night wore on and the revelry reached its peak, the grand ballroom of the Night Court was alive with energy. Fae of all shapes and sizes danced in a whirl of vibrant colors and laughter, their movements reflecting the joy and freedom of the moment.

Amidst the swirling throng, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel found themselves drawn into the rhythm of the music, their spirits lifted by the infectious enthusiasm of the crowd. They moved with a fluid grace, their movements a testament to years of training and camaraderie.

As they danced, their thoughts inevitably turned to YN, the immortal descendant of gods they had long considered a dear friend. Memories of their past adventures together flooded their minds, filling them with a sense of nostalgia and longing.

"I remember the first time I met YN," Cassian reminisced, his voice tinged with fondness. "She was like a breath of fresh air—a ray of sunshine in the darkness."

Rhysand chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, I recall that day well. She certainly knew how to make an entrance."

Azriel nodded in agreement, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "She was always full of surprises. I have no doubt that tonight will be no different."

As they danced and laughed, their anticipation for YN's arrival grew with each passing moment. They imagined the joy of seeing her again, the warmth of her smile, and the strength of her spirit.

And so, amidst the music and merriment of the Night Court's grand celebration, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel continued to dance, their hearts filled with excitement and anticipation for the long-awaited reunion that awaited them. For in that moment, surrounded by friends and allies, they knew that no matter what the future held, they would face it together, united in their bond of friendship and shared experiences.

As the trio continued their animated conversation, a sudden interruption from behind caught them off guard. Before they could react, a voice, once familiar but now tinged with a newfound confidence, sliced through the air.

"Did I hear someone talking about me?" YN's voice teased, laced with amusement and a hint of mischief.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel froze mid-conversation, their heads snapping around to find the source of the interruption. And there, standing before them, was YN—transformed beyond recognition.

Gone was the innocent girl they remembered from years past. In her place stood a woman of breathtaking beauty and undeniable allure. Her hair cascaded in waves of midnight silk, framing a face that radiated with confidence and strength. Every movement she made exuded grace and poise, her eyes sparkling with a newfound fire that sent shivers down their spines.

For a moment, the trio could only stare in stunned silence, their minds struggling to reconcile the image before them with the memories of the girl they once knew. It took them a beat too long to realize that the innocent girl had blossomed into a captivating woman—a realization that nearly caused Azriel to choke on his drink.

Cassian was the first to recover, his trademark grin spreading across his face. "Well, well, well," he exclaimed, his voice filled with playful delight. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Rhysand's eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed YN's transformation. "I must say, you clean up rather nicely, YN," he remarked, his tone teasing yet genuine.

Azriel, usually composed and reserved, found himself at a loss for words. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his cheeks flushing faintly as he struggled to regain his composure. "You... uh... look... stunning," he managed to stammer out, his voice barely above a whisper.

YN chuckled at their reactions, a knowing gleam dancing in her eyes. "Why, thank you, gentlemen," she replied, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "I must admit, it's been quite the journey."

As they exchanged pleasantries and caught up on lost time, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel couldn't help but marvel at the woman YN had become. And as they continued to bask in the warmth of her presence, they knew that this reunion would mark the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with excitement, adventure, and the enduring bond of friendship that had stood the test of time.

As Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN retreated to a secluded corner of the ballroom, their conversation took a more relaxed turn. Surrounded by the lively festivities of the Night Court, they observed the arrival of other lords and ladies with a mixture of amusement and mild skepticism.

Rhysand leaned against a pillar, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he surveyed the gathering crowd. "Ah, it seems the usual suspects have graced us with their presence," he remarked, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Cassian chuckled, his eyes scanning the room with a discerning gaze. "Indeed. I see Lord Tarquin has brought his entourage of sycophants," he observed, a bemused expression crossing his features.

Azriel's lips quirked into a wry smile as he watched the various courtiers mingling with practiced charm and false pretenses. "And let's not forget Lady Ianthe, fluttering about like a peacock in heat," he added, his voice dripping with dry humor.

YN, who had been quietly observing the scene, couldn't help but join in their laughter. "It's almost comical, isn't it?" she remarked, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "All this posturing and preening for the sake of appearances."

As they continued to share in their amusement, their conversation turned to lighter topics—old memories, shared experiences, and the absurdities of fae society. They laughed and joked, their camaraderie growing stronger with each passing moment.

But amidst the laughter and light-hearted banter, there was an unspoken understanding—a recognition of the challenges they faced and the dangers that lurked in the shadows. And as they stood together, united in their bond of friendship and shared experiences, they knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, with strength, courage, and a healthy dose of laughter to see them through.

As Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN observed the arrivals, their conversation took on a slightly more critical tone. They couldn't help but exchange knowing glances and subtle nods of agreement as they assessed the behavior of the other lords and ladies.

"Look at Lord Beron," Rhysand remarked, his voice dripping with disdain as he gestured towards a particularly pompous nobleman. "Does he ever tire of hearing himself talk?"

Cassian snorted in amusement, his eyes following Rhysand's gesture. "I doubt it," he replied, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "He's too enamored with the sound of his own voice."

Azriel, ever the silent observer, watched with a keen eye as the various courtiers vied for attention and favor. "And what about Lord Eris?" he mused, his tone tinged with skepticism. "Does he ever tire of playing his little games?"

YN nodded in agreement, her gaze narrowing slightly as she observed Lord Eris' calculating smile. "He's always been one for manipulation and intrigue," she remarked, her voice tinged with a hint of disdain. "But I doubt he'll find much success here tonight."

As they continued to pass judgment on the behavior of their fellow courtiers, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN found themselves sharing in a sense of camaraderie born of mutual understanding. They may have been outsiders in the eyes of some, but together, they formed a formidable alliance—one built on trust, loyalty, and a shared disdain for the superficiality and pretense that often permeated fae society.

And as they stood together, laughing and jesting in their secluded corner of the ballroom, they knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them with unwavering resolve and the unbreakable bond of friendship that bound them together.

As the night wore on, the revelry continued to swell around them, but amidst the celebration, a hushed murmur reached YN's ears. Turning slightly, she saw one of her guards approaching, his demeanor serious and resolute.

Excusing herself from the conversation with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel, YN turned to face her guard. His presence reminded her of the responsibilities that came with her divine lineage—the duties and obligations that often weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

With a nod of understanding, YN bid farewell to her companions, offering each of them a warm smile and a promise to meet again soon. Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel returned her smile, their expressions filled with a mixture of fondness and admiration.

As YN began to make her way towards the exit, the trio watched her go, their eyes following her with a mixture of awe and longing. It was impossible not to notice how she had changed—the way she carried herself with a newfound confidence, the subtle shift in her demeanor that spoke of experiences and challenges faced.

"She's grown into quite the remarkable woman, hasn't she?" Rhysand remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of pride.

Cassian nodded in agreement, his gaze never leaving YN's retreating figure. "Indeed. She's like a jewel—radiant and untouchable."

Azriel remained silent, his eyes fixed on YN with a depth of emotion that spoke volumes. He had always felt a special connection to her—a bond forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unspoken understanding. And as he watched her disappear into the night, a sense of longing stirred within him—a yearning to be by her side, to protect her and guide her through the challenges that lay ahead.

As YN disappeared from view, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel turned back to the festivities, their thoughts lingering on the woman who had captured their hearts and inspired their admiration. For in that moment, they knew that no matter where their paths may lead, their bond with YN would remain unbreakable—a beacon of light in the darkness, guiding them through the trials and tribulations of the fae realm.

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@shanimallina87

@kmc1989

@djs8891

@hardballoonlove

@callsign-dexter

@mamachasesmayhem

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@rosiahills22

#acotar #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys x y/n #rhys x you #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #cassian x reader #cassian x you #cassian x y/n #bat boys #bat boys x reader #bat boys x you #decided on something new...

[zeldasnotes]

Beauty Analysis: Marilyn Monroe

Lilith in the 1st house: This explain her magic sex appeal. Shes the biggest sex symbol in modern history. She definitely had to suffer a lot in the hands of men too. She did nude photos and dressed provocatively in a time when it was not common for women to be so ”brave”. She was also seen as a sidepiece by a lot of men. She was very small which is also a common Lilith trait. She was very seductive and you can see it was just who she was it wasnt forced like with some of her copycats. This also shows why she was seen as a slut. With Lilith on the Ascendant other people can be very obsessed with your physical appearance which was definitely the case for her.

Ceres in the 1st house: Ceres in the 1st house gives a cute and plump look. Angelic and cute, a lot like neptune but more in a mothering and mature way. She had round features and a curvy body with a prominent belly and prominent breasts. Ceres also gives pouty lips. She always wanted to be a mother which unfortunately never got to be.

Venus conjunct Chiron: Venus conjunct Chiron gives a vulnerable look which is one of the reasons she was so famous. She was one of the few who managed to look so innocent and so sexy at the same time which is extremely rare. She reeked of vulnerability and naivite no matter if she was or not thats how she came across. This aspect also shows why she was so interested in men she couldnt have, as if she wanted to set herself up for disappointment. A lot of pain surrounding femininity ”Few women stood up for her, it was too personally threatening. Monroe embodied basic female fears having to do with envy, jealousy and competition; she was a beautiful, sexy rival who was desired by all men because she played to their fantasies, in giving herself totally and asking to be loved she reminded women of their own vulnerability in the socio-symbolic contract.

Neptune in the 1st house: The star placement of all. This is why a fantasy was projected onto her. Its almost like she wasnt even a real person, which is probably one of the reasons for her mental illness. Objectified and seen as a product. This shows why her lips and eyes are her most famous features since neptune influence usually create beautiful lips and eyes. The sleepy eyes and the seductive open mouth made her irresistible. And the shiney glow to her skin making it look like she was covered in a vail of glitter. Not having a sense of personality broke her into pieces and probably killed her.

Adorea conjunct Jupiter: Jupiter expands anything it touches and she was definitely adored. Adored by billions of people even today 60 years after her death.

Fox conjunct Venus: Fox is the asteroid of being seen as sex objects which she obviously was. Fox in a persons chart gives sex symbol status no matter if the person wants it or not.

Musa conjunct North Node: She was and still is the muse of thousands artists. She is one of the most tattoed people in the world and probably the most photographed person in the world.

Sweet conjunct Midheaven: Known for being sweet in both behaviour and appearance. Which was a huge part of her fame. Its rare for someone her age to look so youthful and sweet.

Aglaja conjunct Midheaven: Aglaja was one of the three graces in greek mythology and she represents radiance, splendour, beauty and glory which is what Marilyn was known for. She had a natural radiance that not a lot of people have.

Charis conjunct Pluto: Her charisma was extremely strong and prominent. She possessed extraordinary charisma. But she had power(Pluto) over her own charisma and could turn it off lile a switch in such a way she was able to go out in public without being noticed.

COMMENT WHO YOU WANT ME TO DO NEXT!💋

©️ 2023 Zeldas Notes

#astro notes #astrology #astro observations #astronotes #lilith #lilith 1st house #neptune conjunct ascendant #lilith aspects

[horridgoblin]

In Need of Comfort (Part 1)

For part 2, click here. Tags: Fluff, hurt/comfort, romance, SFW, Christmas AU set in Waterdeep, gender neutral Tav x Gale. Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, anxiety in a crowded place, sensory overload. Disclaimer: I’m currently in the middle of Act 2, and I'm yet to finish BG3, so this is where my knowledge of the game stands. No spoilers please!

The Market was charged with the energy of festive cheer, and you could not help but feel entirely out of place. Sounds overwhelmed you; the crowds made you wish you were invisible, and a persistent sadness refused to leave your soul. The Market of Castle Ward was spectacular, despite how you felt. Twinkling baubles, trinkets, and other valuables were displayed proudly in their vibrant stalls. The scent of spice filled the air, and chants of merchants advertising their wares filled the atmosphere with electricity. It was a lot to take in. You wanted desperately to reciprocate the joy of the season, especially because Gale was beaming with joy; talking for weeks about how excited he was to show you how the ‘City of Splendour’ celebrates Christmas. 

A gentle, warm touch of Gale’s hand deliberately brushing yours snapped you out of your thoughts. As you looked up, brown eyes full of adoration locked yours. You could not resist but to smile. Gale was dressed in his best winter finery fit for the occasion, swathes of deep purple wool keeping most of the cold at bay. The grey streaks in his curly brown hair glinted in the winter sunlight, his beauty ethereal. Your anxiety abated with his love, but you thought it best to not show how you felt to preserve his happiness. Gale was always putting others before himself, and you wanted more than anything for him to have happiness in his life.

“You look absolutely stunning my love,” Gale said, gently tucking stray locks of your hair behind your ear, “I know we have a firm agenda set for today, but is there anything that catches your eye? I want nothing more than to spoil you.”

“Gale, spending time with you is a gift enough, please don’t fret.”

“Alright, I won’t try and outdazzle this gift, but I may be purchasing you a trinket or two regardless.” He winked, kissing your forehead, his beard scratching you lightly. “The stall with the brandy mincemeat is over there,” he pointed towards a stall of green tarp with jars gleaming in the sunlight, neatly lined up and tied with delicate red ribbon, “I bet I could add a bit of pizazz to it with an enchantment or two, though this doesn’t mean making the pies explode in some grand display, unfortunately.” You laughed at the thought despite your growing anxiety as you both approached the stall, hand in hand.

Snowflakes began to flit down from the greying sky, their icy touch amplified by fear as they landed on your face. The Market was becoming increasingly crowded. Claustrophobia was setting in. You had a nagging feeling to give into your base instincts and to run far, far away and hide. Instead, you gripped Gale’s hand for support. Your anxiety came at you at full force, and it was dizzying, the stall in front of you feeling imposing. 

Concerned, Gale took you aside and put his hand gently on your shoulder, turning you to face him. He leaned to whisper to your ear. “Are you ok, my heart?” 

Shaking your head to say no, he planted a feather light kiss onto your cheek. “These crowds must be immensely overwhelming; I can tell that as much. I am so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, darling.” You murmured, croaking as you struggled to speak.

“I’m afraid I must.” Gale insisted, “I think it's best if we leave, I cannot have you suffering.” He cupped your cheek with his hand. “Would you like that? To return home?”

You felt incredibly guilty and ashamed. He was looking forward to this for so long. “We can stay, we have to buy things for tonight.”

Seeing the sadness on your face, he said, “Don’t concern yourself with that any longer, I shall deal with this.”  Turning back to the stall, he placed a loving hand on the small of your back as he purchased two jars of mincemeat. “Perfect! We can do without the rest and have a splendid night together. Shall we head home?”

Putting aside your guilt at his insistence, you nodded. He knew you liked to appease others; it was why you could relate to each other so much. Your fatigue from sensory overload made it hard to refuse his suggestions. Snowfall began to intensify so much that it was difficult to see. Most of the crowd rushed for shelter away from the increasing cold, and the two of you sped to find a hire coach home.

#bg3 gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale fanfic #gale x tav #gale x reader #In Need of Comfort #gob's fanfiction

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post iv

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, more sons of Fëanor than anyone ever needed or wanted get involved, things go extremely sideways: you know the drill. You can find the first 18 parts of this bullet point fic on AO3 here, and parts 16-20 on tumblr here.

We're starting out part 21 with a timeskip!

One year after the fall of Himring, north Beleriand remains bitterly contested.

The East is overrun. In Barad Eithel's great war-room the map of Estolad is covered in black arrows stretching from Lothlann down to the Andram Wall.

Caranthir and Amras maintain a last stronghold on Amon Ereb, with the people of Himring who fled there after its fall; but Ossiriand, they fear, will only remain undefiled so long as Morgoth's attention does not turn towards it.

Their Eastern allies, too, are unimpressed. Bór and his young sons were all slain not long after Himring burned; the few of their people who escaped the orc-raids have joined themselves to Ulfang in Thargelion, but they are none too friendly to the Fëanorians these days.

"And Nelyo says I'm bad at making allies," Caranthir remarks.

[yeah he's in this now. damn it why will they not stay in their place.]

"I wouldn't say this is Nelyo's fault," Amras says quietly.

It is a debate held, in one form or the other, in every free kingdom in Beleriand.

But anyway, the East does not seem to be Morgoth's main concern for now.

It is Hithlum, Fingon is sure, where the next assault will come.

Hithlum, the realm of the High King of the Noldor; Hithlum, where he reigns who once humilated Morgoth so thoroughly; Hithlum, where Maedhros holds a Silmaril yet.

If the last true stronghold of the Noldor falls—

And he is facing plenty of internal pressure, too.

His lords – many of them survivors of the Grinding Ice, and arch-loyal followers of the House of Fingolfin – are less than impressed by the rumours that have reached them of the fall of Himring, and Maedhros' actions there.

Fingon has tried to quell the whispers as best as he can. But it is impossible to deny the fact that the attack took Himring by surprise because its patrols were cancelled on Maedhros' orders, or that Maedhros left the field as their position worsened.

The healers who treated Maglor's stab wound have not been quiet, either, about the fact that it was an elvish blade that caused the injury.

And some of those who were at Himring have heard that Maglor was found in a pool of his own blood with Maedhros, subdued too late, unconscious beside him—

If only they knew, Fingon thinks furiously, they would not cast sly aspersions on his judgement and his taste in friends. They would not stop talking of anything consequential when Maedhros drew near, as if he is not to be trusted with the secrets of the war.

Of course when he dares to suggest to Maedhros that this might bother him, Maedhros laughs and says, "Finno, do you think this the worst humiliation I have ever endured?"

So. There's not much Fingon can say to that.

His father was a diplomat, a politician, a builder of alliances. Fingon is not doing a very good job of living up to that legacy.

Thingol returned no response to the letter Fingon sent him, informing him of Curufin's disappearance.

In fact, Thingol is kind of just Done.

So the Noldor turned out to be faithless. What else is new?

Also he didn't really want Curufin's head anyway. Where would he even put it?

Fingon cannot give him what he truly wishes for: his daughter.

In Lúthien's absence old age has fallen upon him, who has lived unwithered for long Ages of the Stars since his birth at distant Cuiviénen.

Melian sings no longer. The people of Doriath, who have known little but peace and splendour since the Girdle was first raised, begin to wonder if their blessings have been withdrawn.

So it is a Menegroth much changed into which Beren and Lúthien walk, hand in hand, one afternoon.

Their return is met with both joy and some consternation. Youth comes back to Thingol at the touch of his daughter's hand; but Melian knows that she will never smile again.

Lúthien bears it all, the feasts of celebration at which none can look her in the eye, her father's overwhelming gladness and her mother's sorrow, the halls that ring yet with the memory of her grief, for exactly two weeks; then she announces that she and Beren are leaving.

"Daughter," Thingol protests, "you have only just returned to us – and soon—"

(Thingol does not know how he will ever handle the parting that is to come.)

"Will you not stay?" he asks. "This is your home."

Lúthien is not sure she knows what home means any more.

"I am sorry," she says, regretful but firm.

The next day finds her and Beren walking through Brethil, debating their next course of action – just as they did not so very long ago, when Celegorm and Curufin attacked them in the woods.

It is of that little skirmish that Beren is thinking now.

"They say Curufin is still out there somewhere," he argues. "It mightn't be safe—"

"I sang Morgoth himself to sleep," Lúthien cries, "and you think I can't take Curufin Fëanorion?"

"Tinúviel," Beren says, with a laugh, "I do not think there is anyone you can't take."

Lúthien allows herself to be placated.

"I am not suggesting we dwell alone in the wilderness," she says; "you made your earlier thoughts on that very clear. But I – I cannot go back to being Doriath's Princess, Beren, as if every part of me is not changed irretrievably since first you called my name, as if – as if you didn't die there, and—"

"Sweetheart," says Beren, kissing her forehead. "It wasn't permanent." And when she chokes out a little laugh through her tears, he goes on, "I know you do not wish to stay in Doriath. But we must choose somewhere – and somewhere safe. It seems as though the Enemy's reach has lengthened in the time we were, um, gone."

"I thought to go to Ossiriand," Lúthien says. "My kin the Green-elves still guard those lands."

"But only those lands," says Beren. "Estolad and Thargelion are overrun. The sons of Fëanor keep no watch upon the Eastmarch. If Morgoth were to learn that you dwelled there—"

"I'm not afraid," Lúthien says. "And even if I were – am I never to venture beyond the Girdle again, for fear of him? Is all my father's kingdom to be naught to me but a prison, as Hírilorn was? I cannot stand it – I will not."

Beren takes both her hands in his one and looks at her. "Tinúviel," he says, very seriously, "I will never cage you."

Oh, he knows her. What a wondrous, terrifying thing, to be understood so completely.

Perhaps Lúthien is still a little delirious with the rush of living once more, for she dips her head to capture Beren's mouth in a delighted kiss, and for a time they both forget all other matters.

Plucking strands of grass from her hair some time later, Beren says, "I have another idea."

"What! I thought I argued my case quite passionately," Lúthien teases.

"You said you thought of dwelling among your kin," says Beren. "What of going to mine, instead?" And, when Lúthien shoots him a puzzled look, "The House of Bëor is mostly ruined, but there are still remnants of my people who escaped Dorthonion ere its fall. Some of them dwell nearby, with the Haladin. And others went north to Dor-lómin – my little cousin Morwen is the lady of that land now."

"I do not wish to stay in Brethil," says Lúthien; "it is rather too close to Menegroth for my tastes. But the Land of Echoes, on the other hand..."

Her eyes are alight with that same fanciful gleam they used to get when Beren told her stories of the world outside the Girdle, of holy Tarn Aeluin and the dread Ered Gorgoroth alike.

You would think, Beren muses, that she would have had enough of adventure by now.

"I have," says Lúthien, catching his thought. "We are to live a very peaceful and retiring life. I insist on it! That is what I told Mandos we deserved. None shall dare assail us, in Dor-lómin." She rolls the name on her tongue as if trying to taste it.

"They call it so because of the terrible cry of Morgoth when Ungoliant assailed him," Beren tells her, "not for any sweeter music."

Lúthien laughs and flings her arms around him. Oh, his living body warm and solid against hers! It is a gift she does not intend to waste.

"Luckily," she says, "I am good at changing the melody."

Another conversation between lovers:

"Do you think it could be done?"

“I have already told you what I think.”

"But you haven't explained," Fingon persists, "you have only looked at me dolefully and proclaimed that it is not possible."

"Well, it is not," says Maedhros. He is lying curled in Fingon's arms, their ankles hooked together, and he is loath to disturb their contentment with arguing. Keeping his voice measured, he says, "If our strength were doubled I do not think it would be enough, Finno."

"The attack will come either way," Fingon says, also without much vigour. They have had this debate so many times now that it is become well-worn. "Why not meet it head on?"

"Because you have a defensible position here," Maedhros says patiently, "and a greater chance of holding than you do of storming the gates of Angband."

"My father did it," Fingon mutters.

"Your father died," Maedhros says, voice suddenly sharp.

Fingon looks at him. "Don't look so worried, beloved! I am quite turned off the idea of wasteful heroics these days."

"Then look to strengthening your defences," Maedhros says, "and drop this fool notion."

"But if we did try," says Fingon, "if we united all the Free Peoples under one banner, and marched on Angband together – think what we could achieve!"

His eyes are bright with hope. Maedhros hates to crush it, but crush it he must.

"Finno," he says, "the East is lost. My brothers do not have so strong a position in Amon Ereb that they can afford to march north to join in a war that could prove ruinous. Bór and his people are dead almost to a man. Belegost will no doubt have heard the rumours—"

Fingon glances at him sharply, but he speaks without bitterness. Which is concerning in itself, but Fingon decides to let it slide for now.

"—and there is little help to be expected from other corners," Maedhros continues. "Doriath has strength to spare, but Thingol hates you."

Fingon shifts uncomfortably. He never actually told Maedhros why Thingol hates him now.

"Nargothrond," he says, to change the subject. "Orodreth will answer to his High King."

"Orodreth!" says Maedhros, dismissively. “A king too ruled by the whims of his people. If he had any spine he would have turned my brothers out of Nargothrond immediately, and Finrod might have lived.”

If Fingon were crueller he might say, You didn't manage to control your brothers that well yourself. Instead he says, "But the people of Nargothrond are many and valiant. We should not discount them."

"If Nargothrond wishes to stay out of the wars of the north," says Maedhros, "I think it would be prudent to allow them to do so." There is a thoughtful, uneasy look in his grey eyes.

Fingon gauges it correctly and says, "Are you worried for your nephew?"

Maedhros looks at him unhappily. "Everyone in Beleriand knows what a mess – Curvo – made of – everything," he says.

(A year might have passed, but Maedhros still does not much like to speak of Curufin.)

"Tyelpë is safe in Nargothrond, where his father's deeds cannot taint him," Maedhros says. "I would keep him so." Then he shrugs. "But my opinion carries no weight now, beloved. Do as you will, and I will support you, for all that is worth."

"It carries weight with me," Fingon says fiercely. "And I am not ashamed to say so. But you have not yet heard the key element in my plan."

Maedhros smiles despite himself, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can keep his eyes focused on Fingon's face. The mass of his silken hair is pooled on Fingon's bare chest. "Go on, then," he says, indulgent.

"Gondolin," Fingon says triumphantly. "My brother took a third of our host with him when he disappeared, and yet more of the Sindar went with him. They have lived in peace for more than three hundred years; their numbers must be great."

Maedhros does not seem as delighted with this idea as Fingon is. "Finno, you don't know where Gondolin is."

"The Eagles bring them tidings, clearly," Fingon points out; "else they would have opened the leaguer and come to our aid when they saw the fires of the Dagor Bragollach on the horizon."

Maedhros frowns, attempting to parse this extremely backwards logic. Eventually, he says, "If Hithlum falls, Gondolin will be the last stronghold of the Noldor in the north. I do not know if its position should be risked."

"All war is risk, beloved," says Fingon, "and if I were to call upon my brother, Hithlum will not fall."

Maedhros says, as if he has been saving this blow for last, "Finno, if you call upon Turgon, will he even answer?"

It has been more than three hundred years, since Fingon last saw his brother.

“Do you think he won’t?” he asks, more sharply than he means to.

(Turgon didn’t tell him he was going. He didn’t tell anyone. He just – vanished.)

Sometimes Maedhros thinks things were easier during Maglor’s long convalescence, when his only concern was his brother, when every sleepless night was because Maglor needed someone to sit up with him and every meal was whatever invalid's food Maglor could be persuaded to choke down – when Fingon was his strength and steadiness, and Maedhros could yet wrap his blue cloak around him like armour.

Selfish – selfish. Maglor is better now, and Maedhros is so, so glad; and Fingon cannot always be his strength. Sometimes Maedhros must be his.

"I am sure he will," he says, contrite. He presses a kiss to Fingon's tense jawline. "I just don't think it wise to ask him."

Fingon sighs and puts his arms around Maedhros. "Fine," he concedes. "Perhaps you are right."

But later, when they have extricated themselves from their warm tangle of limbs and risen for the day, he sits down to write a letter.

A few days later the High King's messenger, having ridden swiftly along the Ered Wethrin and into Dor-lómin, nearly collides with a small child playing near the road.

"Be careful!" cries Lúthien, dropping Beren's hand and rushing forward to snatch the child up.

The messenger gapes at her, for it seems to him as though she has materialised out of the shadows themselves. Then, when he gets better look at her beauty, he gapes even more.

Lúthien is not paying attention. All her focus is on the little golden-haired creature in her arms. "That was nearly very dangerous for you, wasn't it, sweetheart?" she coos. "But you don't seem frightened at all. What's your name, dear one?"

The little girl giggles and hides her face in Lúthien's sleeve without answering.

Beren feels a little dizzy, looking at the picture that they make, and at the bright tender look on his wife's face. Someday, he tells himself, someday.

He looks around. The messenger has dismounted; it seems the great house up ahead is his destination. A house of lords, clearly, surrounded by gardens as lovely as any in the chilly northlands, and with a bubbling stream running just past its walls.

Well, here they are.

He is pondering what the etiquette is here – should they knock? wait here until someone spots them? – when he catches sight of a second child, a little older, dark-haired, watching them intently from around a tree-trunk.

"Good day, lad," Beren says gravely. "Might I ask your name, and those of your parents?"

The boy regards him with suspicion for a while, before he finally says, "I am Túrin son of Húrin, and that is my sister Lalaith."

(One little-appreciated consequence of the fall of Himring: for the last year, Morgoth's attention has been on the final desecration of the March of Maedhros. He did not have time to send the Evil Breath to Dor-lómin.)

"Lalaith!" Lúthien says, delighted. "What a fitting name."

"Then, son of Húrin," says Beren, "we have reached our destination indeed. Might you do me the honour of introducing us to your parents?"

Túrin looks unimpressed. "Who are you?" he asks.

"My name is Beren son of Barahir," says Beren, "and we are kinsmen, son of Morwen."

Túrin frowns even more. "How do you know my mother's name?" he demands. "And Beren is dead."

Kind of hard to argue with that.

Before Beren can come up with a suitable response there is a small noise from the direction of the house: the children's mother has come out to call them in for the evening meal. She stands so still she might be made of stone, were it not for the wind whipping up her dark hair behind her.

Beren finds his own mouth is very dry.

He buried Baragund his cousin, and avenged him; and he has not thought of his slaughtered companions for a long time.

(There's only so much survivor's guilt one person can have, and it is usually the screams of Finrod and his Ten that haunt Beren's nightmares.)

Morwen is not now the thirteen-year-old he remembers, her face sterner and more sorrowful, but somehow she is the image of her dead father.

"Hello, little cousin," he croaks out.

Morwen stares at him.

Lúthien comes to the rescue. "You must be the lady Morwen," she says warmly, setting Lalaith down so that she can drop into a graceful curtsey. Her Taliska is hesitant, but beautiful. (Everything about Lúthien is beautiful.) "Beren has told me so much of you. And your children are charming."

"Beren's dead," Morwen says at last, shakily. "And – you—"

"I was dead," says Beren, "but now I'm not. I don't know how to explain it, cousin, but—" He holds his hand out to her, letting the Ring of Barahir gleam green upon his finger in the setting sun. "It really is me."

Morwen makes another small sound, swaying where she stands. Her hand rests on her son's dark head as though he is the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mother?" Túrin says nervously.

Before things can get any more awkward the lord of the house comes out to seek his family, perhaps wondering what is taking them so long. "Morwen," he says quietly, seeing her stiff posture.

But Morwen takes a breath. "We have guests, Húrin," she says, composed again. "This is my kinsman Beren Erchamion, and his – and his wife, the Princess of Doriath."

Lúthien turns her dazzling smile on Húrin. "A pleasure to meet you," she says gaily. "But call me rather the Lady of Dorthonion."

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #the fairest stars #beren #luthien #fingon #maedhros #russingon #here we gooo!! #very excited for where we're going with this arc #this thing definitely needs more editing but I lost patience so have it now #say hi to a bunch of new characters (more are coming later too) #and a new set of political problems #also guess who DOESN'T appear here for the first time in 21 parts I'm as shocked as you are #(he'll be back next time dw) #also nobody died or got stabbed or had a breakdown or got nearly executed or like. even stubbed their toe here so BE GRATEFUL

[presumenothing]

random novel excerpts #5, because ofc i had to pull up my favourite wanmian bit upon seeing @difeisheng's post (this is book 2 ch 7, for those keeping score):

Qiao Wanmian did not answer. A long while later, she asked, softly: "Do you hate me?"

"I did, once." With a faint smile, he said: "There were a few years when I hated everyone."

She nodded, slowly; that she understood…

Only to hear him then say: "But now all I fear is that Xiao Zijin and Qiao Wanmian cannot stay together always, til death do you part."

She listened, the moment hanging still; nodding, again, before suddenly shaking her head: "You are not Xiangyi."

Li Lianhua smiled, so very light: "Indeed…"

Lifting her head, she looked dazedly at him, and said softly: "Xiangyi never forgave anyone."

Li Lianhua nodded. "Nor did he ever tend the garden."

The hint of a smile touched Qiao Wanmian's lips at last. "He never wore shabby clothes."

Li Lianhua smiled. "He almost never did sleep."

She exhaled a light sigh, tear tracks still damp on her face. "He always had unending matters to tend to, almost never slept, always had some enemy or other, excelled at spending money, was always ordering people around, sending them here and there and everywhere… but always managed to make a spectacular affair of it."

Li Lianhua sighed, and said almost to himself: "And here I am terribly broke, wanting nothing so much as a quiet place to sleep in, and without much enemies to name, either. Oh, yes – the two pots of rhododendrons in my room are in full bloom, it's quite the lively sight, do you want to see it?"

Qiao Wanmian was still smiling, faintly; in this moment it was as if her heart had woken to something open and bright, and those events of old that had weighed on her for ten years, those things she never could let go – all of it dissipated in this one moment. The man that stood before her was an old companion, a friend; even a maestro in his own way. "I'd like a look."

Li Lianhua straightened out his sleeves, and said apologetically: "Give me a moment."

Qiao Wanmian dried her tears on a sleeve, brushed the dust off herself, and abruptly felt her earlier self to be quite laughable. Seeing Li Lianhua hurry around the building to the dustpans with a wicker basket on his back, she couldn't help finding it funny – couldn't help but wonder: if Fu Hengyang came to know that Li Xiangyi had spent an entire afternoon tidying up the candles that he'd painstakingly arranged to proclaim the resurrection of Sigu Sect, what would he possibly think? But then she saw Li Lianhua waving her over before she could get any further, and so she followed.

On stepping into Li Lianhua's room, she looked at those two potted 'rhododendrons' for quite a while. Both pots boasted fresh yellow flowers, open in full and rich splendour; they had indeed been well and meticulously cared for, and were growing with much vigour.

But now Qiao Wanmian couldn't help but ask, after an age of staring: "These are rhododendrons?"

Li Lianhua paused, baffled, in his tracks. "Fang Duobing said they were… I dug them up from the foot of the mountain, there's a big patch blooming there."

Qiao Wanmian coughed faintly, and said with infinitely kind patience: "These are daylilies, the farmers plant them for… for… anyway, you'd better return them soon as you can."

"Ah." Li Lianhua stared at the 'rhododendrons' he'd been tending to for the better half of a month, and said with an air of apology: "I should've known rhododendrons don't bloom this large…"

Qiao Wanmian truly could not hold back any longer, and laughed aloud. Looking at those two pots of 'rhododendrons', their gazes met over smiles.

Outside, not too far away, a person stood atop the trees, and watched the two from a distance. That person wore golden-edged robes of purple, a figure regal and well-built; he would have been of handsome strength, save for the extreme paleness of his face as he stared dazedly at the pair in the room, unknown thoughts crossing his mind.

In the room, Li Lianhua looked at the daylilies he'd so diligently planted, and suddenly asked with great seriousness: "If the daylilies are already blooming, that means the weather is about to turn chill – are the winters cold up on this mountain?"

Qiao Wanmian paused in surprise. "Cold? Here?"

Li Lianhua nodded with great haste. "Does it snow?"

She gave an answering nod. "It snows."

He cringed faintly. "I don't like the cold."

She smiled. "Xiangyi never feared the cold."

Li Lianhua sighed. "I don't just fear the cold – I fear death, too."

#mysterious lotus casebook #莲花楼 #li lianhua #li xiangyi #qiao wanmian #mine #long post #li lianhua voice MY CABBAGES–

[bloobluebloo]

hmm character ask game...22 and 14 for ganondorf if you haven't gotten them already

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

THIS ONE IS HARD BECAUSE I HAVE 1 MILLION AUS. Okay so in general, and this may sound shocking, I don't know maybe, but I'm not a big fan of him being so heavily armored just because I think it hinders him more than it helps him. My personal headcanon is that he only wears armor when he enters Hyrulean territory as a way to olook more imposing, to look the part of a warlord that won't allow himself to be swayed so easily by political jabber. In general, I prefer to imagine him in ornate robes, well covered and protected from the sun, his clothing spelled to offer as much protection as any set of armor would in combat. Something like these:

(YOU COULD MAKE HIM SO PRETTY NINTENDO YOU REALLY CAN-)

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

What I like? I really like depictions of him where he is shown to be regal, well spoken, while also having that underlying passive-aggressiveness and bite to his words. Where he is depicted with all the splendour and power of a king, where you can see that he does have a hand that is capable of administering a rule that retains law and order but is also not afraid to put a sword in his hands to cut down his enemies. I also really like when people delve into his more personal habits when writing their stories, little touches that he appreciates, small talk with people that he does care for, the things that annoy him or creep him out slightly etc. In other words, I just like it when people make him feel like the king he is but also a person that has his own likes and dislikes, his own worries and fears and hopes, even if his overarching goal is still to conquer Hyrule. Where we can see his bad traits for what they are, a person's character fashioned by his circumstances and not "I am like this because I am evil and born to be evil". What I don't like, and it's probably something I have discussed, is when people lay it on too thick with the curse of Demise. I don't mind depictions of Ganondorf where he is seen to inherit Demise's will, or inheriting his power in some shape or form to oppose Hyrule, but I despise the idea that Ganondorf is evil because of Demise possessing him. It sort of undermines the fact that Ganondorf and the Gerudo have genuine grievances with Hyrule, that the entire reason Ganondorf is causing trouble is because he is born as a reincarnation of hatred and is a demon, and that otherwise he is innocent and obedient and would never cause war with his neighbors.

Questions are here!

#thanks for the ask! #ganonthots

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 1: I've Got You ~ Thorin Oakenshield/OC [2,818 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Erebor was beautiful. Gwen had thought so when they’d first entered – sneaking through the hidden door and doing their best not to wake the dragon slumbering within. Although she’d quickly forgotten all about it thereafter. Not because of the dragon, but because of how she was forced to watch as the Gold sickness claimed the dwarf she’d so reluctantly come to love over the months that had passed between her taking on this ‘job’ and now.

Now, though? Now that Smaug was defeated, the battle thereafter was won, all were alive, and Thorin was himself again? Now she was able to appreciate the splendour of Erebor once again. Save for the damn walkways.

“I don’t know how I feel about your sending everybody out from the Throne Room just for this,” she commented to Thorin where he stood somewhere behind her, the great walkway to the throne stretching before them.

“You said you wished for no witnesses as you overcame this.”

“Because I thought you’d find a quieter walkway to practise on.”

“I am King – and in a moon’s time, after your coronation, you will be Queen. We can order all from the mountain, if we so wish.”

“That’d make for a pretty depressing kingdom,” she said, doing what she could to keep her tone light as he led her to the main walkway that led up to her husband’s throne.

“Did you run out of stone to make railings? Is that it?”

“Dwarves are sure-footed.”

“And hard-headed.”

“I heard that.”

“I did not whisper,” she countered with a smirk that felt much too bold for the fear creeping up through her chest.

While that fear did not show on her face, however, it did in how her hand anxiously sought his where it was pressed over her hip, planting it there as if to make sure his grip remained firmly on her. Her shrewd husband recognised the gesture for what it was immediately.

“You’ve crossed higher paths than this before,” he pointed out. “On Durin’s Day.”

“That was different. I had a dragon snapping at my heels.”

“Well now you’ve your brute of a husband to offer you similar motivation.”

“Yes, well, it should warm you to hear that I much prefer you to dragons.”

Unless he was in a really foul mood.

“This is folly, Gwen.”

Thorin’s humour might have been lighter these days than it was during their quest, but an excess of patience in the face of what he viewed as foolishness was not one of his virtues. It showed now in the edge his voice gained. At least, it did until he moved from behind her back and saw just how pale her face had grown.

“I can’t help it,” she said quietly – too focused on the pit in her stomach to see how his features softened.

It was folly – he was right. If someone draw a chalk outline on a path the same width as this walkway, she could stick to it without so much as thinking about it, laughing all the while at the mere notion of being worried about somehow falling over the edge of that outline. But the mere presence of the unfathomable drop at either side of the walkway raised the stakes, and had her unable to think of anything but. It was instinct – self-preservation, the same sort of in-built thing that would have her thinking twice before she stuck her hand in a fire, or caused a problem with someone twice her size. She was unable to help it.

Nor would she be able to make a life here if she was unable to approach the throne at a speed greater than one foot per hour. The embarrassment only made this all the worse. Thorin had met her when she was a thief in Bree – hardly an occupation without its risks. Now she was paling over the prospect of placing one foot before the other. It hardly did anything to combat the beliefs of the Dwarves here who revelled in shaking their heads and grumbling over their King’s affection for a human. No doubt a Dwarrowdam would have covered the distance a hundred times or more in the span of time she’d stood here faltering like an idiot.

“Do you think I would bring you here if there was any risk of your falling?”

“I don’t think you’d love me if there was any risk of my falling, considering it would take an impressive level of idiocy to manage and you don’t suffer fools. Gladly or otherwise.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teased. “You would make a very beautiful fool.”

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”

He chuckled lowly.

“Whichever you choose, you’re distracted. See? We’ve already covered some distance. That is the key – do not think of it. Simply do it.”

Well, that was the sort of thinking that had gotten her here, wasn’t it? Not only to her shiny new station – regardless of how it had intimidated her, a woman of no birth who had once been a cutpurse far, far west of here – but throughout all of the hardships that had hounded their path to Erebor itself.

“All right,” she sniffed, straightening her shoulders and nodding decidedly. “All right.”

Thorin’s hand remained at her back, all the same…throughout the hundred strides up and down the walkway it took before she finally began breathing properly and trusting the fine stone beneath her feet not to suddenly crack and give way.

She did grow used to it – eventually. Over and over that day they’d strode up and down the walkway to the throne room until fear turned to unease, and unease turned to boredom. Gwen dreaded to think what the folk of Erebor thought they were up to in here that would cause their King to demand privacy for so long, but it did the trick, and she’d no longer spend this walk battling with the temptation to lower herself to the floor and crawl the distance towards the throne next time she had business here. Although that was a sight Thorin might enjoy, depending upon his mood.

Still, as she strode across the walkway not two moons later, shiny new sapphire-laden diadem upon her head, she had a surprise that she knew he’d enjoy a great deal more. And the drop on either side of the walkway was the furthest thing from her mind – a grin on her face, and a spring in her step.

The King was holding court, dealing with a visiting merchant who had seen fit to scam a number of the people, so no doubt he would be in need of a bit of levity once he was finished. She would wait on the sidelines, Gwen decided, until he was finished. Then she would tell him.

“I was not aware, your majesty, that steep prices were a crime.”

The merchant was kicking up a stink so loudly that he could be heard throughout the entirety of the hall.

“Perhaps not, but swindling the honest peoples of Erebor is,” there was a warning note in her husband’s voice. “Your trading permissions have been revoked, so unless you have some other manner of earning a living here, I suggest you leave and take your way of doing things elsewhere – and count yourself lucky that you have not found yourself in the dungeons.”

Was he so unimpressed because of the merchant’s misdeeds, she wondered, or because he was being forced to deal with something so beneath the notice of a monarch? She could hardly fault him for either one, although she suspected it was some combination of the two.

Folk cleared a path automatically to let her by as she neared the throne – something that was still taking some getting used to, even though it had been that way ever since Thorin declared his intentions to take her as his wife – but she seemed to escape the notice of one person. The merchant.

Either he thought the path had been cleared for him, or he simply did not care, whirling and beginning to storm his way down the walkway with a face like thunder – the fury in his eyes blinding him, no doubt. Or perhaps what he did next was an act of pure defiance in the wake of his dressing down. If it was, it was an incredibly stupid one.

When he barrelled into her, she thought little of it. Queening around didn’t come quite so naturally to her as to have her ordering beheadings because somebody shouldered their way past her; but it appeared the merchant himself wasn’t happy to let things lie there.

“Move!” he demanded, one hand planted flat in the centre of her chest so as to shove her backwards.

Which was when things very quickly went pear-shaped. Had she not gone on here stubbornly refusing to swap her sturdy and comfortable boots for the delicate slippers the ladies of the court here favoured, it would have been worse. Had she not had to wear a stupid number of skirts it disguise those boots, it would have been better.

For the grip of her soles stopped her from skidding back right over the edge of the walkway, but the skirts sent her tumbling to the ground, rolling to a halt not so much close to the edge, but at the very edge itself. Indeed, she feared to move at all, her body hanging over the endless drop right down to the bottom of her ribcage, face down. The silence that took over the throne room was unparalleled and stretched on and on…which was what allowed them to head her diadem clatter, and then smash, as it clattered down to the next level below.

Gwen let out a slow, shuddering breath. The angle did not allow for any purchase with which she might pull herself back, but before she could even think of how to best act, strong broad arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her back and up. She did not need to look to know who they belonged to.

“I have you. I've got you,” Thorin said, pulling her back from the edge. “Are you well?”

She took a moment to actually consider the question, rather than nodding automatically in response. Thank the stars she’d fallen on her side, and then rolled from there – her right hip ached something fierce, but her abdomen had taken none of the impact.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I’m all right.”

One hand remained at her hip – her sore hip, though she hadn’t the heart to shrug it off when he appeared just as shaken as she was. Although that worry quickly turned to ire, a positively glacial gaze turning in the direction of the merchant. At first the poor sod looked half-tempted to turn and run, but the guards at his back quickly made their presence known, and he was stuck between them and the King Under the Mountain. An unenviable position for him. The paling of his face told Gwen that he quite agreed, and the hall remained perfectly silent – all gathered dying to hear how Thorin would deal with this.

“The dungeons,” he said flatly. “Until I deem that you’ve had enough time to recall proper courtly manners.”

Which would take months. If not years. Thorin was capable of many things, but swift forgiveness was not one of them.

“Your majesty, I did not mean to-”

“Or the blade. An attempt on my queen’s life is treason.”

The merchant looked to Gwen as though hoping for an intervention. He would not find one, her hand was itching to grasp the hilt of a blade that was now seldom at her hip. In the end, he seemed relieved when the guards stepped between him and Thorin so that they might clamp irons about his wrists.

“How long will you keep him in the cells?”

Gwen asked Thorin as she changed for bed that night. In the end, she’d decided to keep her announcement for tonight, any mood having been well and truly killed stone dead by the merchant and his idiocy.

“For however long that bruise takes to heal, tenfold,” Thorin replied grimly, his eyes fixed on the angry bruise already forming at her hipbone.

She sighed quietly, slipping into the nightgown and hiding the injury from his brooding eye.

“You could have died, Gwen,” he said sharply – misinterpreting her sigh.

“It’s not that,” she shook her head.

“I’ll craft your next diadem myself,” he said. “It will be good – to make something again, rather than sitting on my backside listening to inanities. If I’d crafted the first, it would have survived the fall.”

“It’s not that, either,” she laughed softly, slipping into bed beside him. “But thank you, husband.”

“Husband, now?” he echoed with a smirk. “You seek a favour from your king, then.”

“No,” she pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, and received one in turn at her brow for her troubles, a broad hand settling itself into the curve of her waist. “Well. Perhaps. I would ask that you don’t lose your temper when I tell you this.”

“My temper? Why?”

The lazy sort of tired humour left his face and he became all King Thorin again, eyes searching her face as if he’d find the answer to his question hidden in the gap between her eyebrows.

“The reason I came to see you today…the reason I was in the Throne Room at all…I was going to wait until you were finished holding court, and then I was going to tell you…”

“Tell me?” he pressed.

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, she pressed her hand over the top of the one at her waist, and then she brought it around her abdomen until it was pressed flat over the yet-unrounded area just below her navel.

His eyes flickered down in question and then realisation hit him with the impact of an arrow, and he met her gaze with eyes wide in wonder.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Any who liked to dismiss Thorin as nothing but grim and dour could only do so if they’d never seen him smile – truly smile, and the way it lit up his entire face, no, the entire mountain. Gwen was powerless to do anything other than grin back, laughing softly as he used that famed Dwarvish strength to draw her up nearer to him as though she were as light as a feather.

He kissed her then – a kiss that they both smiled into – and pulled back swiftly thereafter, unable to contain his joy to an extent that a longer embrace would require.

“Why would I lose my temper over this, my love?” he chuckled. “This is…”

He trailed off as it clicked, and then he looked downright dangerous.

“I’ll have his head, Gwendolyn.”

“Thorin…”

Already, he tried to slip from the bed – but she leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, dragging him bodily back to her. He allowed it, she’d have never managed it otherwise, but he didn’t make it easy for her.

“I shall try not to take it personally that you’re willing to have his life as revenge for our child, but not just for your boring old wife,” she teased, leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of his jaw.

He made a noise caught somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, and she knew she’d just saved the merchant from being murdered by Erebor’s half-naked king.

“I would have thrown him from the walkway myself, had I not known you wouldn’t wish it. This just makes me less inclined to heed that.”

“I had no idea I had such sway over your decisions,” she planted another kiss on his neck this time, then another on his shoulder. “Perhaps I might use it to tempt you back to bed.”

“You should see a healer – after that fall.”

“I did. I’m well,” her hands trailed across the muscular expanse of his chest, fingers threading through the hair there. “My hip took the impact.”

“That does not please me, either.”

“If you’re looked to be pleased, I can think of a thing or two better than bloodshed.”

“Oh?”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” she sighed. “After all, your husbandly duty is done. Perhaps you see no reason to-”

As she put on her best show of feeling forlorn and neglected (which still was hardly very convincing), she released her grip on him and made to untangle her arms from his body – only for  strong, rough hands to catch hers and keep her where she was.

“Your machinations have lost their subtlety over time, my queen,” he all but rumbled.

“You just know me too well now for them to work,” she laughed. “But I can hardly mourn that fact.”

“Mm. Nor can I,” he said softly – and then he did return to bed.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

#esta's flufftober '23 fills #flufftober #flufftober 2023 #thorin oakenshield x oc #thorin oakenshield/oc #thorin oakenshield fanfiction #thorin oakenshield fanfic #flufftober2023

[dollettecxre]

˚  𓏲𝄢  𓂃  royalty ﹒ fengqing

hear me out, what about a fengqing medieval au. feng xi/fem mu qing. i dont have kingdom names or anything yet. also slight ooc for the last part princess mu qing in all her cold and sarcastic splendour and feng xin being her bodyguard. they bicker constantly, if it weren't for feng xin's background as a commoner, they would both be seen as lovers. little do they know, feng xin is the crown prince of a distant kingdom to spy on the royal family (bc feng xin's kingdom and mu qing's kingdom aren't on good terms). but he ends up falling in love with mu qing, which he finds kinda odd since he has a fear of women. since mu qing is a fucking bitch to everyone, the king finally gives up on finding a suitor for her until the king has the idea to hold a joust for his daughter's hand. promising that if they win his daughter's hand in marriage and a huge fucking dowry since almost all the kingdoms have heard of her insufferable attitude and constant eye rolling. because of the promise of the huge dowry, all the princes come from all over to win this joust. mu qing isn't told of this until the day of since they know that she'll do something to sabotage or run away with the aid of feng xin. but mu qing learned of the tournament beforehand, and she's ridiculously calm about it, or at least feng xin thinks, but he finds her brekaing down in tears and they talk for a bit and he vowes to somehow save her from this fate, however that may be. mu qing is skeptical since only those of royal backgrounds can compete, but she trusts him wholeheartedly and agrees to stay calm and trust in him. feng xin then asks for a few days of leave, mu qing is desperate and suspicious but agrees. the day of the tournament arrives and feng xin still hasn't returned, mu qing's nerves are as taut as a wire. her maids dress her in her finest gown and jewellery to sit in the stands and observe the princes jousting for her hand. all the princes are extremely good at jousting, but one shines above all. defeating everyone with such ease. they're rumoured to be the crown prince of the kingdom of southeast, who's straightforward nature angers those, they're apparently quick to anger and curse excessively over everything. no one can verify the rumours since the prince refuses to speak or remove their helmet in public. their identity being a mystery. if the rumours are true, mu qing would rather die than marry someone like the crown prince. as the tournament progresses, mu qing can't help but feel uneasy as the mysterious prince wins victory after victory. finally leading to the finals, the two finalists ready to joust. when given the word they start, the rumoured crown prince knocks down his opponent immediately earning a swift and easy victory. the king announces that the enigmatic prince has won, but in order to meet his bride he must remove his helmet. the prince easily agrees, after refusing the entire tournament. he removes his helmet to reveal that he is indeed the rumoured crown prince but also feng xin, the princess's bodyguard. mu qing is incredibly surprised, rising from the stands with shaky legs to meet her soon-to-be husband. when she gets over the initial shock, she restrains the urge to run to feng xin and wrap her around them. he gets on his knees in front of her, any sense of tiredness seeming to have vanished as he kneels for his bride and his princess, last but not least the love of his life. "Your highness, the princess..." he murmurs, kissing her hand. "your lowly servant wishes you to seek your hand in marriage. i promise to love you til the end of my life." mu qing nods mutedly, blushing as she whispers softly. "i accept..." the king and the rest of the court is in shock, the bodyguard that the princess had always bickered with had turned out to be the crown prince of the southeast. when mu qing and feng xin wed, they would unify the two kingdoms. of course restoring and repairing the wounds of the past would take ages, but the two kingdoms would be united in love and harmony.

#fengqing #fengqing brainrot #medieval au #tgcf #feng xin tgcf #feng xin x mu qing #feng xin #bodyguard fengxin #fem mu qing #princess mu qing #tgcf donghua #mxtx tgcf #mu qing tgcf #i lvoe them #they make me wanna sob #royalty au #jousting #crown prince feng xin #ooc fengqing #hear me out i needed this #fengqing fluff #fengqing fic idea #tgcf fic idea #khepri's rambles #khepri's flowers

[scotianostra]

January 22nd 1788 the poet George Gordon Byron, better known as Lord Byron was born in Holles Street, London

Lord Byron’s mother was Scottish, and for his first ten years they lived in Aberdeen, where he attended the Grammar, until he succeeded to his title. He always considered himself a Scot. He wrote in Don Juan: ‘But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred /A whole one, and my heart flies to my head…’

The most glamorous member of the second generation of Romantic poets, he was a prolific writer, led a scandalous life, and died in the Greek war of independence, aged 34. . Apart from his short lyrics, his poetry is perhaps less read now than his extraordinarily vivid letters and journals; his life continues to intrigue readers, scholars and film-makers.

Of course the Scots remember him for the brilliant poem Lochnagar, a favourite of my friend Roland, adapted into a folk song by The Corries, but I am going to post another of his “Scottish” poems called When I Roved A Young Highlander.

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climb’d thy steep sumrnit, oh Morven of snow!

To gaze on the torrent that thunder’d beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gather’d below,

Untutor’d by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,-

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?

But still I pereceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag cover’d wild:

One image alone on my bosom impress’d

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;

And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless’d;

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,

From mountain to mountain I bounded along

I breasted the billows of Dee’s rushing tide,

And heard at a distance the Highlander’s song:

At eve, on my heath-cover’d couch of repose,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;

And warm to the skies my devotions aoose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;

The mountains are vanish’d, my youth is no more;

As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witness’d before:

Ah! splendour has raised but embitter’d my lot;

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:

Though my hopes may have fail’d, yet they are not forgot;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen

When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye

I think of those eyes that endear’d the rude scene;

When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,

That faintly resemble my Mary’s in hue,

I think on the long, flowing ringlets of gold,

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more

Shall rise to my sight In their mantles of snow:

But while these soar above me, unchanged as before

Will Mary be there to receive me? - ah, no!

Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!

No home in the forest shall shelter my head,–

Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you?

#scotland #scottish #history #makar #poet #angli-Scottish

[histoireettralala]

Victor Hugo on Talleyrand's death

For @empirearchives who was interested, here's a translation of Victor Hugo's text about Talleyrand's death. My thanks to @microcosme11 for her help <33

Choses Vues, Victor Hugo

1838

Talleyrand

19th of May

In the Rue St-Florentin, there is a palace and a sewer.

The palace, with its noble, rich, and dull architecture, was long called "Hôtel de l'Infuntado"; today, we read on its front door: Hôtel Talleyrand. During the fourty years he lived on this street, the last host of this palace might never have set eyes on this sewer.

He was a stranged, feared, and considerable character: his name was Charles-Maurice de Périgord; he was noble as Machiavel, a priest like Gondi, defrocked like Fouché, witty as Voltaire, and lame as the devil. One could say that everything limped with him: the nobility which he had put to the service of the republic, the priesthood he had dragged on the Champ-de-Mars then threw down the drain, the marriage he had broken by twenty scandals and by a voluntary separation, the wit he dishonoured through vileness. This man, nevertheless, had grandeur.

The splendours of both regimes were mixed together inside of him: he was prince of the old kingdom of France, and prince of the French Empire.

For thirty years, from the depth of his palace, from the depth of his mind, he had just about led Europe. He had let the revolution call him "tu", and had smiled at it, ironically of course; but it had not noticed. He had approached, known, observed, pierced, stirred, upturned, delved into, mocked, intellectually fertilized all the men of his era, all the ideas of his century, and there had been a few minutes in his life when, holding in his hand the four or five fearsome threads that moved the civilized universe, he had had for a puppet Napoleon the First, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation. Such was the game this man played.

After the Revolution of July, that old race, whose grand chambellan he was, having fallen, he found himself standing on one foot and told the people of 1830, sitting, bare-armed, on a pile of cobbles: Make me your ambassador.

He had received Mirabeau's last confession and Thiers' first confidence. He had said himself he was a great poet and had made a trilogy in three dynasties: Act I, Buonaparte's Empire; Act 2, The House of Bourbon; Act 3, The House of Orleans.

He had done all of this in his palace, and, in this palace, like a spider in its web, he had attracted into it and taken successively heroes, thinkers, great men, conquerors, kings, princes, emperors, Bonaparte, Sieyès, Mme de Staël, Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, Alexander of Russia, Wilhelm of Prussia, Francis of Austria, Louis XVIII, Louis-Philippe, all the golden, shiny flies who buzzed in the history of those last fourty years. The whole sparkling swarm, fascinated by this man's deep eye, had successively passed under the dark door that bore, written on its architrave: Hôtel Talleyrand.

Well, the day before yesterday, 17 March, 1838, that man died. Doctors came and embalmed the corpse. For this, like the Egyptians, they first withdrew the bowels from the belly and the brain from the skull. Once done, after they had transformed the prince de Talleyrand into a mummy, and nailed this mummy in a white satin-lined coffin, they withdrew, leaving upon a table the brain, that brain which thought so many things, inspired so many men, built so many edifices, led two revolutions, fooled twenty kings, contained the world.

Once the doctors were gone, a valet entered, he saw what they had left. Hold on! they forgot this. What to do ? He remembered that there was a sewer in the street, he went there, and threw that brain into this sewer.

Finis rerum.

#xix #victor hugo #choses vues #charles maurice de talleyrand périgord #magnificent bastard

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Remember Me, Special Dreams

Part II.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25

GIF: Originally posted by @beaulesbian​

Summary: Self-insert. You're having trouble with recurring night terrors and Morpheus pays you a visit. (Title from the lyrics of Placebo’s Special Needs)

Warnings: language, angst, mentions of night terrors.

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: As mentioned in my post earlier today, I have completed my do-over of the chapter I released yesterday. I am much happier with this version and it will definitely make next chapter feel like a natural continuation rather than whiplash. Have a great day, Saskia.

P.S For all you Placebo fans out there, how good is their cover of Tears For Fears’ Shout? I was literally squealing with joy this morning

Sandman Masterlist

--------------

There’s a croquet knitted blanket on the ground before you.

The colours are bright, mismatched, verging on garish. But you love it. It’s reminiscent of the one used at picnics that you shared with your grandparents during your youth.

You can almost taste the tangy prawn cocktail crisps and the tropical squash that came in those straw-pierced pouches on your tongue as you think back to those simpler times.

You turn to gaze out across the wilderness behind you. You're atop a mountain. Where you are, there is a grassy plateau that is a perfect place to rest and appreciate the view.

You kneel down to unlace your chunky walking boots and pull one off before planting the now sock-clad foot on the woollen rectangle. The other boot follows as you stand in perfect flamingo style. You then sink into a cross legged position and survey the landscape properly.

Craggy obtrusions punctuate the rolling vista. They are made of a type of rock that tells you that they were formed by volcanic activity. The shapes themselves are inspirational yet also a touch intimidating.

You look further still and see a coastline. Blue on blue, as sky sits upon sea. It is miles away but just being able to see the horizon is pleasure enough. It is uncommon for you to see an uninterrupted skyline. Your city is a confinement of tower blocks and ringed suburbs of houses.

In comparison to the rocks and water with their dominating natural splendour, you cannot help feeling exceptionally tiny and insignificant.

But you know how important it is to feel that way sometimes. To be humbled by things that are greater than yourself. To appreciate the power that Mother Nature has over all things. It was a comfort to know that if humans pushed their boundaries too far, she would step in and take care of it.

You shift your focus to the details closer to you. The soils here are fertile. There are swathes of wildflowers and grasses supporting all manner of trophic levels, from the tiniest beetle right up to the most majestic bird of prey.

You spy one of the latter mentioned in the distance as it soars in the slipstreams. Its white-feathered underbelly winks at you as the bird spins into a dive.

It disappears into a cluster of butter coloured gorse and you feel a pang of sorrow when it resurfaces with something brown and furry in its talons.

The circle of life. You justify internally, before remembering that the hunt you just witnessed was not actually real. You were most definitely tucked up in bed, not soaking up sunshine in this rugged countryside.

Despite the comfort of your lucidity, your sadness persists.

You can't help but draw a parallel between the images and your recent decisions in the real world.

The sudden and unexpected snatching away of a way of living.

You were the raptor.

Eyelids close as you try to screw the lid back on the jar of memories.

"Just a dream," you say. "No need to over analyse."

When your eyes open again, you notice a book has appeared beside the blanket. Its cover is pristine, spine un-creased, pages devoid of pressure dents.

An invitation to stay a little while longer. One that you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to. The temptation was too much.

Reaching for the volume, you flip it over, pausing as you notice a few pieces of desiccated grass on the multicoloured surface you are sitting on. You brush the strands off with the heel of your hand.

You begin by inspecting the blurb. Tracing the pads of your fingers over the illustrated borders. They were full of jewel toned flowers. Drawings of cream coloured ribbons had been threaded lazily between the pictures and offset the darker palette nicely.

The passage of text had done its job and hooked you right in. You open the book gingerly and find the first page.

You read. For how long, you cannot tell. Time never felt the same in dreams as it did when you were awake.

Then, you see something in the corner of your eye. A few paces away, stands a person.

The glorious sunlight backlights the sharp lines of a figure into a perfect, angular silhouette. It’s dressed head to toe in black, a colour match to the crown of messy hair that flutters ever so slightly in the breeze.

It was the same man as the one from your bedroom.

You’re a little taken aback but you go with it.

"We have to stop meeting like this."

His face is quirked by a crooked smile.

"Like what?" His voice sounds muted and wobbly compared to when you imagined him in your bedroom, like there’s a wall of water between the two of you.

"In my dreams, of course."

His eyes flick around, processing your surroundings with speed.

"You are quite certain that this place is fiction?"

"Of course I am. There is no way that a spot this beautiful and sunny would be this empty in the real world. And I’ve definitely been here before when I’ve fallen asleep. It's one of my favourite dreams."

"It's an admirable choice."

You tilt your head to the side slightly in surprise.

"Oh, so you're no longer arguing with me about the status of my subconscious?"

"You are correct."

You smile triumphantly. Your dormant brain finally appeared to be listening to reason.

Your playful tone persists, "Wonderful. I'm going to return to my book now. Please feel free to stay if you wish."

You look back down at the tome. Your index finger tracks down the page as you search for the last sentence you remember reading.

But within seconds your eyes are pulled upwards once more by a movement in your peripheral vision.

The man is now standing over you.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

The book falls to rest on your thighs.

"Really? And why is that?"

"It's time to wake up."

You pick up the volume again and hold it up in front of your face.

He calls your name. Your lips purse at his tone; you feel like you're back at school, when you were scolded for reading a book under the table in maths class.

"You have to return to the waking world.”

You lower the object a fraction so you can look him in the eyes as you deliver an assertive response. 

"No, thank you."

Your barricade of pages is put back in place.

You speak again, "This is my dream. I am in control here and I want to stay."

The man sighs softly. He speaks again but not to you, "Humans are so stubborn."

You concentrate harder on reading, hoping that ignoring him will make him acquiesce.

But then his left hand is on yours, the other easing the book from your grasp.

Your mouth drops open.

"Umm, rude."  

His impassive face is infuriating.

"Please can you give that back?"

"I could, however there would be little point."

You get ready to query his cryptic statement but the reason soon becomes clear.

The words begin to fade from the cover. One letter at a time until it becomes a blank block of card-bound paper.

You don't have to check inside to know that the pages would be completely desolate too.

"Fine." You throw your hands up in defeat and push yourself to a standing position. You situate yourself right in front of him.

"Do you realise how annoying you are?"

"It has been inferred," he deadpans.

"You're funny too, you know... for a figment of my imagination."

He speaks your name again. "I am real."

"As you keep saying. But how am I supposed to believe that when I'm clearly not awake right now?"

"Do you remember what transpired in your bedroom?"

The absurdity of your imminent response is not lost to you. Humour glistens in his ocean eyes as you rattle through the list.

"You appeared, I told you that you were attractive, we argued a bit, you blew sand in my face and then I found myself here.”

He nods in agreement.

“I used the sand to make you sleep. To dream of this place. The only reason you are here is because I made it so and now, this dream has served its purpose."

Your voice becomes a whisper, "What is that supposed to mean? What purpose?"

"You'll find out soon enough.”

If it wasn’t for his comforting smile, you would have found his words a little disconcerting.

“Are you ready to wake up?”

You fiddle absentmindedly with the hem of your shirt.

“Yes.”

He waves his hand and speaks in his wistful voice.

“This dream is over.”

--------------------------------------------

"Like the stars chase the sun. Over the glowing hill, I will conquer. Blood is running deep. Some things never sleep."

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