#through the strait gates

[themundanedumpling]

if the dage live action adaptation is making me bawl right now then i don't even know what i will do when i get the saye adaptation ( or if there is ever a chance for live action adaptations of blwy and guomen)

#danmei novel #danmei #boys love #taiwanese bl #saye #chasing the light #撒野 #guomen #through the strait gates #priest danmei #wu zhe #hope you've been well #blwy #bei nan #I NEED MORE DANMEI ADAPTATIONS PLEASE #cnovel #unknown the series

[lostlores]

Chirping birds, cold wind, rising sun and orange sky. With a hot mug of coffee in between their hands, finally feeling that sweetness they had longed for.

In the balcony with his beloved by his side, exchanging soft little kisses from time to time and laughing at their parrot son singing his 'dad needs to get a life' in the room inside.

#guomen #priest novels #priest #danmei #xuxilin #douxun #sweetmoments #peaceful morning #coffee #books #through the strait gates

[keupastel]

guomen chapter 68 + ???

#from my twitter #guomen #过门 #priest novels #Through The Strait Gates

[silens-oro]

Got Baldur’s Gate 3 for Astarion

My cooch has become bewitched by Halsin

Now I’m sandwiched between the two and I never want to leave this universe

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #halsin #astarion #halsin is so big and so soft #HIS LIL FOREHEAD KISSES??? 😭😭😭 #astarion’s tenderness??? 😭😭😭 #the way Halsin went strait to giving head the first chance he and tav got down and dirty??????? 🗣️🗣️🗣️ #HE IS A GIVER #AND A RAILER #truly wish he was real because my GOD #finally getting through astarion’s facade is so rewarding #because he just wants to live and be loved #AND IM HERE TO DO IT

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Imagine, Shibusawa accidentally activated his ability in real world.

The whole house is covered in fog. And all abilities are on a loose.

Even Crime and Punishment are gone.

But, they don't attack their respective ability users.

They are nowhere to be found.

You are also nowhere to be seen.

Worst of all, Dazai is also missing.

BSD Cast are panicking.

What, if abilities hurt you?!

BSD Cast is searching through the house.

They found you, surrounded by abilities, on the attic.

And all abilities are trying to get your attention.

🐯 Beast Beneath The Moonlight is chuffing, rubbing its head against your chest.

📒 The Matchless Poet creating knick-knacks for you.

👘🗡️ All Men Are Equal is guarding the window, taking short breaks to pet you.

🩺 Thou Shalt Not Die is applying cute bandages on smallest, almost healed cuts.

🌨️ Light Snow is recreating movie scenes with its power.

🐄 Undefeated by the Rain create stone figures with its bare hands.

🐰 Demon Show holding a plate with snacks.

Futon is manipulating electronics, changing channels, so you can watch some interesting show.

🍰💉 Vita Sexualis is making accessories for you.

🍷 Upon the Tainted Sorrow making things float for your entertainment.

🌂 Golden Demon is bringing you nice clothes.

🇫🇷 Demonic Beast Guivre is curled around you.

🎧 Illuminations is creating a hyperspace over you.

🗣️ Lippman's ability is sitting near you, guarding you.

🧥 Rashomon is glaring at everyone, who is trying to get close to you.

🚬 Falling Camelia entertain you by pushing around different things.

🩹🧲 Midwinter Memento is controlling metal pieces to create some cool figurines.

⭕⭐ Dogra Magra, as a little doll, sitting on your lap.

🍋 Lemonade is creating fireworks for you.

🍛 Flawless is playing cards with you.

⛩️ Hail in the Begging Bowl preparing non-alcoholic drinks for you.

💻 Discourse on Decadence is writing down interesting memories, it read from anything he could find.

🥷 Yesterday's Shadow Tag is sitting near Rashomon, protecting you.

🕶️ Another is bringing you dolls from Ayatsuji's collection.

💰 The Great Fitzgerald is bringing you cases, full of money (don't worry, it simply took them from Fitzgerald).

🦝 Black Cat in the Rue Morgue is ready to send you in any book you want.

🐋 Mody Dick is floating outside the window, ready to fly with you anywhere you want.

🍇 The Grapes of Wreath is growing grapes for you. Don't worry, they are edible.

☕ Annie of Abyss Red is playing ball with you.

🪶 Little Women is planning your weekends, while sitting in the next room

👒 Gone With the Wing is using wings to make paper butterflies fly around.

♊ Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are floating above you, telling jokes.

✝️ The Scarlet Letter is writing your name in the air with its power.

😷 A Feast in a Time of Plague simply observing you from the corner.

🫖 The Precipice is outside, rumbling happily.

👻 The Perfect Crime is bringing you mystery novels.

⚔️ Mirror Lion is entertaining you with its sword skills.

🦇🧛 Bram's ability is handing from the sealing upside down. Protecting you.

🃏 Sigma's ability is laying near you, with its head on your lap.

🤡 The Overcoat is doing a circus performance for you.

🐀 Crime and Punishment is playing with your hair.

👧👩👵 Gasp of the Soul is cuddling your left hand.

💧 Priceless Tears is floating through the vents all over the house and bring you whatever you ask for.

🌸 Plum Blossoms in Snow is using its power to cut fruits.

⌚ Strait is the Gate is observing surroundings.

🐈‍⬛ I am a Cat is purring and doing tricks for you.

🪢🦀 Dazai, somehow, got captured, and how is in a cage, far away from anyone, he can touch to nullify.

The moment, BSD Cast stepped to the attic, abilities turned towards them, glaring at their 'hosts'.

So, you, either, will be stuck here, until Abilities decide to let you go.

Or, until BSD Cast manage to free Dazai.

#self-awarebsd #self-awareau #bungou stray dogs au #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd anime #bsd x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader

[esilher]

Collaborative December klaine challenge 2023 between @esilher and @mynonah

Bedtime by @mynonah

"Attention, attention! Boarding is over, the gate is closed. Welcome to our international VIP flight! Estimated time of departure: in 20 seconds. Please remain seated and keep your seat belts fastened during the extremely long 35-second flight. That goes for you too, Mr. Teddy Bear! The flight can be bumpy at times, UGH, just like the takeoff, apparently. But it's just turbulence, so please, stay calm. Our plane is gliding through the air in very strong hands, no need to worry, Mr. Teddy Bear! Refreshments will be served at our destination, the Pillow Islands.

Attention, attention! We've flown over the Strait of Blanket and are about to land. We’ll arrive at the Pillow Islands in 10 seconds. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. I'm talking to you, Mr. Teddy Bear! As we land, please be aware that sleepyheads will be given priority in entering the Island.

Arrival in 5 seconds!

5!

4!

3!

2!

1!

Kids and Bears, welcome to the Pillow Islands! The local time is: bedtime."

* * *

Kurt gently closes the door behind them and looks at Blaine with wide eyes before jumping into his arms, giggling.

"We did it!!!"

"We did it." Blaine echoes, wrapping his arms tighter around Kurt's waist.

"I can't believe it. It's 8:20 pm and he's asleep. In his own bed. It's all because of you."

"Me? You were brilliant."

"Obviously," Kurt chuckles, pulling away just enough to look Blaine in the eye. "But it was your idea."

"We came up with it together."

"Um, well... I was about to tell you what your prize is for arranging our first night off in two months, but as you wish..."

"What? No, no, no, no. No. Give me my prize. I deserve it. What did I win? But more importantly... Can I get it on the nearest Pillow Island? Because that sounded pretty cool and... I thought you could give me a private tour. What do you think?" - Blaine asks, playfully rubbing his nose against Kurt's.

"What a coincidence... That's exactly where I left your prize."

#december klaine challenge 2023 #departure #here we are with the last one!!!!yay!! #klaine #klaine fanart #klaine fanfic #i love this one so much…. #esilher’s drawings #myno's stuff

[rubydubydoo122]

In every universe Jason Peter Todd dies young. It’s a fate sealed across the multiverse. Maybe he could hope that there’s one universe where he doesn’t. aka, Jason, Dick, and Bruce go multiverse hopping, and are not having a fun time. (Ps, when I started writing this fic I hced Jason as Latino, but I don't really believe in that hc anymore, so just a heads up if you don't like that hc)

TRIGGER WARNING -> Child Death (it's Jason)

Jason woke up in a daze. There was shouting, and arguing, but he couldn’t really make out the words. Something about ‘ Why is this the first time I’m learning about Jason’s soul sucking swords??!!’ and ‘It’s in his files–’ and ‘Not the magic sword part, the part where he uses them and ALMOST DIES AGAIN!!’ and ‘Do I look like a magic expert to you, Dick?’ and ‘No, but you could’ve asked ANY of the handful of magicians–’

Jason stopped listening. Why are Dick and Bruce arguing? Must be about the Titans or something.

He felt a hand card through his hair. 

Oh. That’s nice.

He fell back asleep.

The next time he woke up, there was the bone deep numbness that was so numb, it hurt. In his shoulders, his knees, his hips. His fingers felt stiff. His whole body was screaming.

Jason really hates that crowbar.

Slowly, he flexed each and every joint. Curling his fingers, curving his shoulders, bending his knees and shifting his hips until the screaming pain turned into a synchronized throb.

Sometimes, Jason really loathed being brought back to life.

He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t like laying on his back. It reminds him too much of waking up in a suit and tie. Inside of a box. Dark and cold, breathing in stale air–

He curled back onto his side.

That was better. 

Jason realized Bruce and Dick were staring at him with that look . With how much they look at him like that, they should trademark it. Right along with Alfred’s I’m very disappointed in you look ™ and the Batglare ™. Though, Jason didn’t really know how to describe it. Kinda like a you’re still alive? Look. 

It was too much work to read into whatever Bruce and Dick were thinking under their carefully crafted masks, and frankly, Jason was tired, so he closed his eyes.

But every single bone in his body was pulsing in pain to the beat of his heart. 

A hand grabbed his, and traced tiny circles into the space between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, For my unconquerable soul.

“In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, My head is bloody, but unbowed.

“Beyond this place of wrath and tears, Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years, Finds and shall find me unafraid.

‘It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”

There was a weight on his chest that was shifting around, until he was face to face with…

Damian.

But something about him was making some very dim light bulbs in the back of his head turn on. Wait. Talia was there, right? He remembers seeing Talia. Were they at the League?

 “ Little Prince–” he started in the League dialect.

“Are you really Jay-Akhi when he grows big?” And that completely threw Jason. Because Damian said it in English– and not in the crisp accent or tone Damian used to have when he was younger. Lowkey, it had a bit of Alley in it, which was really throwing Jason for a loop.

So… maybe they weren’t in the league. “Uh… I guess?” He sat up, “Not exactly… I’m not your Jason, but I’m kinda like him.”

Damian grinned– aww, now that was just adorable– he was missing his two front teeth, “That’s mir-macu- wacu-louis. Now I have three Akhis!” then he gasped, “No, four!”

Jason chuckled, “Miraculous.” Damian couldn’t be more than, what? Five? Six? “Alrighty kiddo, is there a reason you woke me up? Cus I’m pretty sure I need my beauty sleep in all universes.”

“Um…” Damian put a finger to his chin and looked up, and then leaned in close, speaking in a stage whisper, “My reason was Cookies.” 

“Do you mean you want to make ‘em or eat ‘em?” Jason raised an eyebrow conspiratorially, “Or do you need help stealing ‘em? ‘Cus, I dunno about you, but I may know a thing or two about that.”

Damian spread his arms out wide, and wrapped them around Jason’s neck, “I wanna make ‘em, steal ‘em, then eat ‘em. Like the Cookie Monster!” 

There were footsteps racing down the hall, “Habiiiiiibat!” Damian immediately perked up, and looked to the door, “Damian?” Jay peaked his head through the door, and then seemed to realize Jason was awake and straightened up, “Oh. uh, Hi! I’m sorry if he woke you up.” Damian immediately ran to Jay and jumped into his arms.

Jason laughed at the sight. Dick is probably going to melt once he sees the pair. “Trust me, I’m used to it. He comes to my apartment at 2 a.m. demanding food.” Everyone does and it’s annoying. Like, Dick can cook too. So can Steph and Duke, and even Damian depending on the food. Why would they go to someone they don’t really like? Or trust? Jason shook his head, “How long have I been out?”

“A little over two days. Your Bruce and Dick wouldn’t leave your side, until Alfred had to shoo them away to get some food and sleep.” Jay chewed the inside of his cheek. “They, uh, they were looking at him kinda funny. Is… nevermind.” For all Jason’s faults, he was usually really good at reading people. He wasn’t as good as Cass, but he was pretty good. He had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t have survived as long as he did on the streets. If only he was able to read Sheila “Alfred left some clothes out for you. He’s in the kitchen right now, so once you’re done… yeah.” Jay turned to leave.

That was a lot more awkward than the last Jason they met who was this age. Actually, he was pretty sure this Jason was older. Though, he always felt more confident as Robin. He could always pretend to be more outgoing while dressed like a traffic light.

Jason was a bit wobbly on his feet, but he found the clothes Alfred laid out for him. They were probably Bruce's if he wasn’t mistaken.

Then he realized what sweatshirt specifically had been laid out for him. 

It was a vintage Gotham Knight’s sweatshirt that Jason remembered wearing all the time in the cave. It had always been way too big on him, and Bruce tried to buy him one that would fit better, but there was something about Bruce’s sweatshirt specifically– maybe because it was vintage, or maybe because it was Bruce’s– that was comforting. 

He tried to find it once when he went back to the cave, usually he kept it in his locker, but he had found it empty. With no trace that Jason was once Robin, besides that stupid memorial. He assumed Bruce threw everything out. 

While Jason took a shower, he debated wearing the sweatshirt, but ultimately decided against it. Jason’s was long gone. And he was fine with that. He had his own time with his. This one belonged to Jay. 

And then, it hit him like a freight train.

Alfred.  

Alfred was here. Alfred was alive . 

And, he made it to the kitchen, but… he couldn’t make it past the door. Not when the scene looked like it was pulled directly from his childhood. Jay on a stepstool so he could comfortably reach the counter, Alfred next to him giving him nods every time Jay looked to him for confirmation. The Beatles playing in the background. 

And just seeing Alfred reminded him of how much he missed him.

Damian was sitting on one of the bar stools with a bunch of colored pencils and paper spread out in front of him. 

Alfred finally seemed to notice him, “Ah, Master Jason. Glad to see you awake and about.” Even his voice was the same. 

That was the thing about Alfred, no matter how much time had passed, he still stayed the same. The way he stood, the way he spoke. Every hair on his head, every line in his face. Jason had genuinely thought Alfred was immortal. Guess he was wrong . 

Alfred moved to the fridge and pulled out a glass container of pasta salad. “Dinner is at six, though since you missed the last few meals, I would be amenable to fixing up something you would like.”

Jason placed the Gotham Knights sweatshirt on the backrest of the chair next to Damian, and sat in the next seat, glancing at the clock. It was currently 3:00, “I think I’ll be good for now, Alfred. Thank you.” Though, Jason wasn’t just saying thank you for the food. He was saying, thank you for all the years you’ve taken care of me, thank you for giving me a real childhood, thank you for being someone who believed in me.

Alfred gave him a knowing smile, as he scooped out some pasta into a bowl. Because maybe Alfred was a mind reader. Jason was pretty sure that held true across universes. 

Jason started eating as he made a mental note of things. They’d already been in this universe for a lot longer than the other ones. They were even at the Wings Universe for noticeably longer. And then he stopped mid bite.

Alternate reality Jason had Seraphim Wings. 

Maybe… No. Jason couldn’t’ve been an angel, especially not a seraphim. Not before he died, and definitely not after. It was just a different reality. It wasn’t even him . 

Little Damian poked Jason’s cheek, “Big Jay-Akhi?”

Oh, this child was too cute. “Hm?” 

“Can I see your magical swords?”

Jason scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, sorry kiddo. I can’t exactly summon them without the presence of pure evil. But I can tell you how your Umi was the one who brought me to this place called the Acres of All where I learned how to use it.”

He saw Jay’s mouth drop, “Wait, seriously? When?”

Egh.. that was a foggy time period, “I think I was… 17? Yeah, because I was 18 by the time I was back in Gotham, and that was after… yeah, I should’ve been 17.”

Jay beamed, and leapt off the stool he was on, darting towards the kitchen entrance, because Bruce(the younger one) was leaning against the doorframe, “Ya hear that, Old Man? I’m gonna get magical swords of my own! Oh my god, I’m gonna have to make up a new vigilante name! Wait–” Jay looked back at Jason, “What do you go by? What does your suit look like? Do you still stay in Gotham? Or do you work from wherever you go to college? Where do you go to college? Cus I’ve been thinking of Princeton since I could still come back to Gotham every weekend to see Damian and I would be close enough to help if there was an Arkham breakout, but I was also thinking NYU because then I could see Dick more often, and maybe help out the Titans. Am I aiming too high? I mean, afterall I didn’t really go to middle school, but my grades have been really good, and obviously you know that, you’re me, and I’ve been thinking if I had a really good essay, I could probably get into any good school. Not to mention Bruce said he’d pay for tuition, but I wanna know that I got into the school because I was good, not because Bruce has a lot of money, ya know?”

“Um…” Static filled Jason’s ears. He had to sit on his hands because they had gone cold. His whole body had gone cold, why was the manor so cold? 

He was also sweating. Why was he sweating if he was so cold? His heart was pounding. Did he just come back from patrol? 

He huffed out a breath and closed his eyes. He knew himself. He knew that school and college, and a future was something every version of himself would’ve wanted. 

Yeah, no, Jason’s not gonna think about that. He’s gonna go back to making a mental checklist. He no longer had his kris. That was embedded in a hyena’s forehead. 

Did his Bruce still have the duffel with their suits in it? Or were they just running around in civvies from here on out? 

Jason no longer had his helmet or gloves. He had left those behind when he was holding a crying Tim. Which honestly sucked because if they got stuck in a reality that dropped below freezing, his fingers were going to be useless and in pain for the next 24 hours after that.

Alfred placed a grounding hand on Jason’s elbow, “I believe we should hold off on interrogating the older Master Jason until he fully wakes up.”

Jason snapped back into the real world and realized everyone was looking at him funny. 

No clue why though. He was perfectly fine. 

But his Bruce and Dick were now in the room, and so was Talia, so he looked to her, “You wouldn’t happen to have any spare knives on you? I kinda lost mine a couple dimensions ago.” 

Talia gave him a fond smile, and then a pointed look towards Alternate reality Bruce, “I was told not to give you anymore blades that weren’t approved by your father beforehand.”

Jay sat in the seat in between Jason and Damian, “She gave me a squiggly knife for my birthday. And then Bruce had a cow.”

Jason nodded, “Batcow.” And then blinked, “Oh, wait, you were talking about the expression. Not Damian’s pet. I thought you meant Bruce took away the kris and got you a cow instead.”

Suddenly Bruce was faced with a pair of double puppy eyes from both Damian and Jay, and Jason realized the chaos he had caused.

Jay sat on his hands and kicked his legs, tripling the cuteness factor, “Maybe not a cow, but at least a dog?”

Damian got off his chair and gave Bruce the drawing he was working on, “Please, Baba ? We can also get a pony in case the dog gets lonely. Like Dickie-Akhi and Jay-Akhi. We can then get a kitten when the doggy leaves because dogs don’t like cats.”

He saw both Bruce's fold, and Bruce had better hope their Damian never asks to get a pony, because Jason will bring up this moment.

“Wait, why am I the pony?” Jay had his head tilted to the side.

“Because you’re Ponyboy! From the story!”

The Outsiders?

Jay hummed, “I always saw myself in Johnny.”

Jason shoveled the rest of the pasta into his mouth, even though all it tasted like was ash. He could only half pay attention to what the rest of the conversation was.

“…Wasn’t that the one who killed someone?”

“It was an accident, and it was also in self defense.”

“Jay-Akhi, you can’t be Johnny. He dies.”

“Saving kids from a fire wouldn’t be the worst way to go out.”

Jason’s ears were ringing. 

His heart dropped. Just like Garzonas over the edge of a balcony. A man he didn’t push, but he didn’t save. 

A shiver ran up his spine, yet his ears felt like they were on fire. His whole body felt like it was on fire. He was trapped under a smoldering rebar, and the only thing he could smell was smoke and burning flesh. 

Abruptly he stood up, “I’m… gonna… go back to bed.” He was about to bolt out of the room when he turned back to Alfred, and offered him a tight smile. “Thank you.” 

And he stumbled out of the kitchen.

Jason was bundled up in three blankets, but his chest wouldn’t expand, his heart was now pulsing in his throat, and he still felt cold. Too cold. He was on fire, he was covered with burns. He was riddled with frostbite. Every bone in his body was crushed. He was bleeding. Bleeding out of his neck. His hands were coated with sticky red. Red, red, red. The air was too thick– He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

There was laughing, laughing, laughing, something was eating him alive, but he wasn’t alive. He was just a doll. A doll with a voice box that sang, ‘only the good die young, only the good die young! Onlythegooddieyoung! ONLYTHEGOODDIEYOUNG!’ over and over and over again dissonant against the laughter that wouldn’t stop.

Nope.

Nope.

Jason does not have to deal with this. They were currently on a mission. A really long mission, sure, but they were on a mission. He didn’t have time to panic. In fact, the only reason he was currently panicking about a book was because he was just tired. Even though he slept for two days. Though, in his defense, his soul almost decided to Houdini out of…existence. 

His soul.

His wings. 

They had completely wrecked Angel Jason’s wings. They had broken his soul. Even if the angel had survived, who knew if he would ever be the same again. 

Either way his soul was shattered into too many pieces. His soul. He was broken . 

He felt the corner of his bed dip, the sweet smell of jasmine filling the air, as fingers ran through his hair. 

Talia.  

Safety.

‘Ana huna

“You have always said Robin was magic. Though, Richard always said that magic came from you. I guess he was right.” Talia puffed out a soft breath that could only be heard as fond. 

It tickled the back of his brain. The part that would always be frozen in time. Watching the last second on the timer. The part that knew something came after that and before that Halloween, but he could not remember what was there. The part that knew there was something in between the coffin and the Lazarus pit, but the pieces were too fractured to put together. 

“Jason, tayirati alsaghira,” My little bird, “You still make the same face when you are trying not to think of something that haunts you. I will not pretend to know you as I know my Jason…” She trailed off, as she thought carefully of her next words, “just know I do not plan on letting anything happen to my sons. None of them, no matter the Universe.” She continued to brush his hair behind his ear, “You are safe as long as I am here.” 

Jason curled in on himself, “‘Ana huna.” I am here.  

It was a phrase buried deep within his mind. 

“Yes, ‘ana huna.” He could almost hear Talia’s fond smile, “ ‘Ana huna.”

And if Jason let himself zone out, he could almost picture himself back at the league. 

A husk of a boy. Sitting in a grass field while the promise of ‘ana huna was softly whispered in his ear. A time when he was too hollow to hurt. Too hurt to feel. Oddly, it was probably the best period of his post-mortem life. Mainly because he didn’t remember it at all.

And with Talia there, whispering ‘ana huna, Jason could just forget.

He could forget.

Jason ended up coming down to help Alfred make dinner. They were making Biryani– Jason’s idea– and it was weird. 

It was weird because Jason knew this wasn’t his Alfred. He had to keep reminding himself of that. He had to keep reminding himself that his Alfred was no longer able to cook besides him in this kitchen because of Bane. 

Yet, cooking alongside Alfred always felt comfortable. It always felt right . He never felt like he had to live up to any expectations whenever he was around Alfred. 

He knew he could just be. 

Except, Alfred was giving him that look that meant he knew something was up, and was waiting patiently for Jason to tell him. Honestly, it was a near constant look on Alfred’s face– whether that be towards Bruce, or Dick, or anyone. 

When Jason was younger, he used to wonder if Alfred was a time traveler. Since he died, he just thinks Alfred could read minds.

Or Alfred just knows them all really well. 

The rice was already cooking and Jason started frying the onions in a pan alongside the spices. He and Alfred worked well in silence, it’s just that, Jason wanted to say something. He just didn’t know what.

“Alfred?”

Alfred handed Jason the chopped tomatoes, “Yes, my boy?”

 “If–” Jason cut himself off and frowned as he slid the tomatoes into the pan, “Nothin’.” and then he realized that it would be a bit too obvious if Jason wanted Alfred to drop the look. “I was just wondering if you could eat at the table with us tonight?”

Alfred gave him that smile that meant he wouldn’t normally do what Jason’s asking him to, but will because he knows Jason needs it. “Just tonight.”

Dinner was… interesting. 

Jason could tell that both Bruces wanted to talk about interdimensional travel, but Alfred had a strict no cave work in the manor policy. (the policy had been tossed out the window by the time he came back from the dead, but oh well.) 

Jason was sitting next to Talia who was feeding Damian as he babbled about different animals and people named the Kratt brothers? Though, it was really sweet to watch. Mainly because he knew this wasn’t something that would happen between their Talia and Damian. 

Dick was looking down at his plate, like it had personally offended him, and Alfred was sitting at the head of the table with both Jasons to either side of him.

Jay was looking at Jason with a question on his face, “How come your Bruce lets you get away with the white streak?”

Out of all the Jasons who were Robins, he’s surprised he hasn’t been asked that question earlier, “As if Bruce has any control over me.” Jason glanced to Dick and back to Jay, hopefully projecting, He still doesn’t know about the vitiligo, as much as he could, “I also wear a helmet.”

Jay also glanced at Dick and grinned, “Is it because of your magical swords? Or do you just dye it? Ya know, you should dye it a different color. Like… I was gonna say green, but it’ll look horrible once it fades, but maybe… purple.”

Jason hummed, “Maybe.” He looked to Dick, “Ya think I could get Steph in on it too?”

Dick glared at Jason. It was a glare filled with such temperance, Jason had to hold back a flinch. 

Jay turned to face Dick, while leaning slightly back. “Who’s Steph?”

Like a lightswitch, Dick’s glare softened, “She’s our current Batgirl.”

So he was angry with Jason. Why was he angry with him? He thought they were getting better.

The Batgirl comment seemed to deflate Jay’s mood, “So Babs doesn’t…”

“No, she doesn’t.” A flurry of emotions seemed to pass over Jay’s face before settling on worry, “But honestly, she’s much more bada–” Dick glanced at Damian, “-wesome. Awesome, she’s much more awesome now. She’s basically our eyes and ears. She mans the coms, and sends us to wherever we’re needed. She’s kinda our guardian… angel now.” Dick looked back at his plate, pushing around some rice.

Jay rolled his eyes, sensing the tone shift at the end, “Please tell me you two aren’t also fighting. Because I came off of a phone call a couple days ago with my big brother telling him how much of a big idiot he was, and I really don’t feel like repeating myself.”

Dick gave him a little chuckle, and ruffled Jay’s hair, “Nah, kiddo, we’ve been just friends for the better part of the decade.”

“That’s what you say about Wally and Roy, yet I still see both of their clothes in your room.”

“Everyone’s clothes are everywhere in Titans Tower. You know that.” Jay looked like he wanted to continue to poke fun at Dick and his relationships, but Dick cut him off, “Steph! Is actually really cool. She was her own hero for a time, and then she was Robin, and then went on to be Batgirl. She’s basically Damian’s big sister, but Bruce won’t adopt her.”

Jay nodded, “So like…Babs but blonde?” and then paused, “I don’t treat Steph how you treat Babs, right?”

Jason grimaced, “Nah, I could never pull a Tim. She deserves better.”

“Who’s Tim?”

Bruce (the old man,) finally pitched into the conversation, “Do you have a small kid with a camera who follows you around as Robin?”

Jay nodded.

Jason blinked, “Hold up, is Tim a little stalker in every universe except for ours?”

Bruce’s face twisted like he was adding something to his mental tally, “No. Ours did too. You were the one who told me about him. Though, I didn’t believe you, until Tim showed up on our doorstep.”

“Huh. I guess I forgot.” Jason scratched his head and frowned. How could he have forgotten? Jason hasn’t forgotten any of the alley kids he meets on patrol, or the people he’s saved from muggings, or anything. He might not know some of their names, but he could never forget their faces. How in tarnation did he forget Tim running around from roof to roof with a camera?

What else does he not remember?

The rest of dinner passed, Jay offered to get Damian ready for bed, while Alfred washed the dishes. The rest of them headed down to the cave. 

Jason had to do a double take, because this cave was nothing like their cave, and it definitely didn’t look like the cave he knew when he was younger.

First off, there was a swing near the computer. There was also the normal batcomputer chair, but Jason just wasn’t expecting there to be a swing. Vaguely, in the back of his mind he remembered sitting on a swing with a sleeping kid leaning on him as the sun set. Second, there were no weapons out on racks, and most of the sharp corners were either blunted or covered with foam. Third, there was one of those toy cars that a kid could ride in, that was painted to look like the batmobile. Along with a pretty large Thomas the Train track set, and a bin of legos.

So, really the main difference between this batcave and their batcave, was that this one was baby proofed.

“Jason, would you mind if I took a sample of your blood? Just a blood test, nothing else.” Young Bruce led them towards the medbay, while Talia, Dick and Older Bruce made their way to the computer

Jason frowned, “Why… didn’t you do that when I was unconscious?” He figured Mr. Paranoid would’ve done that already.

“You passed out due to magical interference. I did not want to… complicate your status.” Bruce opened a drawer and pulled out a sterile needle, tube, and tourniquet. “And I know you don’t like having needles placed in you without your knowledge. Unless that’s just something my Jason doesn’t appreciate.”

Jason sat on the cot and rolled up his sleeve, “Nah, you’re right. I’m just… I’m fine if it’s you.” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, while grabbing a bandaid (Wonder Woman themed) and an alcohol wipe, “What about Alfred? Or Leslie?”

“They go without saying.” They were the ones who figured it’d be better to make a routine while bringing needles around Jason. It’s not a distraction, just reassurance nothing’s been tampered with. Jason doesn’t really need people to do that for him anymore, not since he’s had more traumas that have made unsterile needles seem juvenile, but the thought is still nice. 

“What about Talia and Dick.” Bruce tied the tourniquet around Jason’s upper arm.

“Dick hasn’t tried in… a really long time. He tried to distract me, and I kicked him in the face. Though, I dunno about Talia. I trust her with my life, but I don’t remember how that trust was built.”

“Hnm.” That was his mentally tally for something off grunt. 

Bruce started putting together the needle and tube in front of Jason. He felt around for his vein, then disinfected Jason’s arm, “One… Two… Three.”

There was a slight pinch, but other than that, Jason was fine. 

Jason’s fears were weird like that. He’s not afraid of the Joker, but his heart stops whenever he sees a blonde with a bob on the streets. He’s not claustrophobic from the coffin, but the feeling of dirt under his fingernails sends a shudder throughout his whole body. He’s not afraid of needles, he’s afraid of what’s attached to it.

Bruce took the needle out, stuck the bandaid on, and disposed of the gloves he was using. Then he offered Jason a smile, “I like that you decided to grow the white out. Reminds me of a tiny little boy who hit me with a tire iron and called me a big boob.”

Jason opened his mouth and then closed it, Not his Bruce He hopped off the cot. Jason gave him a little smile back, as they both headed back to the batcomputer. 

They were planning on building a beacon of sorts. Older Bruce already had a couple of designs sketched out, and had made a list of materials that would be needed to make said device. Most of them they could find, but some of them Jason knew they wouldn’t be able to get their hands on unless the universe was a couple years in the future. Or they went on a deep space adventure, which they couldn’t because that would take too much time. Time they didn’t know they had.

Jason was currently sitting in the study, across from Bruce. It was just them in the manor. Talia had left for work at Wayne Enterprises, Alfred was currently dropping off Jason and Damian at school. Dick and Younger Bruce were out gathering materials.

Dick, who was still upset with Jason. What did he do? Dick hasn’t been this mad at Jason since Jason was in his villain arc. As far as Jason knew, they were fine back in the Wings universe. And he was concked for the past two days, and Dick’s been avoiding him since then, so it had to be something that happened over there.

Unless he said something wrong while he was asleep– but he doesn’t sleep talk. Maybe it was something he did?

Since no one else was in the manor with them, they decided to update the chart of Universes they’ve been to. On a real piece of paper. 

This time they were just titled Jason 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8. He couldn’t find it in him to give each of them snarky nicknames. 

Most of it stayed the same, if they were Robin or not, their Age, the place where they died, how they died. Though they decided to add the differences between each of the universes, and how long they were in each universe.

“Got any theories on why we’ve been in this universe much longer than the other ones?” Sure, they had also been in the Wings Universe longer than the other universes, six hours, though  that’s still a lot less than three days.

“Dick seems to think that because the beam directly hit you, where we go is somewhat attached to you.” 

Jason nodded. It made sense… but at the same time it didn’t. If the beam was magic, it would make more sense, but it seemed to be just tech gone wrong, “And you?”

Bruce looked at him, but too many years of miscommunication must have passed between them, because the only thing he could read on Bruce’s face was a mixture of grief and relief, “Jason hasn’t…”

“Well, Sherlock, couldn't've figured that one out.” Jason tapped the pen on the table, “but usually we’re sent back a little before the incident starts. The first one we were in the warehouse a couple minutes before Robin arrived. The second Jason was actively freezing to death, the third Jason was an hour before he got hit by the car, tops. The fourth one was also a little under an hour before the manor got swarmed, the fifth one was seconds before I came back to life. The sixth one was– we were in the room while… The lamb was an active member of-of the food chain, while we just sat there . And baby Jay was probably spooning cocaine into his mout h as we– as she –” Jason shut his mouth. He felt like he was going to throw up. “She didn’t even care.” Jason underlined the age of baby Jay on their list. “She left her four year old son alone . In the apartment. With drugs in reach . She didn’t care , Bruce.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, but it still didn’t stop his mouth from twitching downwards, so he let out a little laugh. “I’ve– I’ve spent the last eight years trying to make excuses for her. That she was being blackmailed by the Joker, she was young and wasn’t ready to be a- a mother, that the world was just out to get her, but she– my mom – Catherine, the one who raised me– she would’ve never let that happen. Any of it. She wouldn’t’ve– up until the very end she didn’t even let me near– ” Jason pressed his lips together, his eyes burning with shame at the stupid, naive, fifteen year old version of himself who was desperately clawing at any ounce of acceptance he could find.  “ Mami wouldn’t have sold me out.” it came out barely above a whisper.

Bruce reached his hand across the desk, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” 

Jason shook his head, “I want to tell you. God, Bruce I’ve wanted to tell you for so long. But at the same time, I didn’t?” He set down the pen and looked into Bruce’s eyes. They used to be a brighter blue. The color of the sky on a good day in Gotham. Now they've turned gray. Jason doesn’t know when it happened. He just knows it was sometime while he was gone. He looked back down at the pen, “Sometimes, it’s just really hard to talk to you. There are so many times that I want to talk to you . To Bruce . Except ever since I’ve come back, it feels like I have to fight Batman just to do that.” Jason shook his head, he knew he had Bruce right now. If he had Batman, he’d be interrogating Jason instead of letting him speak. “Every single day since I could think straight, I’ve regretted how– how desperate I was to meet her. How I didn’t even do any background checks on her or how I didn’t even tell Alfred about it, I just found out and… left. ”

“Jason–”

“Let me finish.” He took in a breath, “It was reckless, it wasn’t thought through, I was so… willing to trust her even though that was the worst mistake of my life. It was the worst mistake of my life.”

“Jason, she led you into a false sense of security, it wasn’t your fault–”

“It wasn’t my fault? Bruce, I knew better than that! The first thing you learn as a Alley kid is don’t talk to people you don’t know or you’ll end up dead in a ditch . I literally found three contacts in Papi’s phone with names I didn’t even know, and left halfway across the world to ask a secret agent– Who I didn’t even know– if she was my mother, and I should’ve stopped then, but I then asked Lady Shiva ? What the fuck was I thinking?”

Bruce stood up and rounded the table until he was kneeling in front of him. “Jason, it was not your fault. I’m sorry for ever believing otherwise.”

He shook his head, “I never blamed you for my death. I’ve told you this. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“I’m apologizing for turning you into a cautionary tale. For assuming things about your death.”

Jason looked anywhere but the the man in front of him, “Bruce–”

“Jason, you were 15 years old. You just wanted to get to know a mother you never knew you had. That’s understandable. It is comparatively more tame to what your siblings were doing around that age.” He locked eyes with Jason, “It wasn’t your fault. You were just a child. A child who had to grow up too quickly because none of the adults in your life could give you what you needed. And that includes me.” Bruce held both of Jason’s hands in his. An action that used to completely bury Jason’s hands, but now, both of their hands were relatively the same size. “I know you don’t like it when I… lament  over your death, though it’s not just about not making it there in time. It’s because I left you alone with her, it’s because I let you track down Lady Shiva. It’s because I should’ve told you to take a break from Robin in a different way, because I knew you were hurting, but I didn’t know how to help you.”

Jason knew his mouth was hanging agape. And then he shut it, “I feel like that’s a recurring theme between us.”

Bruce offered him a small smile. One he hasn’t seen in a while, “We’ll figure it out eventually.”

And Jason knows that Bruce will try. He will try to reach Jason, try to figure out how to get back to him. But there's always that one day. That one day when he feels like they’re almost back to where they were before he died. There’ll always be something . Something that sends it all crashing down. And that something is usually Batman. 

He knows that Bruce can never put the cowl down. It’s the same reason why the rest of them can’t either. It’s a special mix of adrenaline and guilt that keeps drawing them back to protecting people. In ways, it’s an addiction of sorts. And Bruce will always choose the addiction of being a hero over any of them. 

Still, Jason nods whenever Bruce says he'll try harder. Because Jason is the moon. A cold and dry desolate landscape, and when water-the building block of life- when the oceans try to reach him, he can only try to reach back. He’ll always be grasping for something he’ll never be big enough to pull towards him.

“The real thing we should figure out… eventually, is why in the world did my dad have Lady Shiva in his contacts.”

It didn’t take long for Alfred to come home after that, and Dick and Younger Bruce came home around noon. Both Bruce's got to work on the beacon, while Jason and Dick help Alfred with chores around the house. It definitely made the top three most awkward moments of his life, death and life. Since he was actively trying to ignore the fact that their Alfred was dead and Dick was upset with him.

Jason spared a glance at Dick and found him staring again.

Furious.

Though Alfred definitely knew something Jason didn’t, because he was giving Dick his I know what you’re thinking, but not everyone can read your mind look that he usually reserved for Bruce. Dick glanced from Jason to Alfred, his face contorting into that weird mixture of grief and relief.

Oh.

Jason wasn’t the only one who lost Alfred. So did Dick, and he knew Alfred for much longer than Jason had. Alfred was more of Dick’s constant, than Jason’s. And Dick only seemed angry at Jason after he and Alfred had made dinner together.

He finished vacuuming the living room carpet, “I think I’m gonna head to the library.” and to the library he went.

The first book Jason was about to pick up was the Iliad. Then he remembered where the story of Icarus was from. And Icarus had wings and so do angels– 

And they both fell.

They both died.

He shook his head and went to the Jane Austen section, and grabbed Sense and Sensibility. He went to the papasan chair he used to curl up in when he was younger. The one in their manor was gone. He’s now too grown to sit with his legs underneath him, without tipping over the chair, but still, being there in the library, with only a book for company, let him drift to the land of 19th century literature, without worrying about what was going on around them.

He was halfway through the book when Alfred came in, looking more tense than Jason’s ever seen him “the Joker is out of Arkham.”

Naturally . Jason went to put away the book he was reading, “Do we know where–”

“Gotham City Elementary.”

Jason stilled before practically running out of the library and to the cave, Alfred keeping pace with him. Gotham City High School was only a couple blocks away from the Elementary school. And he knew he kept a spare suit in his backpack when he was in high school, just in case a rogue attacked. There was no way he would stay behind if he knew, especially since Damian went to the elementary school. 

Jason leaped down the stairs to get to where Younger Bruce was suiting up, and Dick and older Bruce were putting on spare dominoes.  Jason reached to grab one too, but Dick swatted his hand away.

Jason reached again, “I’m sorry if you didn’t catch on, but I lost my helmet four realities ago.”

“No.” Dick slapped his hand away again, and fixed Jason with a hard glare, “You’re staying here.”

He blinked, “Excuse me?”

“You’re staying here. That’s final.” Dick strode towards the batmobile.

So Dick was still mad at him. Why was he still upset with him? It couldn’t’ve been the Alfred thing, because he gave them their time. It had to be something before that, “If you’re upset with me for… taking down those wing smugglers, just know the All Blades don’t work on anything that isn’t true evil–”

“I know that. That’s not– we don’t have time for this.”

“Exactly. We don’t have time for this. I’m coming.” Jason opened the drawer to grab a domino, and marched after him.

Dick scoffed, “No, you’re not.”

“Is it because I killed that Hyena version of the Joker ?”

He turned to face him, “No–”

“Then why? Do you not trust me or–”

“I could see you fading, Jason! You almost died! Again! Ok? And you keep dying! Ever since I got back from space and saw on the news that you were dead, I fucking thought that if I was there then–” Dick cut himself off, took a deep breath “Every single universe we go to, you keep dying, and we’re right there, but we can never do anything about it! And it’s not fine, but the only reason I’m not losing my mind over their deaths is that I keep telling myself that you are alive. That they’re not you, because you are my little brother. You keep dying. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Jason shook his head, “Dick… You know I can’t promise you that. Not with our line of work. You couldn’t even keep that promise.”

Dick leveled him with a glare.

This was a losing battle, wasn’t it? Jason went to sit on the swing. “I’ll stay.” they were probably going to leave this universe soon anyway. 

He heard their footsteps leave the cave, and the sound of the batmobile driving off. 

He knew Alfred sat down next to him, but he didn’t look. They watched the news play from the batcomputer. They watched as Robin led groups of classes out of the school. And then they couldn’t see the little boy dressed in traffic colors. 

Alfred grasped his hand

They couldn’t see Batman, or Bruce and Dick enter the building, but he knew more groups of kids were making their way out of the building. 

Jason leaned his head against Alfred’s shoulder, as they saw Batman rush out of the roof of the school with a bundle of yellow cradled to his chest. They watched as he grappled away. 

Alfred went to prep the Medbay, while Jason knew where this was headed. 

So he started collecting their things. Which, throughout their journey had dwindled down to very few things. Jason’s leather jacket. Dick’s phone. Bruce’s wallet. He also gathered some things he thought they would need. The list they made of each universe they’d been to. A copy of the blueprints of the beacon. He had to wander around to find the hidden weapon racks, but he stocked up on shurikens, and grabbed a pair of escrima sticks for Dick. stuffing them in various pockets of his leather jacket.

The engine of the Batmobile sounded through the cave, and before they heard the breaks of the car, they heard the doors swinging open. 

And screaming. Blood curdling screams, but it wasn’t coming from Jay. Jason made his way to the batmobile, to find older Bruce sitting with his head against the wheel while Dick held a squirming Damian while sitting in the passenger seat.

“ AKHI! AKHI!! I WANT MY AKHI!”  

  Dick was attempting to rock Damian, lightly hushing him, but it wasn’t working.

“ Damian .” Bruce said it in a tone that was stern, yet soft. “Damian, your brother is really hurt right now. I know you want to see him, but your father and Alfred are working hard on trying to make him feel better.”

“B-but I want Jay-Akhi !” Damian squirmed again, but with significantly less effort.

They heard the doors to the cave fling open, as heels clacked against the stairs, and then across the floor. There was also the squeak of sneakers, 

“Doctor Tompkins, the medbay,” Talia made her way to the batmobile, scooped Damian out of Dick’s arms and made her way over to the swing, setting Damian down, holding his face with both her hand, wiping away his tears, speaking in Arabic “Habibi, I am going to help with Jay-Akhi. Big Jay and Dickie will stay with you here, ok?”

“Is Jay-Akhi gonna be ok?”

“We will see.” Talia placed a kiss on Damian’s forehead, and motioned for older Bruce to follow her.

Jason moved to the batcomputer to play music to distract the boy. There was already a playlist for the boy, filled with mostly lullabies and slower Disney songs. He hit shuffle, and the first song was ‘Ma Belle, Evangeline’ from Princess and the Frog.

Dick sat down next to Damian, as Damian rested his head on Dick’s chest. He held the kid close, and rested his head on top of Damian’s. 

The kid had a far off look in his eyes. Like he wasn’t really there with them. It was a look he saw in so many of the kids on the streets of crime alley. He wondered if he had that look when Bruce found him. If he thought being Robin would fix it in the same way it seemed to fix Dick. Being Robin never really fixed any of them though. It just gave them something else to focus on.

Jason grabbed a sticky note that was next to the batcomputer, and wrote Damian’s disassociating. Make sure he has someone to talk to. If not a league therapist, Elaine Thomas is a good option in Gotham. She’s also the mother of a kid you foster in the future. ~JTW

Jason went to sit on the opposite side of Damian, lightly rocking the swing with his foot. Thinking for a moment before asking in French, “ What happened?” Jason was 80 percent sure Damian wasn’t paying attention, but he didn’t want to accidentally trigger him. 

Their Damian knew French, and this Damian was probably multilingual, but Jason was certain it was just the main languages spoken in the house. English, Arabic, Spanish, and Romanian.

“ The rest of the class was already out. The… monster made him watch as he beat robin with a crowbar. It was a trap.”

Jason frowned, “How did he know?”

“I don’t know. But he also knew about the lamb.”

Jason stilled. Was the Joker traveling from universe to universe with them? No, because he killed that version. 

The heart monitor let out a high pitched whine. Jay was flatlining. Dick looked back to Damian who didn’t have any reaction to the noise. “The crazy man split open his skull and he made him watch.”

Jason leaned his head on Dick’s shoulder. “Talia’s going to kill him.”

“I know.”  

The lights to the batcave seemed to get brighter and brighter. Until they were gone.

#jason todd #batman #batfam #dc comics #red hood #dick grayson #bruce wayne #damian wayne #talia al ghul #bruce and talia #alternate universe #dimensional travel #robin jason todd

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 55

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 55: Keeping Alliances

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera stood at the forefront of Meraxes, her gaze fixed on the nearing harbor owned by House Penrose, with their castle majestically perched atop the cliffs. The ship’s captain had wisely opted to avoid navigating through the treacherous Strait of Tarth, which would have led them directly into the capricious and storm-laden seas of Shipbreaker Bay. By now, the wind had picked up its pace, briskly whipping against her face, tugging insistently at her cloak and gown, while the crew above busily engaged in the masts, attempting to stow away the billowing sails. 

The sea danced tumultuously around them, flinging droplets into the air, creating a wind of water and foam. The waves, crowned with white, played a symphony of nature’s untamed beauty. Exhaustion had steadily crept into Daenera’s very bones, an unwelcome yet familiar companion on this long journey. 

Her hair, once neatly braided, now danced wildly in the wind, creating a whirl of dark curls around her face. Her eyes never left the sight of the approaching land. She could feel the ship beneath her, steadily moving forward, cutting through the waves with determined precision. 

“How much longer until we reach the harbor?” Daenera’s voice cut through the wind, strong and unwavering despite the fatigue that clung to her. 

The third mate, a seasoned sailor with lines etched deep into his face from years at sea, turned to her with a respectful nod. “Not much longer now, Princess. The winds are in our favor, and if they hold, we’ll be docking within the hour.”

Daenera nodded, her thoughts turning to the tasks that awaited her once they reached dry land. It would be a couple of hours by horse, at the very least, to reach Storm’s End.

And by the time they neared Storm’s End by way of horses, with the steady ground beneath their hooves and the heavens shrouded in ominous black clouds, the wind were mercilessly whipping the treetops, creating a frenzied dance of leaves and branches, the sound similar to the whirring of the sea. A distinct aroma, heavy and foreboding, filled the air – the telltale scent that presaged the unleashing of a storm, the moment before the skies would rupture and pour forth their fury. 

Daenera couldn’t help but feel as though the land raged against her for what she had done to their lord. But she supposed that was what the land was always like. 

Storm’s End itself rose proud and formidable at the cliff’s edge, exuding strength and resilience. The castle stood as a steadfast guardian against the elements, its walls having withstood countless storms over centuries.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Daenera wrapped herself tightly in her cloak, her eyes on the colossal structure loomed ever larger, its formidable presence dominating the landscape. The massive curtain wall encircling the castle stretched up into the sky, a hundred feet of pale gray stone that was nearly impenetrable in its construction. The wall, varying from forty to eighty feet in thickness, was a marvel to behold, its curving surface so perfectly smooth that not even the fierce winds could find a hold. 

As they passed through the gates and entered the castle grounds, Daenera took in the sight of the stables and the yard, all securely nestled with the protection of the curtain wall. The sheer scale of the wall made Daenera wonder how big The Wall in the North truly was, and how miniscule this one was in comparison. 

But it was the colossal drum tower that truly captured her attention. This immense structure, crowned with formidable battlements, stood tall and proud, a testament to the might of Storm’s End. From her position on horseback, Daenera could see that the tower was large enough to house the granary, barracks, armory, feast hall, and lord’s chambers all at once, its size and strength a reflection of the castle’s unyielding nature. The main hall of the castle, known as the Round Hall, was visible from the courtyard, its grandeur befitting the castle’s storied history.

Upon dismounting and advancing into the stronghold, a rising sense of anticipation enveloped Daenera, manifesting as a subtle yet persistent tingling sensation beneath her skin. 

They claimed that the very stones of the fortress were threaded with magic, a last line of defense rendering this formidable stronghold seemingly everlasting. As she moved deeper into the castle, the air seemed to thicken with a palpable sense of power and history, enhancing the feeling of apprehension that had taken hold of her.

Daenera’s footsteps, along with those of her retinue, resounded through the expansive emptiness of the Round Hall. The vast chamber was barren except for the stern figure of Borros Baratheon, who sat upon the stony seat that belonged to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He was encircled by his wife, Lady Elenda Caron, and their daughters— Cassandra, Maris, Ellyn, and Floris— who stood to their father’s right. 

The reception that met her was subdued, a stark contrast to the fanfare typically afforded a princess, though not entirely unexpected. 

In the dim light, shadows seemed to dance forebodingly across the darkened stone, animated by the erratic glow of torch flames. The wind composed a haunting symphony outside, its whistles intensifying as the storm asserted its fury, unleashing a torrent upon the fortress’s stoic walls. 

This whirring reminded her of Dragonstone, yet she couldn’t help but feel the stark difference; this place bore a chill that seeped into the bones, its atmosphere unfamiliar and unwelcoming, the halls resonating with solemnity that made Dragonstone’s own brooding nature seem almost warm in comparison. 

Before the stony gaze of Storm’s End’s liege, Daenera maintained a poised stature, her back erect, her demeanor unyielding despite the oppressive air of judgment that Lord Borros Baratheon cast upon her. His features were set in a stern mold, as unyielding as the stone seat he sat upon. 

With a grace born of her station, she performed a curtsy that was a display of deep respect, before she righted herself to address him.

“My lord Borros, it is with a heavy heart that I come before you under these circumstances,” she began, her voice steady, betraying none of the trepidation that fluttered within her. “Please accept my sincerest sympathies for the passing of your brother.”

The silence that followed her words swelled in the hall, becoming almost a tangible entity, thick with unvoiced thoughts and the unrelenting hammer of the storm outside. Her retinue shifted, the rustling of their movements a stark note of disquiet in the oppressive stillness. 

Lord Borros’ eyes, mirroring the tumultuous skies, remained implacably fixed on her. 

“I received your word that you weren’t coming,” he finally declared, his tone resonant with the chill of the storm. He glanced towards his Maester, who shook his head. 

Daenera clasped her hands in front of her, a subtle shiver traveling through her fingers, the tips of which were cold. She gathered the remnants of her composure, steeling herself against the coldness and outright hostility in his voice. 

“When my husband died I was beside myself with grief.” Daenera let the lie slip from her mouth with the ease of honesty. “The thought of the journey to bring him home was a weight I feared too great to bear. But as I kept his vigil, I found the strength to do it. I realized my place was here, not only to accompany him on his final voyage home but to stand before you, to present my respects in person, and to extend my condolences.”

Her words hung between them. 

Lord Borros Baratheon’s gaze sharpened, a sword’s edge in his eyes. “Explain to me, how my brother met his end?”

Daenera’s fingers found an anchor in the ring that circled her finger, twisting it as if to wring solace from its familiar contours. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm, and a sickening sense of foreboding roiled in her belly. “He… it was an unfortunate turn during a hunt–”

A scornful sound escaped Lord Borros, his eyes averted in a display of contempt as his countenance darkened with growing wrath. He shook his head, rejecting her words outright. “A hunting mishap? Nonsense! My brother has been at the chase longer than you have drawn breath. His prowess in the hunt was matched only by his experience in the saddle.”

His voice filled the Round Hall, each word a hammer strike against the silence. “No mere ‘accident’ would lay him low!”

The unvoiced indictment in his tone stretched taut across the room, a silent challenge that seemed to rake its claws across the stones, seeking to breach Daenera’s composure and infiltrate her resolve with its poisonous implication. The collective gaze of Storm’s End’s court pierced her, laden with a mix of suspicion and sorrow, all eyes fixed upon her–the wife of their lord’s brother, a man whom most had known all his life. 

“It takes but one mishap,” Daenera spoke. “My husband was an excellent hunter and rider, indeed. But he oftentimes paired the hunt with the indulgence of wine–”

Borros cut her off, his interruption sharp as the crack of thunder. “Years upon years, he’s ridden under the veil of drink. And not once has it left but mere scratches.”

Lord Borros drew his hand across his beard, a gesture that seemed to serve as an attempt to quell his rising temper. The room waited, suspended in the wake of his rage, and when he finally spoke, his voice broke through each syllable as an ax cut through wood. “It is no secret that my brother’s ways were not to your liking. Your grievances regarding his conduct in your marriage were laid bare in your own words, penned in your letter. You were angry that he sired a bastard, and felt threatened.”

Pain bit into Daenera as her teeth pressed into the tender flesh of her cheek, a self-inflicted anchor against the tide of tension. She yielded to the growing silence, letting it swell before parting her lips to speak. “I–”

With a sudden catch in her breath, she allowed a fragmented sob to break through her facade of composed grief. She drew in a sharp, steadying breath, as if gathering the scattered pieces of her crumbling self-control. She summoned unshed tears to the brink of her eyes, her voice quivering like a reed in the wind.

“It was my fault–” her voice broke, feigning a fragility she did not feel. 

The chamber rippled with the undercurrent of Daenera’s revelation, the air charged with an almost palpable electricity. Lord Borros’s daughters exchanged wide-eyed glances, save for the second eldest who’s eyes remained on Daenera with a discerning turn on her lips. Lord Borros himself leaned forth, his robust hands seizing the armrest as if to anchor himself against the swell of emotions that widened his eyes–a maelstrom of fury and indignation. 

Beside him, Lady Elenda’s form tensed, her eyes flickering towards her husband with a note of wary counsel. 

In the wake of their princess, Fenrick and the rest of her guards grew restless, their hands instinctively settling on their sword hilts, as if the rising tension within would soon come to a head with the clash of swords. 

A choked sob broke from her lips, her tears cascading down her face unrestrained.

Daenera’s lament resonated through the Round Hall, her voice imbued with a grief as profound as the abyssal depths of the cliffs outside the stronghold’s walls. Her performance was artfully crafted as a mummer’s farce. “I strived to be the wife he wanted, yet his longing for an heir led him to the bed of another, and I…” She paused, a deliberate quiver in her voice, as she inhaled sharply, as if gasping for air amidst a tempest of emotion. “I implored his fidelity, vowed that I would bear him an heir, and I beseeched him to renounce his illegitimate offspring for the sanctity of our union. When he discovered that I had confided in you with my troubles, it send him into a rage–” 

Overcome, or so it seemed, Daenera collapsed to her knees upon the unyielding stone, her silhouette a portrait of despair. “Had my resolve wavered, had I not insisted, perhaps he would have sought solace in drink… wouldn’t have embarked on that reckless chase… wouldn’t have taken the fatal leap that claimed his life.” Her voice faded, surrendering to the silent cascade of her fabricated sorrow. 

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands might have been no stranger to the manipulations of a woman’s tears, or perhaps he’d been conditioned by the watery pleas of his daughters before, nevertheless, the sight of Daenera’s quaking form upon the cold stone floor of his great hall seemed to perturb him greatly. His complexion paled, a stark contrast to the deep blues and grays that adorned the chamber around them. 

He rose from his austere stone seat, a movement that seemed unexpected to people of the court. His steps echoed with a thud that seemed to resonate with uncertainty as he neared her. There lay a possibility that his discomfort was born from the dread of seeming callous to his brother’s widow, or the fear of being deemed inhospitable to those sheltered beneath his roof. 

His hand extended towards her–a bridge over the turmoil that divided them. She grasped it, and he aided her ascent from the cold embrace of the floor. As she stood, Borros’s eyes, as tumultuous as the sea during a squall, examined her face, the furrows of his brow deepening the crevices of the cliffs that protected the shore. 

“Grief has a way of shearing away our courtesies, and for that I beg your forgiveness,” Borros said, his voice softening, though it still held the timber of displeasure. His gaze drifted to the elegantly carved casket that held the remains of his brother. The carvings, intricate with the visages of ancient trees and wild creatures, bespoke of the fervent love of the hunt that had pulsed in Boris’s veins–and that was the backdrop of his demise. 

A moment of silence fell between them, as Borros laid a tender hand upon the casket’s dark, polished surface, his fingers tracing over the contours of carved leaves and branches. 

Daenera watched quietly, apprehensively, as she wiped the tears off her cheek with her hand, sniffing gently. 

He raised his eyes to meet Daenera’s. “He was headstrong and haughty, then man, true to our line. A fool in his passions, perhaps, but he was my blood, and that bond is not so easily broken. He was my brother, and I loved him.”

The lord’s voice trailed off, as though he carried on a silent conversation with the brother he would never see alive. Then seemingly, clearing the emotion from his throat with a tight swallow, he focused back on Daenera, his demeanor a blend of noble resolve and a man of pride. 

“Come,” he gestured towards one of the doorways, which presumably led somewhere more suitable, “Let us not speak of such somber matters while standing. You have endured a journey both in distance and spirit. You shall have the comfort and respect due here, beneath my roof.”

Daenera inclined her head slightly, her expression a mask of gratitude veiling her internal machinations. 

“Your graciousness is deeply appreciated, Lord Borros,” she acknowledged, allowing the offered repentance to sweep into the space between them, settling like a truce. 

A sharp flick of Lord Borros’ fingers, a crisp command followed, authoritative and expected. He turned to address the attendants waiting in the wings of the chamber. “Escort my brother to the crypts.”

The men bowed deeply, a silent understanding passing between them as they stepped forward. As they carried the casket, the footfalls of the procession resonated through the halls of Storm’s End. 

Daenera watched, her face a still pond of mourning on the surface, while beneath, her thoughts raced with the currents of relief and anticipation. 

Guided up the winding stairwell of the tower, Daenera emerged into a chamber where the glow from the twin hearths cast a golden warmth, banishing the chill that clung to her bones. The relentless rain tapped an uneven rhythm against the sturdy windows, a reminder of the storm’s continued siege upon Storm’s End. 

Within the room, a modest repast had been arranged upon a sturdy oaken table, an array of breads, cheeses, and preserved fruits offering a comforting, homely fragrance that seemed to weave through the air, subtly displacing the damp scent of stone and storm. 

Lady Elenda, her demeanor composed yet brimming with an earnest solemnity, approached Daenera, her hands carefully cradling a steaming mug. “In the morning, we shall honor your husband with a befitting ceremony, before he is laid to rest.”

“Thank you, Lady Elenda,” Daenera said, accepting the mug. The warmth seeped through the ceramic, offering a silent comfort against her cold fingers. 

A somber hush enveloped the room, filled only by soft words of compassion and shared sorrow, as the lords and ladies murmured their sympathies to one another and shared stories about the man Daenera had killed. 

As dawn unfurled its pale light upon Storm's End, the tempest outside showed no mercy, its roaring winds a relentless companion to the solemn proceedings within.

In the shadowed sanctity of the crypts, a wooden casket was carefully enclosed within a stonier embrace, and a weighty slab sealed the tomb, the name Boris Baratheon etched into the cold, unyielding surface.

Daenera donned the guise of a grieving widow flawlessly, her visage the very image of sorrow as she delicately dabbed at imaginary tears from behind the obscurity of her veil. She couldn’t help but think of her husband’s rotting body, how it would slowly decay over the course of years, sealed within the wooden casket as well as the stone casket. How all that would be left of him in this world, was a bastard child and bones. 

As the day wore on and dusk began to bleed into the horizon, nobles from the influential families of the Stormlands traveled the beaten path to Storm’s End, their faces etched with somber lines of respect and regret. They traversed the corridors of the Round Hall, now a tableau of remembrance adorned with verdant greenery and tables arrayed in somber finery. The braziers blazed with insistence, their flames battling the chill that sought dominion over the chamber, yet a certain coldness persisted–a figurative chill that wove itself into the stone recesses and the tight-lipped smiles of Borros’s acquaintances. 

Boris’s retinue of friends, those who had journeyed with him to King’s Landing and had sailed back upon the ship Meraxes with her, displayed a variety of reactions towards her. Tarnish Cafferen and Camren Wylde bore expressions of skepticism and uncertainty when their gazes brushed past her, while Derren Morrigen’s words were laden with sympathy, his respectful account to Borros Baratheon of her vigil over her husband’s body painting her devotion in hues of fidelity. Horden Penrose, for his part, remained indifferent, sparing Daenera neither disdain nor dialogue. 

None amongst them openly aired their doubts or disdain, if such sentiments lurked in their hearts. They held their tongues, their true thoughts masked by decorum due to her display of mourning. 

Patrick burst through the hall, his youthful exuberance slicing through the somber veil of the gathering like a ray of sunshine piercing a clouded sky. His voice, a shade too excited for the mournful occasion, drew disapproving looks from those nearby. 

He scampered across the stone floor, his small arms finding solace in the embrace of his mother, who enveloped him with a love that was pure and untainted. Daenera observed, her expression carefully neutral, as the boy, with childlike insistence, drew his mother towards her for an introduction, pulling her by the hand. 

Lord Ronard Horpe approached, a serious frown etched into his features softening slightly in a gesture of solidarity. 

“Our sincerest condolences,” he offered, his voice imbued with the weary weight of ritualistic sympathy that Daenera found increasingly taxing to endure. She dipped her head, her acknowledgement as rehearsed as a courtly dance. 

“And our gratitude for you taking our son under your wing,” Lady Marybel Horpe expressed, her presence was like a warm breeze, her smile gentle, eyes touching upon her son with a mother’s adoration. Her fingers affectionately combed through Patrick’s golden curls. “He has penned many a letter singing praises of your kindness.”

“It is my pleasure taking him under my wing,” Daenera replied, her smile genuine for a fleeting moment as she gazed upon the flushed face of the boy. “He is a brave boy, and very helpful.” 

“It means the world to us,” Lady Marybel continued, her gratitude apparent. “Your husband had a firm hand, indeed. Please understand, we’re grateful he accepted him as his squire, it was an honor, truly, but his methods were quite stern.”

“Marybel,” Lord Horpe chided, exchange a look with her. A silent conversation passed between them that spoke volumes.

A mother’s worry, reflecting a silent acknowledgement of the treatment her child had experienced, and a father’s stern approach, torn between gratitude and the fear of seeming ungrateful. 

To speak ill of the dead, and their liege lords brother, was a treacherous path. 

It was a dance of diplomacy that Daenera knew all too well, and she could certainly add her own steps to its intricate patterns. 

“Indeed, my husband did not believe in half measures. He was… exacting,” Daenera conceded with a tactful choice of words, acknowledging Lady Horpe’s worries. “He had this unwavering belief that resilience was best forged in the fires of discipline. Alas, sometimes his expectations towered too high, forgetting that not everyone was as impervious to the world’s harshness as he prided himself to be.”

“Perhaps the occasional strict word can forge resilience,” Lord Ronard suggested, his tone a testament to his belief in a  firm hand’s value. 

Yet, Lady Marybel offered a counter point, her voice light with wisdom of a nurturer, “But healing must follow admonishment, lest the spirit break where it ought to bend.”

Seizing a moment ripe for interjection, Daenera gracefully steered the conversation towards calmer waters. 

“Your son has been a beacon of light amid these shadowed days,” she interposed with a smile that softened the air of formality. “His presence has brought comfort not only now in grief but also in the past days of solitude. I have grown quite fond of him. He has shown promise, and I have sanctioned his swordsmanship training with my sworn shield. Should you desire his squireship to continue under another’s banner, I shall honor your wishes and dissolve his service to my household.” 

“No, Mother,” Patrick interjected, “I want to stay with my lady princess. Fenrick is training me and lady Joyce teaches me about teas and how to treat a wound, and lady Jelissa sneaks me cake when no one is looking. Can I stay with the lady princess? I want to become her knight!”

Patrick blinked up at his parents, who shared a glance before Lord Horpe answered, “If you would have him, we’d be honored.” 

“Please, Mother,” Patrick implored, his gaze earnest and unwavering, “I wish to remain with my lady princess. Ser Fenrick is teaching me the sword, and Lady Joyce is teaching me the art of tea–I don’t know why it's called the art of tea, but it is! And Lady Jelissa—she brings me cake when no one’s watching. I want to be her sworn knight one day!”

His wide eyes, brimming with hope, turned towards his parents, seeking their approval. After a moment of silent communication, the kind that passes between those who have shared a lifetime of understanding, Lord Horpe nodded affirmatively. “Princess Daenera, if you would continue to accept him, we would consider it a great privilege for our son to serve in your retinue.”

Nestled in the core of Storm’s End, above the Round Hall, Lord Borros Baratheon’s study was a sanctuary of history and power. The round walls, enveloped in grand tapestries, narrated the untamed beauty of the Stormlands. Vivid scenes of waves ferociously colliding with the rugged cliffs and tumultuous storms, their lightning bolts shimmering in the intricately woven silver threads, adorned the chamber. Among these, a particularly striking tapestry portrayed the historic meeting between Lord Orys Baratheon and Aegon the Conqueror, the moment immortalized in vibrant colors and exquisite detail.

The room itself exuded a sense of solemn gravitas. A large, sturdy desk of dark wood, its surface weathered by time and etched with marks of diligent service, dominated the space. Above it, the Baratheon sigil was proudly displayed, a constant reminder of the houses’s enduring legacy and strength. 

The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the room, casting a warm, inviting light that contrasted with the imposing stone walls of the stronghold. As Daenera entered, the study seemed to pause in its age-old rhythm, the air thick with the scent of old books and the sea’s briny tang.

Lord Borros Baratheon was ensconced behind the grand desk, imposing despite his leisure leaning on the chair. In his hand, he wielded a dagger with an ease that spoke of long familiarity, methodically carving into a block of wood. The rhythmic motion of his hand sent small chips and curled strips of wood cascading to the floor, creating a small mount of shavings around his feet and upon his lap.

Maester Cal, a figure of knowledge, stood by his side, his fingers gently holding a piece of parchment as he dictated the contents of the letter for the lord. His voice was a soft murmur, a stark contrast to the usual clamor that accompanied the ruling of a great house. 

Daenera’s entrance brought a momentary pause to their work, the two men looked up, acknowledging her with a mix of curiosity and caution as the politics of the realm waited, momentarily suspended. 

With practiced poise, she approached the matter at hand, her gaze briefly shifting from Lord Borros to Maester Cal and back again before posing her query. “Might I have a moment of your time, Lord Borros?”

Lord Borros responded with a nonverbal cue, a subtle nod towards the chair opposite his desk. Master cal, sensing the gravity of the impending discussion, excused himself with a discreet bow, leaving the two to converse privately. Daenera advanced further into the study, and took her seat, her posture composed and dignified. 

“What matters bring you to me?” Lord Borros asked, his attention momentarily diverted as he brushed away the wooden curls from his desk with a nonchalant flick. 

“I wish to discuss the future of our alliance,” Daenera began, her voice steady, her hands resting composedly in her lap, fingers absently tracing her palm. 

“Our alliance?” Borros retorted, his voice taking on a sharper, more abrasive edge. “The alliance died with my brother. Unless you bear his son within your womb, an heir I can claim, I am bound to seek alliances through my daughters.”

Daenera felt a flicker of irritation at his blunt words, but she quelled it swiftly, maintaining her calm demeanor. “While I do not carry your brother’s heir, I still fervently wish for our houses to maintain a strong bond. It is my hope that our friendship, our alliance, might transcend the passing of my husband.”

Her words were carefully chosen, a delicate balance between appeal and assertiveness, aimed to thread the fine line of political alliances. 

“I require more than mere hopes and amity, Princess,” Borros stated, his words sharp and succinct, slicing through any illusions of sentimentality. “In the absence of your marriage’s political benefits, unless you can propose an alternative, such as a union between one of your brothers and one of my daughters, I must seek more advantageous alliances elsewhere.”

His tone was pragmatic, stripped of emotion–a clear reflection of the hard, strategic thinking that ruling a house like Baratheon demanded. 

Daenera maintained a composed demeanor, her smile tight-lipped as her thumb absentmindedly traced the ping scar on her palm. “I don’t have the authority to broker matrimonial alliances for my brothers. The most I can do is present your proposal for my mother.”

“Then do so and return with a tangible offer,” Borros commanded, his focus briefly returning to the wooden block beneath his blade, from which he carved another flake. Before him stood a delicately carved wooden doe, its slender limbs supporting its inquisitive posed form.  

“Lord Borros,” Daenera persisted, her voice steady and resolute. “I entered into this marriage with your brother to solidify the bond between our houses. I expected an honorable and faithful husband, as I was an honorable and faithful wife.”

His gaze snapped up, the tempestuous blue of his eyes flashing with the characteristic Baratheon temper. 

Undeterred by his steely look, Daenera continued. “I fulfilled my duties as his wife. Had it been within my power, I would have provided the heir you both desired. I was promised a loyal husband, not one who flaunted his indiscretions and threatened me with the legitimation of his bastard.”

The storm of Borros' face deepened, his expression darkening. “The alliance was contingent upon you bearing his son.”

“I don’t speak these truths to tarnish your brother’s memory,” Daenera said, her voice cloaking the untruth. “I am simply presenting to you, that he did not hold up his end of the bargain either. I wish to continue this alliance as was initially agreed upon.”

Though they were at the center of the stronghold, above the Round Hall, they could still hear the whirring of the wind, the sound creeping beneath doors and traveled through the crevices. 

“What truly mattered,” Daenera countered confidently, “was the strengthening of our houses’ bond, and it should not be discarded at the death of your brother. I shall not forget my husband, nor will I forsake his house. I will ensure our alliance endures, for I did love your brother. I will consult my mother and remember the support of House Baratheon showed me in my time of sorrow. Should you be faced with troubles, skirmishes, I will seek assistance from her. This alliance matters to me, my lord, and I will remain a widow until my mother ascends the throne, or you give me leave to remarry. Hopefully, by then, you will have found the son you seek.”

In a deliberate gesture, Lord Borros Baratheon set the wooden block aside on the table. His hand lingered for a moment on the dulled edge of the dagger, an almost contemplative pause before his actions turned abrupt. With a swift, forceful motion, he drove the blade into the table. The dagger’s tip sank into the venerable oak with a resonant thud that echoed through the study, a display that might have been intended to unnerve. 

Daenera, however, remained steadfast, her composure unshaken by the display of raw power. She watched as Borros withdrew his hand, leaving the dagger quivering slightly, standing embedded in the wood. 

Borros leaned back into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he contemplated Daenera’s words. A moment passed and then he gave a noncommittal hum, his demeanor relaxing marginally. 

“Very well,” he conceded. “Your proposal for an alliance built on friendship is accepted. Present my offer to your mother. Should it lead to a renewed alliance, fortified by the marriage of one of your brothers to one of my daughters, then I shall consider your obligation of widowhood fulfilled.”

His words, touch measured, carried the weight of a lord’s decision, marking a pivotal point in their negotiations. There was a sense of finality in his tone.

The alliance delicately balanced on the precipice of Lord Borros’ proposal, hinged upon the precarious threads of marriage and Daenera’s status as a widow. As long as she wore the mantle of widowhood, she remained bound to House Baratheon, a symbol of their mutual interest. In this state, she posed no risk for forging a more advantageous alliance with another house, keeping her tethered and wanting to serve the Baratheons. It was a strategic maneuver, ensuring that her allegiance–and the benefits that came with it–remained firmly within her grasp.

Alicent delicately ran her fingers along the intricate edges of the exquisitely painted card, its surface adorned with a majestic black stag against a vibrant yellow backdrop for House Baratheon. With a graceful motion, she turned the card over, revealing its reverse side adorned with the finely detailed depictions of The Four Storms, as Borros Baratheon’s daughters were called. Placing the card beside its companions, she pursed her lips in contemplation, remarking the likeness of other noblewomen rendered, their house sigils expertly woven into the design. The colors were rich and vivid, every hue meticulously painted and embellished with accents of shimmering silver and gold. 

Of course, their likeness to their real life counterparts, were vague at best as the cards were only a symbolic gesture. 

A deep crease marred her features as she folded her hands in front of her. Just then, the heavy doors to her chambers swung open, and Lady Talya’s voice announced the arrival of her son. With a dismissive wave, Alicent sent her attendants away, turning her attention to her son now settling into the chair by the fire. The orange light licked at his features, distinctly Valyrian, a sharp sort of beauty. His gaze met hers with an air of expectancy.

“The Princess will arrive with her ship tomorrow afternoon,” Alicent began, her voice measured as she scrutinized her son, trying to discern any hint of emotion beneath his facade of indifference. “I’ve held my tongue, turned a blind eye for your sake, but I cannot stand idly by while you continue this… indiscretion.”

Alicent’s fingers twisted the ornate ring on her slender finger, a futile attempt to quell the unease that had gnawed at her ever since she first learned of her son’s dalliance with the princess. It had formed a tight knot in her stomach, growing heavier with each passing day.

“This cannot persist, Aemond,” she asserted, taking a seat in the chair beside him, her hand extending towards the small table between them, resting upon its surface. “Your father is not long for this world, and when he passes, you know what we will be faced with.”

Aemond’s response was a languid drawl, tinged with a hint of exasperation. “I am well aware of our predicament.”

“Then you understand your duty,” Alicent said, her lips pursed in determination. “Should Daenera have succeeded in securing the alliance with House Baratheon, our position would be precarious.”

Aemond leaned back in his chair, regarding his mother with a cool, contemplative gaze. “What, precisely, are you suggesting Mother?”

Alicent met his gaze with unwavering resolve, and as she spoke her voice was steady and firm, “A marriage alliance.”

Aemond’s gaze bore into her, his countenance an enigmatic mask, but Alicent, as a mother, could read the subtleties of her son’s expression. She observed the tension coiled in his jaw, the subtle tightening of his lips as he moistened them with a flicker of his tongue, and the restless, absentminded movements of his long, agile fingers, betraying an underlying irritation. 

“What if I desire to marry her?” Aemond challenged, his words landing like a blow, causing a pang of dismay and indignation to stir within Alicent. 

“Don’t be absurd.” Her eyes widened in incredulity, her frown deepening as her lips curled with a scoff. She withdrew her hand to her lap, her nails biting into the skin beside her nail, a manifestation of her unease. Her earrings danced wildly with her agitated movements. 

“Marrying her is out of the question. She will be your undoing. She’ll never forgive you for usurping her mother, and she’ll wage a relentless battle against you until one of you is dead. You know this,” Alicent retorted, her voice edged with exasperation. 

“Rhaenyra and Daemon would never allow it,” Alicent declared, her words dripping with frustration as she clenched her teeth. “ANd I, too, would stand against such a notion.”

In Alicent’s mind, there lingered not a shred of doubt that Daenera would prove to be her son’s undoing. The girl exhibited an alarming resemblance to her mother, shirking her responsibilities and besmirching her own reputation. It was not just her mother’s eyes she had inherited, but the same insolence that seemed to define her. 

Alicent couldn’t fathom how Daenera had managed to worm her way under her son’s skin, to lead him astray with foolish notions of an impossible future. She shook her head in disbelief. 

Daenera had ensnared him, her allure casting a beguiling enchantment much like her mother had done to Ser Criston Cole all those years ago. She was a seductress, luring men into the depths of dishonor and vice. Nevertheless, Alicent couldn’t deny that her son bore his share of imperfections. After all, the blood of the dragon coursed through his veins. 

“I refuse to allow you to squander your life and risk our future for someone of her ilk,” Alicent insisted, her fingers picking at the cuticle with a practiced, nervous habit, feeling the familiar sting as she inadvertently drew a drop of blood. She lifted her gaze, her eyes boring into her son’s. “Your duty is to safeguard your brother’s rightful claim, and I will not permit you to throw away all that we’ve toiled for over the years, to disregard the sacrifices I’ve made for you. Don’t let whatever infatuation you harbor for her blind you .”

Her son’s jaw clenched visibly, and he tore his gaze away from the dance of the flames to meet her unwavering stare. In that intense moment, mother and son locked eyes, a silent clash of wills. 

“You’ve placed yourself in a precarious situation with this affair,” Alicent declared, her voice frigid, each word honed like a sharp-edged arrow. “I’ve bitten my tongue thus far, preserving your secret, but I refuse to stand by and watch you continue down this path. Affairs like these have a way of finding their way into the light, and should it come to pass, your honor will be irreparably tarnished. Speculations will arise, casting doubt upon your involvement in her husband’s death. You’ll be portrayed as a dishonorable fool at best and a murderer at worst.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment. “Daenera will wield this knowledge like a sword hanging over our heads.”

“Her ties with House Baratheon preside alongside her husband,” Alicent continued, her fingers twisting the ring on her finger as if it held the weight of their conversation. “And the remaining alliance she manages to salvage will crumble should Lord Borros catch wind of her indiscretions… and should he suspect her involvement in her husband’s death…”

Aemond interjected, his tone nonchalant as he tapped a nail against the armrest of his chair, maintaining his composure. “Revealing her secrets would only drag me down with her.”

Alicent met his gaze with a steely resolve, pursing her lips in evident displeasure. “But if you marry and secure a powerful alliance, any accusations against you seem baseless. Her ties with House Baratheon already hang by a thread. If we offer a more appealing alliance…”

Aemond’s temper flared, his voice edged with frustration as if he had the right to be angry when he himself put them in this situation. “Are you suggesting I wed one of Lord Borros’s daughters?”

“House Baratheon could become a crucial ally against Rhaenyra’s claim.” Alicent leaned forward, her expression unwavering. “If not House Baratheon, then we must consider other options…” 

Her hand swept towards the table, gesturing between them, where a stack of cards lay waiting. The possibilities of alliances spread out before them. 

Alicent reached for the stack of cards, leaving the depiction of Lord Borros’s daughters on the table, The Four Storm’s as they were called, were all depicted as women with brown hair and blue eyes, their dresses the color of yellow. Carefully, she plucked another card from the pile, this one bearing the sigil of House Royce of Runestone. 

“House Royce is loyal to the Arryns and are unlikely to break their ties with Rhaenyra for a marriage alliance,” Aemond remarked dismissively, his fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of the chair.

“The Royces harbors no love for Daemon,” Alicent countered firmly. “If we were to propose a marriage alliance, they could be persuaded to stand with us. Their influence in the Vale is not to be underestimated.”

Aemond made a dismissive gesture, prompting Alicent to move on to the next card, and then the next, and then the next. She suggested House Glover and House Coldwater as potential footholds in the North, but each idea was swiftly rejected, citing that they’d find no friends north of the Neck. Her fingers brought forth the cards of House Reyne and House Tarbeck, wealthy houses from the Westerlands, and nestled between them, House Lannister. 

“The Westerlands align themselves with House Lannister, and they are already firmly on our side,” Aemond retorted, his displeasure evident as he pursed his lips. “Jaeson Lannisters girls are more suited to marry my nephews, as they are of similar age.”

Alicent then mentioned House Tyrell, offering a card adorned with the likeness of a smiling girl dressed in green, surrounded by roses. “They have a girl of your age, and she is said to be quite beautiful.”

Aemond turned his gaze away from the cards, choosing to fixate on the flickering flames instead. Alicent recognized his stubbornness, and had seen the same sort of obstinacy in Rhaenyra when she was made to choose a husband. It was an infuriating reminder of blood shared. 

“If we manage to secure an alliance with House Martell and bring Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms for good, it would strengthen your brother’s right to rule and solidify our position in the realm, ensuring stability and unity.” Alicent continued, placing a card on the table bearing an orange sun pierced by a spear. “And the Hand is in favor of such a match.”

“Of course he is,” Aemond mused, displaying a stubbornness befitting a child. “House Martell is know for their pride, they will not settle for anything less than a direct connection to the crown, perhaps suggest marrying Jaehaerys to one of their princesses.”

Alicent gathered the maining cards into a stack on the table, forming a towering stack of potential alliances. “Do not behave like a petulant child, Aemond. I am offering you a say in the matter of your marriage, it is more than I ever had.”

“You married a king,” Aemond pointed out, his tone abrasive.

Alicent’s patience wore thin as she retorted, “Yes, I married a king. I sacrificed my youth and life to fulfill my duty. I did as was expected, marrying a man twice my age so that he could have sons.”

She had wed Viserys, surrendering the one thing that held the most importance in her life, for a crown. Since that fateful union, she had been tormented by the ghost of his first wife, and the haunting absence of a friendship once cherished. Alicent had devoted her body, her aspirations, and every fiber of her being to fulfill her role as a wife. She had borne the king the sons he so ardently desired, enduring years of sacrifice and suffering. Yet, despite fulfilling her role, he had chosen to name his firstborn daughter as heir to the throne. 

The thought of Rhaenyra ascending to the throne filled her with dread, rendering all her sacrifices in vain. She couldn’t bear to imagine the horrors that would befall her children should she seize power. 

“Personal desires are of little importance.” Her voice carried the weight of years of sacrifice and unfulfilled desires. “You will choose one of these potential brides. Preferably House Martell or Baratheon. But choose, Aemond. It is your duty.”

After an extended stay of three weeks at Storm’s End, Daenera commenced her return voyage to King’s Landing. Her initial journey to the Baratheon seat had been challenging, marked by unpredictable winds and the ship’s relentless rocking. However, the return promised smoother sailing, with favorable winds and a sky unblemished by storms. Yet, despite these improved conditions, the passage seemed interminable, each day a drawn-out struggle against greensick. The sun, a glaring orb in the sky, offered no solace, its bright presence a stark contrast to the unease in the cabin below deck. 

Daenera spent her days confined to a hammock, her body wracked by waves of nausea that erupted violently. Jelissa, her constant companion in such miserable circumstances, lay in a nearby hammock, equally afflicted by the unyielding motion of the sea. Mornings were especially difficult, as Daenera fought the urge to vomit even the simplest fare. 

The evenings brought some relief. The setting sun’s cooler air allowed Daenera brief moments of respite. She would leave her hammock during these times, savoring the fresh, salty breeze, before succumbing again to the hammock’s sway. 

Upon finally sighting King’s Landing, Daenera appeared drastically altered by the ordeal. Dark circles under her eyes and a noticeably thinner, palling face bore witness to her suffering. Her lips, cracked and dry, and her weary expression, mirrored the deep exhaustion she felt. Stepping off the ship, she was overwhelmed with relief to finally be on solid ground again.

#hotd #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

[walkswithmyfather]

‭‭Romans 10:14-17 (NIV‬‬). “How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!” But not all the Israelites accepted the good news. For Isaiah says, “Lord, who has believed our message?” Consequently, faith comes from hearing the message, and the message is heard through the word about Christ.”

“Bridge to God’s Promises” by In Touch Ministries:

“Faith is the pathway to abundant life in the Lord.”

Northern California is home to the Golden Gate Bridge, a famous landmark and marvel of human engineering. Stretching across the strait between San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean, it connects two shores that were once separated and provides safe passage across the expanse.

In our spiritual life, faith can also be seen as a type of bridge—one that links us, who were once far from God, to His promises (Isaiah 59:2). This span is foundational to our relationship with the Lord, offering hope on our journey. And the more we immerse ourselves in God’s Word and absorb His principles, the stronger this bridge of faith becomes. We can depend on it to provide safety as we navigate life’s trials.

As believers, we can find comfort knowing we’re connected to God’s love, grace, and redemption. Through faith, we can walk boldly on the path Jesus has laid out for us, safely traversing chasms of danger and doubt.

Whenever you see a bridge, let it serve as a symbol of how faith unites us with the living God and guides us to abundant life in Him. And keep in mind that a regular intake of Scripture reinforces our “bridge,” adding to its strength and stability.”

(Photo by Farid Askerov at Unsplash)

#romans 10:14-17 #god loves you #bible verses #bible truths #bible scriptures #bible quotes #bible study #studying the bible #the word of god #christian devotionals #daily devotions #bible #christian blog #god #belief in god #faith in god #jesus #belief in jesus #faith in jesus #christian prayer #christian life #christian living #christian faith #christian inspiration #christian encouragement #christian motivation #christianity #christian quotes #in touch ministries #keep the faith

[semiotextiana]

Walter Benjamin memorial. Portbou, Spain

"The past carries with it a temporal index by which it is referred to redemption. There is a secret agreement between past generations and the present one. Our coming was expected on earth. Like every generation that preceded us, we have been endowed with a weak Messianic power, a power to which the past has a claim."

"We know that the Jews were prohibited from investigating the future. The Torah and the prayers instruct them in remembrance [Eingedenken], however. This [for them] [disenchanted] the future, to which all those succumb who turn to the soothsayers for enlightenment. This does not imply, however, that for the Jews the future turned into homogeneous, empty time. For every second of time was the strait gate through which Messiah might enter."

Walter Benjamin, On the concept of history

[moonjunio]

Excerpt from Eric Shanower’s epic comic series, Age of Bronze. I love how this sequence shows what Troy really looked like, and how it seemed like the center of the world in terms of trade.

Here we see two princes of Troy, Paris (impulsive long-lost prick), and Hektor (responsible eldest), discussing the latter’s mission to get the king’s sister back.

“Having second thoughts?”

“Hunh?”

“Hektor…no. No second thoughts at all.”

“I came to wish you good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“You aren’t overseeing the loading of your ship?”

“Aeneas is taking care of it.”

“Paris, a lot is at stake here.”

“Yeah, an aged aunt.”

“It’s more than Hesione. You’ve been in Troy for what — four months? Not very long. There are things you need to understand. Maybe I can help you see them.”

“What is there that I can’t see for myself?”

“You can see most of it — right from this tower.”

“Look south, Paris — to the seacoast where cookfires constantly burn. Do you know the bay there?”

“Of course, Hektor. I drive my chariot there sometimes. Ships are always beached along the shore.”

“Trading ships, Paris — from the richest countries of the south — Arzawa, Cyprus, Hatti, Amuru, Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, Achaea, the islands…

“…each ship packed full of exotic goods — copper, gold, silver, oils, spices, cloth, perfumes — the wealth of the world — all for trade.

“Now look north to the straits, Paris. The water flows swift and strong, endlessly coursing through the Hellespont. A ship’s captain needs courage to steer against that current…

“…but that’s where the ships go — beyond the Hellespont — north to the Black Sea ports…from one half of the world to the other. Troy stands between.”

“What you can’t see, Paris, is the key to it all — the wind. It blows from the north for weeks on end. Only when it drops does any ship dare to venture up the Hellespont.

“So the wait…and pray their gods hold back the wind. And while they wait, they pay us for permission to beach their ships here. A steady flow of the world’s goods pours into our gates.

“That wealth is the lifeblood of Troy. Do you understand, Paris?”

“Of course. I’m not a fool.”

“Good because there are many who yearn to see Troy topple. Priam knows this. Every decision he makes — every term of every treaty — every word to every foreign dignitary — every family connection he arranges — is based on keeping Troy poised at the gate between one half of the world and the other.”

(Pt 2 here)

This is from volume 1, A Thousand Ships, available from Image Comics or Hungry Tiger Press 📚

#the iliad #age of bronze #eric shanower #paris of troy #hector of troy #helen of troy #epic tale #classics #historical fiction #eisner awards

[feigeroman]

The Boulder Quarry Line

I recently binged the entire Classic Series again, as background noise while I was working on something else. When I got to Series 5-7, I remembered a headcanon I’d developed ages ago, to link together most of the Skarloey Railway episodes from those seasons. This recent binge spurred me to finally write it down, and bash it into something a little more coherent. Most of this is just me thinking aloud, but I thought I'd run it up the flagpole and see who salutes it...

1951

Just as operations are winding down at the old slate quarry at Ward Fell, new beds of good-quality slate are discovered in the hills north of Rheneas. A new quarry is established to extract this slate, and this helps to revive the Skarloey Railway’s then-declining fortunes. Even so, the surveyors who uncovered this slate are convinced there are still further treasures to be found deeper into the mountains.

1950s-60s

The search for such treasures is carried out as time allows - which isn’t very often, considering all the new developments which take place on the SR during this time.

Roughly 1970

Finally, a discovery is made - large deposits of stone in the northern foothills of Shane Dooiney, of similar quality to that quarried at Ffarquhar. Plans are quickly devised to extract the stone, and the Skarloey Railway is tasked with building a line to the new quarry.

The proposed line branches off the Rheneas Quarry line, passes through a natural ravine known locally as Echo Pass, travels alongside the main Skarloey-Peel Godred road, and finally turns south towards the new quarry site.

1970-early 1972

The line is constructed, following the route described above. When it is completed, trains start carrying building supplies to the site of the new quarry. Some trains are also laid on for the benefit of a road-building company, which is upgrading the Skarloey-Peel Godred road so that heavier vehicles can access the quarry as well.

Winter 1972

Due to a problem with the winch, some trucks break away on the incline at Rheneas Quarry. The breakaway tumbles into Echo Pass, triggering an avalanche which buries Skarloey, who happened to be travelling through the Pass with a supply train. He is subsequently rescued by Rusty.

These events are later loosely adapted into the episode Snow.

Early 1973

The new quarry finally opens for business, and even has a new name - Boulder Quarry, after an enormous, spherical boulder which looms ominously over part of the line. Boulder Quarry enjoys a prosperous first few months, and the Skarloey Railway enjoys the revenue boost provided by the new stone traffic.

After a while, Rusty begins to feel nervous about the Boulder, but can’t really explain why. The others don’t take him too seriously.

Autumn 1973

After several weeks of heavy rain, Boulder Quarry is able to try out its latest acquisition - an experimental drilling machine known as Thumper. Unfortunately, the vibrations from Thumper cause the Boulder to fall off its perch, and run away down the Skarloey Valley. The Boulder causes a great deal of damage to track and property all down the valley, culminating in the destruction of some new stone-cutting sheds just outside Crovan’s Gate.

All concerned parties agree the disaster is an act of god telling them to leave that part of Sodor alone, and Boulder Quarry shuts its doors for good - financially crippled by having been forced to pay substantial compensation to every property owner in the valley.

The Skarloey Railway also ends up in dire straits - besides the damage caused by the Boulder, several years of hard work have just gone down the tubes.

The remainder of 1973

The Thin Controller decides to temporarily close the SR, so that everyone can focus their efforts on repairing all the damage to track and property. The rest of 1973 is spent doing just that.

The events of Duncan Gets Spooked take place during this clean-up operation.

At some point, the time is found to move the Boulder to a new, safer perch - on a specially-constructed plinth on a hill near to Crovan’s Gate, and positioned to face in the direction of its old perch.

That winter, during a break, the little engines tell Thomas (or more likely some other standard gauge engine) the story of Skarloey’s Avalanche.

1974

The clean-up continues into 1974, and the line remains closed for the first half of that year. The Thin Controller hopes to have the line ready to reopen in time for the start of the summer operating season. Fortunately, Rheneas Quarry is closed for the two weeks before, freeing up men and engines to help. Elizabeth also happens to be working in the area, and is persuaded to lend a wheel. With all this help, the clean-up is completed in the nick of time, and the Skarloey Railway is officially declared open once more.

Meanwhile, the people of Glennock decide to treat themselves to a new organ for the village school. Headmaster Hastings personally oversees the delivery of the organ. This isn’t really relevant to the Boulder saga - I just felt like mentioning it.

1975

By this year ,things are more or less back to normal on the Skarloey Railway. One day, Rheneas takes a special charter train carrying a party of schoolchildren from the Mainland. On his way back down the line, he is accidentally diverted onto the abandoned line to Boulder Quarry. The line isn’t in the best condition, and wasn’t designed to carry passengers anyway, so Rheneas has a real rollercoaster ride to the Quarry and back.

Since the children enjoyed themselves so much, the Thin Controller lets Rheneas off for his mishap, but it gets him thinking about the old line, and how he might be able to get his money’s worth from it after all…

Surveys are carried out, and it is decided to reopen the old quarry line to serve as a connection between the SR and the Culdee Fell Railway - the latter being reached by rerouting the line in the direction of their station at Skarloey Road.

 The line also passes through many areas of natural beauty, and so a number of stations are proposed to serve some of these areas. These stations include Elephant Park (above) and Rumblin Bridge (below).

The terminus of the line is at the village of Skarloey Road. So as to avoid confusion with the CFR station, the SR station is known as Upland Station. While not a direct link between the two railways, their respective stations are still a reasonably short walk away from each other.

The reconstruction of the line takes place throughout the first half of 1975, and is completed just in time for the summer operating season. Sir Topham Hatt and Lady Hatt attend the grand opening, having first viewed the new line from a hot air balloon (and then made a crash-landing in said balloon).

To finish off, here is a rough map of the original Boulder Quarry line, the subsequent Upland Extension, and how they both relate to the main SR line.

#thomas the tank engine #the railway series #sodor #island of sodor #skarloey railway #ttte headcanon #ttte boulder #sir topham hatt #the fat controller #lady hatt #the thin controller #mr percival

[paramedicabroad]

Kronborg Castle

Welcome, fellow adventurers, to the majestic Kronborg Castle, a UNESCO World Heritage site nestled on the picturesque shores of Denmark. Join us as we journey through the rich history, architectural grandeur, and cultural significance of this iconic fortress that has captured the imagination of visitors for centuries.

In 2000, Kronborg Castle was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage site, recognizing its exceptional universal value and cultural significance. This prestigious designation honors the castle's unique blend of architectural excellence, historical importance, and artistic influence, ensuring its preservation for future generations to admire and explore.

Perched on the northeastern tip of the island of Zealand, Kronborg Castle stands as a symbol of Denmark's rich cultural heritage and maritime power. With its imposing ramparts, elegant spires, and strategic location overlooking the Øresund Strait, this magnificent Renaissance fortress has played a central role in Danish history since its construction in the early 15th century.

Kronborg Castle's fame extends far beyond Denmark's borders, thanks in part to its association with William Shakespeare's renowned tragedy, Hamlet. Inspired by the castle's atmospheric setting, Shakespeare immortalized Kronborg as the fictional Elsinore, forever linking the fortress to one of the greatest literary works in history.

As you step through the gates of Kronborg Castle, you'll be transported back in time to an era of kings, queens, and courtly intrigue. Marvel at the castle's impressive Renaissance architecture, from its towering turrets and fortified walls to its opulent chambers and ornate ballrooms, each telling a tale of Denmark's royal past.

Throughout its history, Kronborg Castle served as a formidable fortress, protecting the kingdom of Denmark from foreign invaders and asserting its dominance over the strategic Øresund Strait. From its commanding position overlooking the sea, the castle played a vital role in controlling maritime trade and safeguarding Danish sovereignty.

Today, Kronborg Castle continues to enchant visitors with its rich tapestry of cultural events and festivals. From theatrical performances of Hamlet in the castle's atmospheric courtyard to vibrant medieval markets and music concerts, there's always something exciting happening within the castle's storied walls, offering a glimpse into Denmark's vibrant cultural scene.

Beyond its historic interiors, Kronborg Castle invites you to explore its sprawling grounds and scenic surroundings. Take a leisurely stroll along the castle ramparts for panoramic views of the Øresund Strait, wander through the castle's lush gardens and courtyards, or venture into the underground casemates and dungeons for a spine-tingling experience.

So come, dear travelers, and immerse yourself in the history, beauty, and intrigue of Kronborg Castle. Whether you're admiring its architectural splendor, delving into its royal past, or simply enjoying the breathtaking views of the Danish coast, you're sure to be captivated by the timeless charm and UNESCO World Heritage status of this iconic Danish landmark. 🏰🇩🇰

#kronborg #castle #kingdom #landmark #danish #denmark #europe #history #culture #cultural #unesco #world heritage #travel #architecture #copenhagen

[dylawa]

Gale Dekarios imagines this might be what death feels like. He imagines this must be what death feels like, before your soul re-awakens moments or days later and makes its journey to its destined ever after. Or, perhaps, for those who are godless like him, this is how that journey ends, too. A stroll to the Fugue Plane to await redirection to one’s promised afterlife, only to be met with nothing, and to eventually fade like low, flickering candlelight, or be thrust into the Wall of Faithless. The thought is chilling. Were he a less practical man, perhaps this would have been the moment where he would have broken down hyperventilating and crying, contemplating what fate may await his soul at the end of his life. No, it wasn’t death itself that frightened him, he told himself. It was what awaited him after. Fortunately, he already had that little episode of panic a few months ago. There was no need to go through it again.

______________________________

A BRAND NEW fanfiction series has begun! I haven't decided on a concrete title yet, and so, this work currently has two. "The Rockrose and the Thistle (Inkpot Gods)" and its first chapter are LIVE as early access on Patreon!

If you've enjoyed my "My Hero Academia" works, and/or if you like Baldur's Gate III-- specifically Gale-- and you aren't already a Patron, there's been no better time to hop on board. For as little as $1 a month, you can get limited early access, and higher tiers get MONTHLY rewards catered specifically to them.

As of right now, early access posts go up on AO3 between 2 to 3 weeks later.

Here's a brief summary of what to expect with this series:

Gale Dekarios hadn't planned on being abducted by mind flayers when he departed from his Waterdeep tower for the first time in over a year. Clearly, the rest of this strange assembly of individuals from the Coast were in similar straits-- though that's to be expected. It's also clear to the wizard early on that something unnerving is afoot, a larger plan expanding far beyond the reach of what could be considered "normal" for illithid activity and intent. One thing that isn't clear to Gale, however, is the strange woman who has taken the role of leader and spokeswoman for the group. Syolkiir Evaliir Vaedaanaes, astral elf, swords bard, crystal-draconic sorcerer, is strict, callous, prideful, conceited, judgemental, cold-- everything in opposition to what her supposed heritage and abilities imply she should be. Her leadership is efficient, and much needed in a time of uncertainty, but her sense of superiority is nothing short of degrading. Worst of all, she seems to have made Gale her number one target of study-- and competition. It seems this may be a rather difficult journey.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldurs gate tav #gale x tav #gale/tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate oc #baldur's gate tav #patreon #patreon early access #early access #patreon creator #dylawa writes

[filohazard]

INUS Systems Mk. 22 Jumper - 'Rabbit'

History

By the middle of the last War, INUS Systems was in dire straits. Losing many of their historically lucrative System Defence contracts due to the Violet Gate incident, and with neither of the major factions of the War backing their designs, pickings were slim. With a cheaper pre-War design chassis, simplified beam tonfa weaponry and a stripped-back sensor array, the Mk. 22 was released to appeal to smaller demographics: mercenaries, private defence firms and the occasional privateer through shell corporations or backdoor dealings.

The Mk. 22 found appeal in limited quantities however, and while the full production run was complete, over a hundred units were impounded by respective planetary or station governments when INUS Systems were forced to concur defeat and announce bankruptcy, just after the release of the Mk. 23.

These were gradually released back to the private sector, often scavenged for parts or in worse shape, having been left in warm storage for years at a time.

The 'Rabbit', so named for it's marketable sensor array 'ears', finds appeal as a project build or first Vehicle for a less-favoured third or fourth child, cast out into the world to earn the family some honour. Spare parts are cheap, and the simplied chassis design means replacement of limbs or even core elements such as the cockpit is a breeze. Expect to see these wherever Vehicle enthusiasts, rookies or the desperate accumulate.

Suggested Quirks

Cheap Chassis Dextrous Limbs Mouldering Servos Rebuilt Reactor

#beam saber #mecha #original design #supply drop

[ltwilliammowett]

The Gjøa

The Gjøa was the first ship to sail through the heavily iced Northwest Passage between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans in Canada's far north.

She was a herring jakt built in Norway in 1872. She was 21.3 m long, 6.1 m wide and had a speed of 7 knots. She was built of Norwegian wood and named Gjøa after the wife of the first captain Asbjörn Sexe from Haugesund. She was used as a herring trawler on the south-west coast of Norway until 1885, when she was sold to Captain Hans Christian Johannsen from Tromso, who used her as a seal trawler in the Berents Sea.

The Gjøa (x)

In 1901, the inexperienced Roald Amundsen set out to find a cheap but robust ship with which he could launch his ambitious attempt to cross the Northwest Passage. His choice fell on the small but ice-tested Gjøa. Aware of his inexperience, he hired the previous captain and his own Johannsen and sailed with him on a seal hunt to test the Gjøa. After returning to Tromsø, a paraffin engine was installed at the Tromsø shipyard in the winter of 1901/1902, which powered a small propeller. In addition, the hull was further strengthened against ice pressure and the ship was better insulated. In 1902, the ship went to Trondheim, where a fuel tank was installed and finally transferred to Christiania, where she was equipped for the expedition, so that supplies and spare parts were packed for 5 years. On 16 June 1903, the ship finally set sail for the Davis Strait west of Greenland. The crew consisted of six men: Roald Amundsen as expedition leader, 1st officer Godfred Hansen, as 1st mate Helmer Hanssen, as 2nd mate Anton Lund, as 1st engineer Peder Ristvedt, as 2nd engineer Gustav Juel Wiik and as cook Adolf Henrik Lindstrøm. 

The Gjøa (x)

After crossing the North Atlantic, she sailed north along the west coast of Greenland, crossed Baffin Bay at Cape York and entered Lancaster Sound. Ice conditions were good and the ship was able to sail swiftly through the sound and the subsequent Barrow Strait. The pack ice to the north of Prince of Wales Island then prohibited further westward travel, so the Gjøa sailed south through Peel Sound east of Prince of Wales Island to King William Island. In September 1903, ice conditions became increasingly difficult, so wintering took place in a natural harbour on King William Island. In 1904, the ice conditions were far worse than the previous year and so the Gjøa was unable to free herself from the ice that year. The crew used the forced stay to explore the surrounding area.

Gjøa during the wintering 1903-1905 in Gjøahavn, King-William-Island (x)

It was not until 1905 that the voyage continued westwards south of KIng William Island and Victoria Island, reaching the Beaufort Sea north of the mouth of the Mackenzie River. In October 1905, ice slowed down the expedition and made it impossible to continue, and the Gjøa froze them again at Herschel Island. On 11 July 1906, the expedition continued west to the Bering Strait and reached Nome, Alaska on 31 August 1906, crossing the Northwest Passage for the first time and arriving in San Francisco as a hero in October 1906. Amundsen and his crew returned to Norway, only the Gjøa the little hero stayed behind. She was acquired by the Norwegian-American Citizenship there and displayed at the Golden Gate Bridge as a museum ship.

The Gjøa in transit (x)

Gjøa in the Fram museum (x)

In 1972, she was returned to Norway and has since been housed in the Fram Museum in Oslo.

#naval history #gjøa #ships who made history #northwest passage #early 20th century #age of steam