#warhorse is in these but barely

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

[buckyscombatboots]

Monstertober Day 2:

My Legacy

Pairing: Orc!Bucky x Captured!Reader

Warnings: Non con→Dub con, Dead dove: Do not eat, insults/degrading language, forced breeding, forced impregnation, drastic size difference, belly bulge, blood mention, virgin!reader, hair pulling, cowgirl→mating press, dacryphilia, dark!bucky, threat of violence, aphrodisiac

Nicknames: Tiny, little one, cum slut

Word count: 2.4 k

Monstertober master list

Master list

Tag list🎀

This has been long awaited, I know everyone loves Orc!Bucky, me too honestly. Enjoy.

A colossal, herculean man loomed over you, he was built from slabs of muscles that shifted under his thick layers of green skin. His bulging forearms, decorated with tribal tattoos, half concealed by a pair of tanned leather bracers, lined with fur; the designs carved into the leather matched his ornate iron pauldrons, slightly covered by the reddish-brown pelt of a direwolf, and the only thing covering his lower half was a loin cloth attached to a metal belt adorned with his tribe’s insignia. His eyes narrowed in a scowl, but despite this you could see his golden eyes, with flecks of amber and a vertical slit for a pupil—reminiscent of a cat's eyes. They were trained on you, hunched between the cart and barrels “How unfortunate Tiny. Should have hid better than that.” His meaniscing tone sends a ripple of goosebumps across your skin, a scream bubbles up to your throat and dies there as he reaches out for you. You scramble away from his enormous juniper hand, the lighter skin of his palm filling your vision before he opts for grabbing you by the waist and pulling you out “Gods above I can smell chu ‘ittle one. You’re terrified out your tiny little brain, but you're still so wet for me. If you play nice, I won’t have to hurt chu.” You consider chomping down on the web of skin connecting his thumb and forefinger, but Orcs are known for their tough skin, you decide not to. You stare up at the monster before you through your long lashes, tears streaming down your cheeks “Good, Tiny human. My true name is too complicated for your kind to understand or pronounce, so you can call me Bucky. I am War chief of this clan of Orcs, it will do you well to listen or I’ll pass you to the others. They ain’t too kind to little tiny girls like chu.” He begins to walk with you, pushing you to his beefy chest like a mother holding a baby close, your hands grab for purchase at the direwolf pelt strung across his shoulders; the feeling of the fur in your hands and the familiar scent brings you solace as he carries you over to a large group of orcs, one with blonde hair turns towards Bucky smiling with his tusks on full display, you cower at the sight—you know exactly what those tusks can do, you’ve watched them tear people like parchment “Steve, I’m going to head back to camp with a small group. You stay here. Kill any survivors, pillage whatever’s left, return by nightfall.” The Orc named Steve nods and replies in a strange serious of grunts, to which Bucky also replies in the same manner. They he’s walking again, he stops infront of an orcish warhorse—specially breed to be taller and stronger than normal horses to with stand the sheer size of the orcs— then he climbs on with you held in one arm

“Where are we going?” You whisper near his ear

“To your new home ‘ittle one.”

The ride back to the camp isn’t a long one, you slept for most of it as your adrenaline finally died down or you’d fallen into a state of shock. At this point you had no idea. When you awoke you’d arrived at what he called ‘your new home’ There were countless Orcs, they barely used any of their troops to conquer your village. The feeling of hopelessness rose in you once again.

“‘ere we are, Pet. Home sweet home.” He got off the horse and handed the reins off to another orc to be taken care of. He spoke to the orc bostriously with enthusiasm, smiling so wide you thought one of his tusks would like your eye out. Then he strode off decisively through the thicket of tents. He was taking you home, to his home. Not yours. He burnt yours down, he murdered your family. You hated the fact that seeing him smile and talking so happily, despite you being unable to understand what he was saying, made you happy. His attitude was contagious.

You approached a tent that was much larger than the others, it was also dyed a faded black compared to the other plain tents. It had two lit torches on each side of the pegs keeping it up and on the tent door was the same insignia that was on his belt, but this was painted in red—the colour of blood which he was so accustomed to spilling. You had to hate him, you needed to hate him.

He pushed aside the cloth entrance revealing a very spacious tent decorated in a sporadic manner with a large table that had a map splayed on its surface, your eyes shot down to all the red markers on it. One was on your village. They had planned this and nobody knew, fresh tears welled up in your eyes and you bit your wobbling lip, but a whimper still slipped. “This is your new home princess,” he wiped the tears from your eyes with one of his thick green fingers “so don’t cry anymore. It’s all gonna be okay. If you listen, everything will be fine. Now,” he placed you on the ground and walked over to a pile of things in the corner. He turned to face you before pulling out a shotel from behind him, but this shotel was the largest one you’d ever seen; the blade was unbelievably sharp, it was obvious that he’d spent hours sharpening, cleaning and customising it. Your legs collapsed beneath you as he pointed the curved blade at you, the point resting below your chin. Tears leaked from your eyes like a flowing river, you let out a whine as he hoovered it so close to your skin that you could feel the coolness of the blade “Move and I’ll cleave your skull in half. Understood?” Your vision shook as you meet his steely glare

“Y-yes.” You blubbered, he removed the blade and pulled out a chair from the long oaken table. The chair was much larger than a normal chair, obviously hand made for orcs by orcs—no scratch that, handmade for him. The chair was even bigger than all the others, it was made for Bucky, it was made for the war chief who towered above even other orcs. He plopped down in it, the twine holding it together creaking under his substantial weight, and opened his legs slightly clapping his massive bejeweled green hands down on his muscular bulging thighs.

“Come ‘ere little one. Sit on my lap.” He commanded, spinning the shotel on its blade on the hard packed dirt next to him. When you sat frozen, on the floor, he raised the blade towards you “I know you ain’t deaf. I don’t like repeatin’ myself.” You pressed your hands either side of your thighs and pushed yourself to your feet, your legs shook as you stumbled over. He extended out a massive green hand, you took it noting how your hand could only wrap around two of his fingers. Your line of sight travelled down to his dick. It was huge. Straining against the thin fabric of his loincloth. Straining so much that you could see all its features; dark green with lighter sections of skin, ribbed, with a thick gold ring pierced through the thin skin just under the head. There was no way he’d fit.

He helped you climb onto him, practically pulling you up by your arm which was dwarfed in his grasp. You straddled his lap, sat right in front of his bulging cock. Once you were in place he undid the opulent belt keeping the loin cloth in place and pulled. With one swift movement the belt and the loin cloth were both removed and thrown to the ground. His member was now on full display; girthy, long and definitely not able to fit inside you. You paled at the sight of it throbbing and leaking “It won’t fit!” You cried, attempting to run. He grabbed your arm just before you fel to the ground and pulled you back in place. You struggled against him, floundering like a fish drowning on land “Please! Anything else! You’re gonna kill me!” His hand clasped around your face as he reached back with his free arm and came back with a hefty glass bottle filled with a shimmering clear liquid.

“Breath, Pet. I ain’t expecting it to fit in you without a little help, little one.” He uncorked it with one hand and finally removed his hand from your mouth, you relished in the woodsy scent. He poured a generous amount on his hand “Take yer clothes off. Or I’ll rip ‘em off.” He ordered sternly, you met his gaze. His cat eye pupils had blown wide, filled with lust and need. You obliged, stripping off your dirty, torn clothes that smelt heavily of smoke. You swallowed your vomit as you recollected the state of your village.

His huge green hand began slathering the liquid on your pussy, it was warm. The heat coming off of the orc had heated it in such a short period of time, your eyes met his cock again. The heat of it was slightly darker green with a bluish cast, his balls were heavy and full. Your mouth was almost watering. You were pulled from you from your blatant ogling from the sting of a finger being inserted inside you. You yelped, grabbing at his thick wrist with your small hands “It hurts!” You yowled, beating at his calloused palm with your fist, he began moving his finger and the pain slowly melted into pleasure. You hummed at the heat filling your belly “Mhmn.”

“You’re a virgin aren’t you little one, there’s blood.” He cooed, slipping another finger. Which your quivering hole gladly took. You nodded slowly, whimpering as he stretched you, scissoring his fingers “Were gonna fix that. The Oil is enchanted, it should help you be able to take me, it’s also an aphrodisiac.” His words swam in your mind becoming almost meaningless as you pushed back on his fingers until you met his rings at the base of his thick, lengthy fingers.

Suddenly he pulled his fingers out, you whimpered at the loss humping his thigh for friction. You needed more. You wanted Bucky in you “Buck. Want you in me.” You mewl, grinding your sensitive bud down on the thick skin of his thigh

“Gladly.” He lifts you as if you weigh nothing and holds you above his dick, smiling coyly at your lopped sided grin and hazy eyes before slamming you down on his fat cock. The pain momentarily breaks your gaze but then the overwhelming feeling of his humongous prick filling your insides. Your hands travel to the bulge in your stomach, running your hands over it. Marvelling at it as he thrusts in and out. The meaty slaps of Bucky bouncing you roughly up and down on his lap filled the tent, more likely than not the sound was spilling outside. You didn’t care, right now you didn’t have the liberty to think much at all with his fat cock muddling up your insides. Your tongue fell dumbly out your mouth as you dribbled mumbling and moaning with every harsh thrust “That’s it, Pet, go dumb on my massive Orc cock. Never gonna want a human after this, they can’t fill you up like an orc. How pathetic. You deserve an Orcs cock to bring you this. Much. Pleasure.” He punctuated his words with his thrusts, bashing your cervix each time. You threw your head back in a silent wail, digging your nails into his large pecs as you relished in the orgasm that wracked your body. Constricted his cock, drawing a deep, primal grunt from his core “Yes! Come! Come as many times as you want pet, soak my cock in your juices my little cockslut. Gonna get you pregnant, gonna paint you fucking tight little slut hole with my seed. Gonna watch you swell with my children. Take it.” He groaned slamming into you with a new found vigour, picking you up as he stood.

You barely even registered him laying you on the bed until he pushed back your knees, resting them near your ears. You thought it impossible but he dick managed to nestle itself even further inside of you. An electric shock ran through your body as you came again, the pleasure being tears to your eyes as his thrust became more erratic, more powerful. His face loomed above yours staring intensely into your eyes “Gonna make you a mother, Tiny. You want to be the mother of my children? You want to grow with my child? You want to birth My Legacy?” He asked, “Answer me.” He demanded pounded into your cunt, his balls smacking against your ass, twitching, as he pushed down on your bent knees.

“Yes! Make me a mommy!” You cried, squeezing around him as he came inside you, he continued to thrust as he shot ropes and ropes of cum into you. Your stomach swelling with the sheer amount of spend shooting from his spasming tip.

“Ah feels so fucking good. Look at you, your body can barely contain my cum.” He chuckled, huffing, sweat glistening on his forehead as he littered your reddened face, ruined with tears and spit with passionate open mouth kisses.

“Felt good, wanna nap.” You yawned, your body tremouring from the overstimulation, your clit puffy and sensitive as his pelvis pressed into you enrolling you completely, blocking out almost all the light in the tent.

A hearty chuckle emerges from him, the sound fills your ears making more slick drip from your cunt onto his cock still buried in your overflowing pussy “Oh, we ain’t done yet, Pet. Gotta make sure you’re nice and pregnant, gonna fuck ya till I make ya look pregnant; so everyone knows who you belong to, that I have claimed you and that they can never touch you. ‘Cause you’re gonna have my babies, I’ll keep you filled and wanton on my cock ‘cause we Orcs mate for life after all, Tiny, and I’ve chosen you to be the bearer of My legacy.”

Tag list: @alina02 @winterslove1917 @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @petesey @getwellsoontana @feyfantome @alexxavicry @ashenc-blog @floral-recs @renster05 @redbloodedgurl @teambarnes72 @shrekwreck @sweetwrathoflilith @cjand10 @bunnyscraft @flamefoxxrecs @addie5587483

#smut #marvel #marvel smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x female reader #beefy!bucky #bucky barnes one shot #dark!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes x you #bucky x f!reader #bucky x y/n #dark!bucky barnes #smut drabble #dark!bucky smut #orc!bucky #orc!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky x y/n #dark!bucky x you #monstertober

[meadowlarkx]

tagged by @polutrope a while ago to post a WIP snippet!

The song in his blood, he turned to Maedhros, who had paused to let his great warhorse eat grass. Maglor, even thus buoyed, could barely manage to look on him directly. Yet in the light slanting over the ridge, Maedhros appeared beautiful, and nothing like a blade at all.

i tag @jouissants @imakemywings @swanmaids @aquaregiaarts @welcomingdisaster and anyone else who sees this if you'd like to do it!

#from road trip fic i have dreams for but hope can be beautiful and that i can finish in SOMETIME #my posts #tag meme #Me last time i did this: Sad sad maglor #Me this time: Um maedhros horse eats some grass

[a-libra-writes]

i’m so happy your requests are open again omg!! i think i’ve read pretty much everything you’ve ever written on this blog sdjfgifakskfk

i’m asking for any type of romantic headcanons involving brandon stark. like, a marriage between him and a lady from the stormlands, family/kids hcs, jealousy hcs or literally anything you want. i’ll literally read anything you write <3 if you don’t have the muse for this, that’s completely okay too !!

Oh, my cup runneth over with choices! Hmmm .... for now ill do a little bit of everything? Mostly relationship and domestic HC's 🤔

To start with! When it comes to an arranged marriage, he's initially huffy about it ... until he realizes she's pretty and interesting and whoops he's like a boy trying to impress her before the wedding. Lyanna especially teases the hell out of him for this change of heart. Ironically a lady whose more closed-off, shy or nervous will get a much gentler side to him, whereas one whose more outgoing or friendly will get his full gregarious self. He isn't really aware of it, but a lot of this trying so hard is because he'd like her to be comfortable and happy in Winterfell. Brandon's parents were happily married, and if he really sat with himself about it, he'd want his relationship to be the same - but he knows that's a pipe dream in Westeros, so trying to start off on the right foot with his new bride is important to him.

Now, if this was someone he was familiar with for a while, like a lady whose also a Northerner, Brandon is much less anxious. If anything, he's probably more boisterous and himself because he feels more comfortable. He "gets" Northern girls, and he gets you. You're more familiar and therefore he's less nervous about "messing up".

And the thing is, Brandon can become very attached with the right lady. Even if she doesn't fully feel the same yet, he's finding himself wanting to do things for her. He wants to be lordly and gallant and all those things he used to make fun of in the songs. He wants to get flowers delivered to her (isn't that what ladies like?) and help her up on her horse (he's pretty sure she rides ...?) and carry her over the snow and mud (though, the Winterfell yard is well kept, so ...). Alright, maybe that doesn't pan out, but he can still impress her with his hunting and swordsmanship and show her all over Winterfell. The Stark siblings are having a field day with all this and his father is just happy he's too busy to sleep around.

There's also the matter of jealousy, and it's something that shows up early. It's a childish sort of jealousy at first, especially if his lady is lovely and not from the North, therefore many lords want to see her and speak with her during feasts. He wants to interrupt them and take her away, and if he's drinking he's only more obvious about it. It's gotten some of the court to whisper, look how taken the wolf lordling is with his bride. He just frowns and sulks if you, his father or Lyanna scold him about how boyish it is.

(Now, if there was a serious breach of etiquette, like a lord taking too many liberties during a feast or Brandon was feeling some fierce insecurity ... Yeah, the dueling swords are coming out, if he doesn't just wring the man's neck with his bare hands. In the North, you fuck around and find out).

He's the sort of person who really needs to be in love with their spouse, or at least fond of them, even if he knows that's childish to expect. He'd start to become lonely and listless otherwise, his eye prone to wandering to other women, wondering why his house isn't like the warm and happy family he was raised in. He'll always love any children, though he's not always the most attentive father. Twins? Oh, he won't tell them apart until they're ten. His daughter wants a sword? Sure, sure, let her have steel, that's what he practiced on. A child wants to ride? Well, why not come up on the warhorse with him, no need to start with a pony - you get the picture.

Now if he is in love with his spouse, it's utterly obvious, just like his early infatuation and jealousy was. He'll trust her completely and be grateful to her for many things, not just raising children and helping him with the more infuriating parts of running the house, like numbers and logistics for guests. He doesn't like leaving his wife for a long period of time, even if his brothers are there to protect her. He'll give her a tight, long embrace before leaving and takes her in his arms once he's back. He always wants to kiss and touch, even in inappropriate places (old servants warn the new people about which rooms and halls to avoid). It's not hard at all for the new Lady Stark to get Brandon wrapped around her finger.

#im proud to have gathered these like ten brandon fans hahaha #me writing salt and snow like 'eh yeah ill throw in a brandon crush for drama' and people actually liking him OH NO #its me im people #brandon stark x reader #libra headcanons #game of thrones x reader #got x reader

[darkhorse-javert]

Hazy Summer, Shadowed Days

@flashfictionfridayofficial- Canon complient musings from and about Andrew Foyle post war

Hastings June 1945

He slipped down the stairs in the bright summer moonlight, keeping his feet light. Shouldn't wake Dad, not his problem I'm awake at a god-forsaken hour of the night. He pulls his dressinggown closer around himself, skin cold with nightchill even in the warm air of the summer, pads across the hall and curls into the armchair by the unlit fire, seeking comfort in the familiarity of the moment. But the empty grate stared back at him, hollow, bare a shadow of it's normal self. Bit like me really. 26 years old, and what have I got from it? Five long years flying with the RAF, but my eyes are crocked, so that's out for a job, could never stand being a groundbased teacher even if they'd have me, Debden proved that.

Two-thirds of an Oxford degree in English, could finish that I suppose, I've got the papers, but I'm not the merry young lad who bounced into the Quads all those years ago, can't see myself going back there, with all those who are young enough, even if they had enough places.

Scraps and litter of poetry, all based around war-life and flying, but they wouldn't sell- we all want, need to move on from that, I don't want to be one of those Glory Days Warhorses that were a joke in stories. Who would buy them anyway? I'm sure there were better poets than my efforts who were already published

Might have to go in for an office job- as I said to Sam - but when I flinch at a phone, that's going to be a joke and a half for anyone I'm working with. And what skills have I got to offer them that another man hasn't.

Sam- the thought was a slap across the face, his glib words to her of weeks ago 'I'm going to work on you Sam', ah Hell, what have I got to offer her, such a smart, diligent girl as she is, she's found a job of sorts, as well as helping Dad. If I made a go of it, kept up the freindship and we got to something more I'd be sponging off her even as a friend. And if we got married, what a dream that was, would her empoyer even keep her on? Unlikely.

No, Sam was doing far better off on her own, not with me dragging her down like a stone, an old figure in a young skin, scraping around for what I can get, nothing to get it with. Can't even fish well.

"Andrew?"

He turns, Dad a soft dark figure in the doorway,

"Sorry, couldn't sleep."

"Mmm", Dad walks softly across, and perches on the end of the sofa nearest to Andrew.

"I wrote a poem, just before I came home," Andrew, looking back at the empty fireplace finds the words flying desperatly from his tongue 'talked about 'Summer Haze', and 'Uncertain Days' -sounds truely poetic doesn't it? But it's more like trying to walk on thick sand, everything slipping about under your feet, tumbling you down... What have I got Dad? Except wrecked eyes, and a degree I can't face finishing. And yet I'm not really really broken, thank God, and I'm grateful for that."

He hears his father swallow, then finds an arm slipping around his shoulders, tugging him insistantly close.

"Give yourself a chance, Andrew, ask around. Give yourself time."

But- but his mind says what if my time has gone, and I'm a lost fossil before I'm even thirty. And I don't want to have to go cap-in-hand to the RAF or SSAFA, leaning on others, Grammer School and Scholarship boy that I was. I should be able to do something.

#introspection #andrew foyle #never trust your mind after 9pm #if having a bad day dump on a character #It WORKS #:D

[yanderes-galore]

Prompts Found Here

Yeah, I can try! Request was screenshot because I needed the prompt list. AU where Storm King wins.

Brand idea inspired by a suggestion from @queenofdiscord

Yandere! Storm King Prompt 19

"I'm the monster? I'm the monster?! They would've been alive if not for you! You're the reason I killed them! Their blood is on your hands!"

Pairing: "Romantic"

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Ownership, Obsession, Kidnapping, Slavery mention, Murder, Blood mention, Isolation, Restraints, Power dynamic, Heavy manipulation, Sadism, Forced companionship, Branding, Jealousy.

Storm King had taken everything from you. The muzzle that sat on your face was a clear reminder of that. The dark and light blue color of the device only reminded you of how alone and isolated you were....

With a swing of his staff and his countless minions, Storm King had taken over Equestria. He enslaved your friends. He took your freedom. He manipulated you to be a pet....

He blamed you for everything that happened.

You weren't put in a cage like the rest now. No, you were put on a lead by a muzzle and harness. You were covered in the Storm King's colors. On your chest? The mark of him.

Any magic you had was drained and used. No horn to help you, no wings to fly with... you were the chosen pony to spoil. If you can call his attempts at breaking your spirit that.

Storm King was not a stranger to execution in his tyranny. Ponies, servants, to him it didn't matter. If you saw him spill blood, it was only used as fodder for later.

"I'm not one for the whole cute getup, I think this look fits you so much better!"

A new headgear was placed around your head, baring horns to mimic his symbol. He felt adding more blue spikes would make your prisoner outfit look more appealing. You were no warhorse....

"Now look at you! Much more fitting of me! Don't you feel like you fit in now? A pet deserves to be dressed by their owner...."

You grit your teeth, both out of anger and you trying to adjust to your new gear. Your eyes look up at the much taller ruler in front of you. His tail is swaying, his pristine white fur free from any stain.

Funny with all the blood he's spilled.

"Now what's with that look? Got a little temper?"

You despise how he talks to you. Even more so when he taps your head with a claw, grinning with such confidence. You pull away as best you can with the lead and glare at him.

"You're a monster...."

The tyrant's blue eyes widen at your claim before narrowing. He slams the staff down, causing a loud echo in the room. Ironically with the way he stalks towards you, tail thrashing, he looks like a monster.

"Oh you're still mad at the friends I executed in front of you..."

He scoffs, pulling your lead closer.

"I'm the monster? I'm the monster?! They would've been alive if not for you! You're the reason I killed them! Their blood is on your... hooves!"

He points the staff towards you and matches your glare.

"Do you wanna know why I killed them...?"

"They were... disobedient."

"Well, yes... but why?"

The look of confusion on your face was enough to get him to continue.

"I didn't like them around YOU. That ali-whatever princess, all her friends, even TEMPEST was just a bit too close. It's not just them either..."

He drags you as he monologues, even if you dug your hooves in you were still being dragged by your harness.

"The guards, the slaves, all of them just aren't up to my standards. Which means... any contact with you results in the death of many!"

He stops, turning around to see your stunned face.

"So, really, whose fault is it? You refuse to live an isolated life with me and lead many to their deaths as a result. Are you happy with yourself!?"

The Storm King observes your face closely. Only silence falls between you and your sunken face. His words, sharp as always, pierces your heart and mind.

Leaving nothing but an obedient shell until you decide to go against him again.

"Exactly. Look at your gear, look at yourself! You're the monster."

He tilts your head up, the other hand holding your lead and staff.

"Maybe I'm just keeping you in check? You never know! I don't want to see you go against my rule again..."

The claws your chin due to standing back too fast. He doesn't care. The fact he crushed your defiance was too good not to enjoy. Your pain even sweeter....

You're his and he's proud of it.

"If you do, I might need to get the cage out again...."

#yandere my little pony #yandere mlp #yandere storm king

[podcastenthusiast]

It's perfect, for a while.

They have a home at Corvo Bianco, far away from politics and ghosts. A garden, too, because Geralt still likes to keep his potion-brewing skills sharp and Yennefer has found she enjoys making her own perfume. They have room for a few horses in the stables—retired racers and warhorses. Roach pretends to dislike their company, but Yennefer can tell it's just an act.

Yennefer finds a quiet life suits her more than she ever expected. They drink excellent wine. Take walks together, in the fields or by the stream, and she listens as Geralt talks at length about various plants and creatures. They hold each other at night. They read in bed. Eat breakfast in bed. They do many things in bed.

Winter, though... winter is hard. At times, Yennefer has to remind herself that this isn't Aedd Gynvael.

Geralt starts sleeping in late. Not the gentle, lazy rhythm of unspooling days they enjoyed together in the seasons before. He stays in bed like he can't bring himself to face the day. Sleeps like he's running from something. Barely speaks. He doesn't eat enough, especially for a witcher—even an idle one; Marlene frets over it constantly.

When he does rise, he works himself beyond exhaustion for no reason she can understand. The winter chill is mild here in Toussaint, and they have staff now, yet still he chops firewood himself until they've run out of room to store it all, as if he's preparing to heat a whole castle—

Oh.

It is about a castle, isn't it. She suspects he misses Kaer Morhen. His family.

"Talk to me," she says one night. One could almost call it pleading were she a different woman.

"Just read my thoughts, if you're so insistent."

"I know that isn't your preferred method of communication, nor mine."

Not to mention she's a little afraid of what she might find in that poor tormented mind of his. Yennefer rakes her fingers through his long hair. Geralt, head resting against her breasts, says nothing at all.

"We're too old for this. We agreed to stop running from things. Talk to me, Geralt."

"I'm tired, Yen." He speaks like each word pains him. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You're happy. Roach is happy."

"Roach is a horse, love. She would be content anywhere as long as there are apples in it for her."

"I love it here with you. Really, I do. It's better than I deserve. Thought I might even be the first witcher ever to die in his bed. Imagine that."

"I'd rather not," she mutters.

"I was—I thought I could be happy. But maybe I don't know how. Maybe I'm not capable of it anymore, only able to feel a brief shadow of contentment. All they left me with is anger and sadness. I'm sorry."

Yennefer cannot bear to hear this. She hates when Geralt talks about himself like a thing, and a broken one at that.

She takes his face in her hands.

"Now you listen to me, Geralt of Rivia. Never apologize for what you feel. Your feelings are as real and important as mine or anyone else's."

"But—"

"Listen, I said! If you're sad, then be sad for as long as you need to. I am not leaving. And neither are you. We're done with all that nonsense. Aren't we?"

"...Yeah."

She pulls him close.

While the witcher sleeps in her arms, Yennefer devises a plan.

--

Jaskier and Zoltan are the easiest to find, of course. The bard doesn't take much convincing at all either. She need only say that Geralt needs him.

Ciri is much the same, immediately willing to help and (ironically) easy to locate; the imprint of magic she leaves in her wake still shines bright as a beacon.

She tracks Lambert down to an inn at the foothills of the Blue Mountains. It's easy enough; he never has been quiet or subtle a day in his life.

"You're here and Geralt isn't," he says, white-knuckled grip on his mug of beer. "So is he...dead, or—"

"He's alive," Yennefer says before the witcher can spiral any further. "He's safe. Unharmed."

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you. Heading to Kaer Morhen for the winter?"

"No, I'm fucking not," Lambert snaps. "Wouldn't be any point."

"Yet here you are in Kaedwen."

"Yeah. Old habits. I don't know."

"Come to Toussaint."

"Why the fuck—"

"Because I'm starting a new tradition, one that requires all the remaining witchers of the Wolf school to gather at Corvo Bianco immediately. And because I asked nicely."

"Gonna turn me into a frog if I refuse?"

She smiles dangerously. "We shall see."

Eskel is a little more difficult to find because he isn't slowing down for the winter. In the end, she follows a trail of dead monsters from town to town, inquiring about the witcher who slew them. At least his scar is distinctive.

"Geralt is fine," she says this time instead of a greeting, and the witcher's tense shoulders relax slightly. "Alive and uninjured, anyway. But it would do him good to see his brothers."

"Sentimental old wolf," Eskel says with unrestrained fondness. He pats his horse's neck and does not look at Yennefer. "He asked me to stay. After... after Vesemir's funeral. But I just. I couldn't go back there, y'know? It'd be too quiet."

"It's too quiet," Geralt had whispered one cold night when she was drifting off to sleep beside him.

"Been worried about him," Eskel continues. "Hoping he isn't in the keep, all alone. Or out on the Path taking stupid risks."

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks.

Eskel shrugs. "Didn't know where else to go, I guess."

"He's not alone," she says. "But I think he also needs more than I can give."

"...Are you all right?" Eskel asks, and Yennefer realizes she'd begun to sway somewhat alarmingly.

"Fine. Just tired. I've simply...expended too much magical energy in a short time. Portals, and such."

"You're really doing a lot for him."

"Surprised?"

"Well...no." Eskel apparently is the only tactful witcher the Wolves have, but he's a shit liar.

"Perhaps I find his moping dreadfully irritating. Let that suffice if it pleases you all to think of me as a selfish witch who ensnared your brother."

"What's the truth, though?"

"I love him," Yennefer says. "And he would walk through a hundred portals for me, I'm certain. This is the least I can do."

--

Upon seeing Yennefer, Jaskier, Zoltan, Ciri, Lambert, Eskel, and Regis—the vampire having appeared out of thin air—all gathered together at Corvo Bianco, Geralt's immediate response is: "Damn. Am I dying?"

"Of course not," Ciri says, embracing him.

"It's about your Gwent addiction," Jaskier quips.

"I can stop whenever I want."

"You sound like Lambert when Vesemir locked the wine cellar," Eskel says.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"You started mixing up White Gull with random herbs and any half-empty bottles you could find."

"A lesson in creativity," Lambert says.

"Seriously, what are you all doing here?" Geralt asks.

"It was my doing. I invited them."

"Why? Is it Ciri? Is--"

"There's no danger. Everyone is all right," Yennefer assures him. "It's winter. Time for rest. And to be with your family."

They all stay until the pull of their own lives becomes too great to resist. For a while, their home is filled with life and laughter and music.

"Thanks, Yen," Geralt murmurs into her hair later that evening.

It doesn't fix everything. There are still those who should be here but cannot be, whether due to death or simply life's demands. There are still days when the icy tendrils of grief and pain seize Geralt's heart, and even the warmth of everyone who loves him isn't enough to break its hold.

But Yennefer knows it helped when she sees Geralt smile more. She can almost feel the ice in him beginning to melt.

#whisking canons and headcanons together until i get the hurt/comfort i need #mostly game canon with book references and dandelion is called jaskier #the witcher 3 #the witcher #yenralt #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher 3 wild hunt #witcher fic #witcher fanfiction #witcher 3 blood and wine

[yorshie]

Ghastly Serenade - Respite

Arthur Morgan x Gen neutral Reader

SFW - a continuation of ghastly serenade, kinda a halloween tradition of mine.

“You keep starin at that fire, you’re liable to go blind.”

Arthur plopped down next to you with a grunt and a long sigh, the gentle clink of two bottles in his grip. He took off his hat, shook out his hair, and then held out one of the beer bottles for you to take.

You barely glanced at him, fingers automatically slipping around the cool glass bottle, dropping your eyes quickly before he could see the red ring around the edges. “Thanks- thanks Arthur.”

The silence near your elbow was telling, but you refused to look over to confirm his suspicions, instead taking a small sip from the bottle before resting it in the dirt between your crooked legs.

“You… why you out here?”

You watched as he gestured to the empty campfire with his bottle, the low firelight still catching on the planes of glass before he brought it to his lips.

You shrugged, scratched at your arm. “Can’t sleep, bad dreams.” A month ago, you wouldn’t have told him, but then again, a month ago he wouldn’t have sat close enough to touch knees.

The two of you had grown slightly closer since the night out on Roanoke Ridge, taking more jobs together, every now and then seeking each other out when holed up at camp. Karen joked that Arthur was in danger of becoming a shadow, the way he stationed himself at your elbow, and you didn’t have the heart to correct her that it was likely the other way around.

Christ, you wished Arthur had been at your elbow today.

He was still watching you, silently, bent forward and lips pursed, bottle thudding against the log as it swung in his contemplation.

“You wanna… talk?”

“Naw,” you vigorously shook your head, turning slightly to give him a small smile. “It ain’t nothin special, Arthur.”

The use of his first name pulled a wry snort from behind the bottle. “Huh, that’s funny. I’m damn near old enough to double your age, kid.”

You blinked at him, not sure where that comment had come from, but whatever he saw on your face made him chuckle, broad frame groaning to his feet again to tower over you.

With the fire behind him, it took you a moment to see the outstretched hand offered near your face. Impatiently, he wiggled his fingers, and you started when one brushed the awkward curl of your sweat licked hair.

“C’mon, let’s go for a ride.”

“A ride?” Your hand found his solid grip, let him tug you upright. That warm palm slid down to the space between your shoulders, pushing softly in the direction he wanted you to go.

“Yea, for a ride. You ain’t sleepin, and damn if I will either with Bill snorin like he does.”

Maybe you should have pointed out that Bill wasn’t even in camp for the night, but Arthur already had hands at your waist, lifting you slightly so you had no choice but catch the pommel of his saddle and heave yourself onto the back of his warhorse.

“Settle, Gunsmoke,” he breathed out in a croon, petting the solid neck of muscle when an inquisitive head turned to eye you.

You looked over askance as he pulled himself up in from of you, your gaze drawn to your own horse hitched across the way. “Why-”

“Just humor me.”

You rolled your eyes at his insistence, but slid your arms around his chest anyway. It wasn’t until he froze slightly at the touch, hands taunt at the reins, that you realized what you had done, and you pulled away slightly, an apology ready at your lips.

His hand caught your’s, tugged you back, placed your hands back around the width of his barrel chest, and clicked to the monster underneath him, sending a cloud of dust up as the brute galloped out of camp.

“Where’re we goin, Arthur?”

For a moment you didn’t think he’d heard, and certainly you could understand with how the wind whipped gleefully past your ears. The landscape revolved around you, the nightmare warhorse tearing a path through the night at a fast pace.

“Know a little church, not too far. Pretty peaceful place.”

“It ain’t that ruin the raiders camp at, is it?”

His burst of laughter caught you by surprise. “Naw, smaller one, across the field.”

You wondered if he’d forgotten it was a battlefield.

——————————————

In truth, the small stone building was peaceful, still upright despite the years of neglect. It far enough away from the battlefield proper that it had escaped the same hellish fate of the larger building across the field, left to wallow in ashes and decay instead of blasted to pieces.

You ran a hand over the arched doorway, waited while Arthur tied Gunsmoke to an old, worn hitching post and removed his bedroll. The sight of him carrying it under his arm sent a jolt of shock through you, and you laughed out loud at your foolishness.

“Hm?” at his enquiring hum, you gestured at the bedroll tucked under his arm as you both moved into the building.

“Here I go runnin off with you, forget my bedroll.”

Arthur paused for a moment, looked down at the mentioned piece of kit, and then back up with furrowed brows. “I figured we’d share.”

“Oh,” You blinked like an owl, staring back at him, wondering why he’d decided to break the tentative truce you’d struck over the past month. Neither one of you had mentioned the comfort you’d found holding one another that night in the forest, and now, faced with a repeat occurrence, you felt the warmth of butterflies rise in your stomach.

You pressed a balled fist against your middle, trying to tramp down the feeling, watching as Arthur lit a lantern and unrolled the bedroll. He flicked it open, unraveled a blanket that had been folded inside, and shook it out before his sharp gaze cut over to you.

“You comin?”

You nodded your head slowly, dragged your feet over to where he stood, and let him manhandle you into the single bedroll. Your back to his chest, his arm thrown up lazily as a headrest, legs tangled together even though you tried to keep yours away.

The air rushed out of him in a long sigh, his body relaxing, and you could feel the drain of strain from each set of muscles as he slowly slumped against you. Belatedly, you realized you weren’t the only one having trouble sleeping.

“How long?” You asked, hoping desperately he would understand and you wouldn’t be forced to spell out the thing you were both avoiding.

He was quiet for a long moment, fingers absently moving above the blanket on your shoulder, then his head moved, and you felt the sigh through his nose and the puff of breath as he spoke:

“Since… well, since Annesburg.”

You hummed, unthinking, and muttered a small “sorry” into the cloth covering his arm, shifting your head to get more comfortable.

A baited silence, then, “You wanna tell me what happened today?”

You shifted again, winced, “Who told you?”

“Charles.” At least he did you no discourtesy, trying to hide his source.

You turned slightly unto your back, glanced at your bedmate over your shoulder, and realized he was much closer than you thought, almost spooned around you. The cool air in the church was just enough that his breath came out in a small white puff of cloud, and with his hat set aside you could actually pick out the red raw skin along his cheeks from the windy ride.

Fingers gently touched your cheek, and you felt the your own raw skin under the pads, but Arthur drew away, slung his arm backwards over his hip and waited.

You started in a whisper, almost frightened to say it any louder. “I got in Micah’s way.”

The steel glint in Arthur’s eyes hardened, rose to the forefront until it wasn’t your maybe friend staring back at you, but Dutch’s Right Hand, the man as likely to beat a feller as speak to them. He coiled up like a snake ready to strike, and you could feel the growl in his chest where your arm pressed against him.

“That ain’t how Charles put it.” You shivered at his voice, swallowed and closed your eyes, reminded yourself that his look wasn’t directed at you.

“Well, I did. Get in his way, that is.”

You felt when he shifted, heard the scratch of his hand against stubbled cheek, but wasn’t prepared for his aghast tone. “You’re lyin to me.” It sounded almost like a question, and you peeked an eye open, at a loss to explain the look that crossed his face at the revelation.

“No- no,” you shook your head fast, prompting him to lean back to avoid getting smack by your hair. “I’m not, Arthur, just… christ… it ain’t worth it.”

“What?” Now he seemed angry, swelling up beside you, and you hurried on:

“We don’t need anymore fightin, things being how-“

You cut off, abruptly, as Arthur twisted, loomed halfway over you to snarl into your face. “It ain’t worth it?” You froze under him, breath trapped in your throat, eyes as wide as saucers as he continued . “That slimy son of a bitch puts his hands on you, threatens you, and it ain’t worth it?”

You were afraid to nod, afraid to disagree, and he must have seen the little bit of fear creeping past your shocked mask, because he suddenly dropped back to his side, hands reaching up to fist in his hair.

You jumped when he said your name, voice raw and low, and looked over to see his eyes still fixed above. “If he ever, ever… puts his hands on you again, you’ll tell me.” This time, there was no inflection of question, his words a dire statement, and lord help you, you nodded quickly, a small bit of relief curling in your stomach that a promise was all he wanted.

His head turned, gaze glancing between your eyes and your mouth, before he continued, voice dropping into a lower register so that you had to strain to hear him. “You are worth it, you hear me.”

A hiccup escaped, and you clamped a hand over your mouth, not knowing if it stemmed from the emotion Arthur had pulled up now, or from the leftover tension that had built during the day. Either way, Arthur seemed to understand, his grip firm as he grasped your other hand and held it, fingers pressed tight against skin.

You fell asleep hand in hand, scrunched together, under the blasted, broken roof.

————————————————

Went out huntin a couple of days ago, tryin to find that big buck over near Strawberry with the painted pelt. Hunted it pretty quickly, don’t know how it grew to be so big with fur that stuck out like it did.

Charles met up with me on the way back to camp, out doin some hunting of his own. What he told me filled me with a right rage, don’t think I’ve been angry like that in a long time.

Micah, always Micah, that damned rat. Put his hands on the kid during a robbery, shook them up and threatened them. What for, Charles didn’t know, but you don’t have to be a genius to figure out that man is rotten through and through. Had the gall to stop me comin into camp for a word, something about a stagecoach robbery, but i didn’t listen.

I punched him down.

Shouldn’t have done it, but I don’t regret it. Hopefully it’ll get my message across, because I’m liable to kill him if I catch wind of it again.

And that sweet kid, the fool, tryin to hide what’d happen. Don’t rightly know if they were more scared of me, or Micah, but I’m use to that look at least. Still trusts me enough to sleep beside me, at least.

Morgan, you damned idiot. Sweet on someone half your age. There’s a hot and terrible place waitin for me, I just know it.

#red dead 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #Arthur morgan #Arthur morgan x reader

[willowwrestles]

The events of last night didn't really click for Willow. Not in the way they should've. Everything was just a blur. The tacks, the glass, the blood, Alec's screams, the three count, the almost fire starting, the Warhorse talk, the way he jerked away from her as she tried to fuss.

The awkward car ride with him Masha that she never wanted again. It was all too much and it left Willow wondering where does he go from here? She knew he was gonna take it hard. She knew what this would do to him.

She was just terrified to see it. And unfortunately for her, it had already started. He's barely said a word to her. She needed him to know that she was on his side. That she loved him regardless of if he was a champion or not.

So, Willow threw on her shoes, grabbed a blanket, and went outside to their backyard.

"You really shouldn't be out here without a coat or something." She calls to him as she slides through the patio door. She makes her way over to him and puts the blanket around his shoulders.

@thenortheastbeast

#[chit chat alec]

[gav-san]

THE QUEEN OF THE KING 11/15

Previous/Next

“Blasted old goat.”

 You mutter and are met by the whiny of a disagreeing horse. Archibaldo jumps as if he can understand, and you grip the tall old warhorse so you don’t fall off. The sound of his snickers and metal hoofs is met with curses and a very unladylike growl. 

Which are also cut off by the sounds of more hooves approaching.

It seems already you have heralded a companion, though you had barely left yours, an hour past.

It’s not hard to recognize this one will not be as benevolent as your previous captor, the Captain of the Guard. You can hear their ceaseless noise over the brush.

They have caught your trail.

Not that it was hidden. You had left the thick hunting forest, entering the high trail that would take you straight to the convent.

And unfortunately, it seems that the priesthood has discovered your destination.

You bite your teeth together, not wanting to whip poor old Archibaldo to pick up his pace but the guard captain had done you only the smallest favor letting you ‘steal’ his old stallion. And while Archibaldo had once been a brilliant fierce warhorse he was now reserved for only trodding out for little jaunts like hunts where one could switch horses with ease.

You swear again, tightening your ruined cloak around your head, wishing for some power to stave off the rain. There is little use in any more complaining than this since the task has already spiraled into a near-impossible situation but if you were no longer a princess of Hyrule then you were going to swear like a sailor of the southern sea. 

Which you found ample opportunity to do so

“Hail! The whore of Hyrule!” A man screams happily, bursting from the brush in front of you, far too close for comfort. You yank Archibaldo’s reigns sharply, and thankfully, he seems to have a few war days left in him, for he sharply goes to the side, hitting the other horse hard with his flank.

“Take that, you cur!” You say with a sneer.

But the goddesses have decided to have a good laugh at your expense because four more men burst from the side of the road. This time, they appear to be more competent- soldiers flying under the banner of the Archbishop.

They will not pity you, nor will they feel any mercy at your pleas should they catch you.

With no other option, you ride hard, straight at them. Not that you can control Archibaldo, as has decided he is now acting five years younger, still in his prime. You are merely on for a ride, and wrap your arms around his neck, plastering yourself to the saddle.

“Good boy! Lope!”

And Archibaldo doesn’t need your pitiful words, his training kicking in. And a warhorse doesn’t survive an entire career of warring without learning a thing or two. Mainly about being the biggest, most terrible creature on the field.

And Archibaldo is proving to be a demon of the highest caliber.

Through the rain he pumbles through the line that the men have formed, causing a great deal of screaming and alarm. One man actually jumps from his horse, leaving the beast to scream in terror, dashing just out of time.

You were very glad to be on the other end of those large hooves.

Your grunt of joyful hysteria overtakes your grunt of shock as he keeps up his speed. And as you race down the road, you can see the being of where the forest ends, and where the path to sanctuary begins.

If you could keep this speed, you might just make it.

You cry out in joy, rising high in your seat, feeling an intense amount of something new. Even mud-spattered and abandoned you knew its name.

Freedom.

But your laugh is cut off as you fly over the last hill. 

“Hello, wolf.”

You don’t say it as much as mouth it in a feeling now all too familiar. 

Archbishop. He had found you.

And he’s not alone. 

Over fifteen men surround him, creating lines of an impenetrable defense so there would be no feasible way Archibaldo could run them all down. Not that he’s inclined to, since a stablehand familiar with him whistles, causing him to slow. They have erected a large tent, so they are warm and dry.

Unlike you.

And you get worse as you fling yourself off the horse, cracking your elbow and earning a faceful of mud as you catch yourself on the rocks of the road. Stumbling you stand, dashing into the thick foliage of the trees, where the horses couldn’t reach you.

“C’mere boy!” Another whistle and the horse heeds its master, eager for his bag of feed and a dry rest.

You watch Archibaldo, that traitor trots back to the stablehand, who makes quick work of tying him to the tent and feeding him, the lucky bastard. Your stomach growls as you stumble to the side of the road, glaring at the men.

The archbishop gives a hefty chuckle at the way you hide.

“Come now, princess pig! Don’t make this difficult!” He says, leaning forward to mock you. “Wouldn’t you rather we caught you rather than that Gerudo? We will hogtie you like a swine!” He says and the entire company laughs. He thinks himself clever, still angry over your insults.

You don’t offer a retort, merely plunging deeper into the woods.

.

.

.

It’s almost thirty minutes before they manage to find you again. 

“Run run run little piggy princess!” They cry out, mockingly. “The beast is coming for you!”

You dash through the trees, running on the last drags of adrenaline left in you. Any real strength is long gone, mixed with hunger and despair it makes your entire body shake like a babe. 

A hand swipes at you as a man tries to catch you through the bramble. He nips your cloak, arms just long enough to grab it. You twist, struggling as he drags you down and close to the ground. With a wretch you rip free, tearing the old wool.

Bursting through a far treeline you dash, glad for the reprieve from the thick bush. If your directions are correct you are almost to the field of corn near the forest. There is a small old farmhouse there that you can pry up a board and hide in. If you're lucky there may be supplies from the old farmer there.

You unwittingly scream a few choice phrases as you dash off through the misty rain that shows no sign of letting. One benefit of all this awful rain is that it’s taking the men much longer to find you.

But another thing about the thick rain is that it makes it almost impossible to see your path.

Until you lose your footing.

You keel in terror as you cantilever over the edge of a deep precipice. Twisting you grab at the air, and it’s only thanks to the slightest weed you manage to grab that you save yourself.

As you grapple yourself back up you realize that you have almost managed to fall straight from the gorge into the deep lake there. Images and names fly through your mind but you can’t think straight as you begin to crawl back up.

Clapping meets you.

“What a good show! Less a piglet princess, more a rabbit!” The Archbishop says, mouth curling. It’s a testament to how much he dislikes you that he’s come to watch this. He stands under a finely embroidered umbrella that one of his aids is holding with visible strain as he is pelted with rain.  “Though you’ll be meeting the bottom soon enough.”

The rest of the men have also dismounted their horses, awaiting in a semicircle as the Archbishop mulls over your disgusting visage.

You hold your head high. You doubt if they had been in your position they would have ever gotten as far as you. You may be a bedraggled mess, but you have more pride and honor than them all combined. You have done good deeds all your days. If they are here to push you back off the cliff, you would not be ashamed.

Nor would you grace him with a response. And you can tell the longer you stare at the Archbishop, the more annoyed he is getting. 

“What! Do you think you are still too good for me? You think just because you had me jailed so long ago that you were right? Just us standing here is proof I’ve won! And now the cold-footed wolf of Hyrule will get what she deserved all along!”

You glance at the edge of cliffs, mere inches away. 

What would be the worst option? To willingly jump yourself, or to be forced off? You furrow your brows together as he cackles, waving a hand to step into the rain. 

“I've been waiting a long time to see the end of you, interloper.” He says, eyes bright, face red, as he moves forward. You brace yourself, knees weak but shoulders straight. Slowly, slowly, you turn on your feet. You may go off the cliff, but you didn’t have to do so alone.

He pauses, putting a hand to his chin. “ You know, first it was your father who kept ‘defending the common folk’, marrying the King’s sister who was promised to become a nun-” He wiggles his thick fingers, “So he had to disappear on what should have been a peaceful trip. Thankfully it started that nice war that gave the king plenty of opportunity to raise taxes and for me to borrow some permanently. Got my nice title thanks to that.” 

You seize up, chest filling with horror. Hatred, pure and beautiful flares through you.

“Then your beautiful mother-“ He gives a long sigh. “The fire was only supposed to make her realize that she belonged in the church, under my careful watch, to repent the loss of her family as vengeance from the goddesses.”

Your chin trembles as you hold back tears, trying to contain your anger. He snaps his gaze to you, sighing theatrically. 

You think he may continue to meander and take his time. But you must be in shock for it only takes him a moment to grab your shoulders, spin you around, dangling you off the cliff.

You cry out as he twists your hair. He spits upon you, his words exiting with uncontrolled vitriol, rain pouring down his mole-ridden jowls.

“Then the king took in you. For a while, it seemed like you’d take after your mother, and I rejoiced. Perhaps even believing I may have a second chance to turn a Hyrulian princess to the Goddess's services. But even as your visage became as pleasing as a lamb, your attitude is exactly like your father's. Both cold-footed wolves through and through.”

“Someone has to be at the top of the food chain.” You break. “Not all of us can live in the mud.”

He tugs you a little forward, and you try and reach to grab him, unable to do so. 

He puts his face next to your ear.

“You think so?”

You grunt, trying to elbow him, but his robes are too thick. He forces you to look into that great empty abyss below.

The rainy mist covers the entire bottom and your mouth trembles. 

“So now you may join him then-“ He nudges you, “-as you should have done, so long ago.”

And with a scrambling, ungraceful lop he pushes you off.

But he doesn’t pay attention to your feet, which have been inching towards him. Your foot curls around him, jerking him forward as well. 

You can hear men cry out as you tumble midair, the sharp whip of wind, but you angle yourself to kick off him, away from the razor-sharp rocks jutting like unwelcome knives from the cliff. For a moment you bask in the horrified cries of the archbishop as he is unable to catch himself, watching as he bashes against them until you hit the water, air thrust out of your lungs.

Into the darkness, you plunge, and then there’s nothing but black.

–X–

It’s not so much what you can see and know with your eyes as it is a deep knowing inside somewhere that you can’t touch, and never will. A distant life is long gone, and at rest, except for these long-lost feelings. 

A gentle female voice comes into your ear, and you can feel that her voice is like the depth of the ocean, azul in the sharpest sapphire, smooth as the sweetest embrace. Your mind bursts with thoughts of familiar things. Reading books with your father, copying maps when none are looking, planning and budgeting, and studying in endless windows, Zelda at your side. You viciously hold to the intelligence, craving her awareness and knowledge.

“A path I show you.” She mutters, so softly.

You turn, trying to catch the feelings they evoke, the intelligence they hold. But they twist away like a river, and you are turned to another voice.

“A crown I bestow you.” This voice is stronger, like the call of a tropical bird in the trees above.

She sounds lush like verdant forests, smooth like snakes and rich in opportunity for adventure. Riding horses against your mother, playing cards with the captain of the guard, sparring wits against visiting scholars, and holding a newly forged sword before Link. The will to continue floods you with strength. Once again you try and hug it to you, this sweet voice, but like a serpent, it wiggles, deep into the earth where you cannot dig.

Come back, you beg desperately. 

You are bereft, you think, horrified to be lost in such blackness of nothing, but it doesn’t take long for you to recognize there is a third voice. And she doesn’t deign to whisper or mutter. She is like a distant voice, strong like a raging bonfire, like red dye or a fresh cherry pie. She makes you think of tall mountains and an evening. You race towards her, never getting closer or further.

“This king, shall you bind yourself to.” 

You come to a full stop as you feel him. His warmth, his voice, his brightness. You catch your breath as you can feel how powerful he is. Of what he means.

And it makes you panic.

“Who are you?” You demand, unable to feel or hear your voice, but somehow able to see it shift around and fill the space like a visual symphony. 

“Here.” You blink, turning. The voice is behind you. 

Your brows raise as you see three warm lights; one red, one blue, and one green, all hovering like fairy magic, casting light. 

“Find us all.” The green orb chimes lovely.

“Find a way to balance us all.” The blue adds.

“And save us all.” The red says with the finality of the last flame flickering on a cold night. And then they are blown out, embers trailing to nothing.

–X–

There is something hot on your face, and an unbearable weight on your chest. And then you feel like you are going to throw up. 

Twisting over you do throw up, but not food and drink, but just minerally water.

Warm hands help you roll over, and not collapse into a wreck on the ground as the contents of your stomach are expelled. Only after several minutes are you allowed to straighten back up, though the hands never leave.

You blink, eyes a bit blurry and you raise a hand to wipe them. And when you do, you see the glint of gold on your wrist before you feel it, being so noodle-limbed. As you look between your wrists and ankles your mind struggles to understand.

Why?

And as you finally turn to look at your savior, you furrow your brows, jaw dropping open. 

The king of the Gerudo is a breath away, eyes sparkling bright, though his hair is a matted wet mess. 

And while you are slack-jawed, he lifts a circle and places it on your head.

“Hello, my Queen.” He says saucily, with a wink.

#rehydrated ganondorf #ganondorf thirst #ganondorf x reader #ganon #loz #loz fanfic #link #zelda #hyrule #politics #hate to love #slowburn

[poledancingdinos]

Hostile Territory - Chapter 1

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC (Leah Coleman)

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Canon typical violence and injury

Catch up: Series Masterlist

Taglist: @amberangel112 @utterlyhopeful-fics @marantha @kebabgirl67 @littleone65 @omgkatinka @luclittlepond @summersong69​ @identity2212​  @marytudorbrandon​

A/N: Finally adding this story to Tumblr, hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

Day 6

Leah sat on the medic table in only her cargo pants and sports bra when there was a rough knock on the door. Her shirt had been cut off by an overzealous medic who’d thought that her soaked collar indicated a hidden wound despite her insisting that he wouldn’t find anything other than some bruised ribs. He’d apparently forgotten that head injuries bleed like fuck. Either that or he saw an opportunity to undress the only woman at Warhorse and took it.

“Yeah?” she called out.

The door creaked open but whoever was on the other side stopped before revealing who they were. 

“Are ya decent?” a gruff voice asked. She recognized it immediately as the burly captain in charge of her new base.

“I’m sure there’s nothing I could show you that you haven’t seen before, Cap.” A man like him undoubtedly had no shortage of women ready and willing whenever he was stateside, surely a woman showing a little skin wouldn’t be that scandalous.

“Tryin’ to be considerate here, Private, how ‘bout ya cut the sass.”

“Yeah, I’m decent,” she finally conceded.

The man pushed the door open just enough to step into the room and quickly shut it behind him to avoid any of the soldiers walking in the halls being able to catch a glimpse inside.

“What did the medics say?”

“Gonna need stitches,” she answered, holding a ball of gauze to her forehead to staunch the bleeding.

“We already knew that. Concussion?”

“Nope.”

“Good. That’s real good.” He nodded to himself, looking off to the side, seemingly lost in thought.

Behind Sy, the door opened again only without a knock this time. Obviously common courtesy or bedside manner went out the window when you were a doctor in the middle of the desert.

When the blond man noticed Sy, he greeted him with a nod. “Captain.” The medic walked around him to the little metal cart that sat next to the table, looking over the various pouches of sterile equipment, gauze and disinfecting agents.

“So, it seems we are out of anesthetic and glue so I’m going to have to stitch you up without it.”

“What the fuck?” Sy exclaimed, turning his head towards the other man. “It’s bad enough she gets an ax to the face, now ya want her to suffer through the sutures too?”

“It’s fine, let’s just get this over with,” she said, turning on the table to lay down.

The medic nodded, going over to the sink to scrub his hands before putting latex gloves on.

“I’m going to have to ask you to step out now, Captain.”

“I’m gonna stay right here if it’s all the same.” There wasn’t really room for argument but the blond man didn’t seem to pick up on the severe tone. He opened his mouth to argue but Leah cut him off, not interested in the alpha-male pissing contest she sensed was about to ensue.

“Just stay in the corner and don’t distract the man holding a needle over my eye.” She pulled the blood soaked gauze from her forehead and tossed it into the nearby trash bin. “Sir,” she added after a beat.

Sy excused the momentary lapse of respect, knowing full well she was just lashing out because of the pain, and settled with his shoulder on the wall and his arms crossed over his chest. From that angle, Sy had an unobstructed view of Leah’s face as the new medic—Reynolds, Sy finally recalled—tossed the instrument wrappings in the trash and began working on suturing the wound on Leah’s forehead.

Reynolds was on the third stitch and Sy was utterly baffled by the woman’s control. She hadn’t so much as winced as the man lifted her skin with the forceps and pierced it with the curved needle. Sy didn’t think that anything else would be impressive after watching Leah hold her own in a bare-knuckle fight against a man swinging an ax but this was quite the feat. She’d been lucky to come out of it with nothing more than a couple of bruises and a slash on her forehead.

Truth be told, Sy was overwhelmed with relief that she hadn’t been more severely injured. Part of it was because Leah Coleman had only joined his Special Ops unit six days prior and it made him feel like the biggest piece-of-shit in the world to know she hadn’t even made it a full week before being injured under his command. The other part was because he was completely smitten with her.

It was utterly unprofessional, and he mentally scolded himself every time he started picturing Leah as anything other than a soldier under his command, but he just couldn’t shake the attraction ever since she had shown up at his gate and slugged the soldier who’d grabbed her ass as she walked by. Sy probably should have written her up for that but he was under no illusion that the other soldiers around had not considered doing the exact same. Letting her show them that she wasn’t some defenseless damsel was as good a way as any to keep them in line.

Sy was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of rattling metal. Reynolds had apparently finished stitching her up and was now applying a clean bandage over his work. The pure white of the gauze looked ridiculous on her skin which had streaks of dried blood from her temple all the way down to her chest. Apparently no one had bothered providing Leah with some sort of wet rag to clean herself up as she waited for the medic to come back after his initial assessment of her injuries. 

“Try not to do anything that could pull at the stitches until we can get ‘em out at the end of the week.”

“Right, thanks,” she said dismissively, her eyes still closed and making no move to sit up.

Reynolds took his time as he tossed his soiled gloves into the trash and washed his hands, somehow oblivious to the tense silence that had now filled the room. When the door finally clicked shut behind him, Leah released a deep, shaky breath through her mouth.

She carefully moved the leg closest to the edge of the table until it hung off the side then twisted to place her forearm under her torso and the other hand flat on the table. Leah’s lips moved unconsciously as she counted to three and pushed herself into a seated position with a choked whimper.

Sy had decided to keep his distance, not wanting to invade her space when she was so obviously resigned to suffering on her own, but as soon as she was upright, Leah’s body began to waver and for a second, Sy was sure she was about to plunge face first straight off the table. He lunged towards her, stabilizing her with both hands on her shoulders.

“Alright, Private, let’s get you back down for a few more minutes,” he suggested but she just shook her head, setting her hands on his chest and pushing him away.

“Just dizzy from the shock, it’ll be better in a sec.”

Sy tightened his hold on her, refusing to take even a single step back.

“I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe you should spend the night here.”

She took a long breath in through her nose then out through her mouth and slowly opened her eyes. It was then Leah realized just how intimately close the Captain was to her. He stood between her legs, his hips so wide that he touched both of her inner thighs. He hadn’t showered since getting back from the mission but he had taken off most of his gear, leaving him in his tight green t-shirt and desert camo pants. His face was covered in dust and he stank of sweat and gunpowder. He had no right to look that good while simultaneously looking so bad but somehow he did.

“I’m fine, I’ve been through worse. Besides, I’m afraid that if I’m not back in my room tonight then I’m going to find that all my underwear is missing in the morning.”

“You don’t have to put up with that kinda shit. If someone’s harassin’ ya then I gotta know ‘bout it so I can take care of it.”

“I’m never gonna earn their respect if I run to daddy at every raunchy joke. If I wanna be part of the team then they gotta treat me the same way they treat each other.”

She met Sy’s gaze, challenging him to tell her differently. The paleness of her complexion, the bruising blooming on her face and the obvious fatigue that marred her expression somewhat diminished the effect of her stare but Sy nodded anyway.

“Lemme at least make sure you get to your bunk in one piece.”

She considered his proposal for a moment but with the way her head throbbed there was very little chance that she would make it to her room without collapsing halfway up the stairs. Swallowing her pride, Leah accepted the Captain’s help.

“Alright, then,” he said, glancing around the room. He tipped his head towards a little stool by the sink. “Is that your jacket?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you good for me to let go for a second?”

“I think so.”

Sy released his hold on Leah’s shoulders one hand at a time and after making sure she was still stable, he took the jacket and held it open for her. She didn’t wait for him to ask if she wanted to have it on before slipping her arm into the sleeve. With the amount of catcalling she’d already endured since being assigned to the unit there was no way Sy would let her walk around shirtless. 

With the jacket on and loosely closed, Sy wrapped his arm around her waist and held her forearm in the other. Leah was too short to brace herself with an arm around his shoulder and still be able to walk so the hold on her arm would have to do.

She slid down from the table until the tip of her boots touched the ground then tested her legs by adding a bit of weight.

“Woah,” she muttered, leaning into Sy’s side as her head started spinning again.

“‘S okay, we’ll take it slow. Deep breaths. Lemme know when you’re ready to move.” He exaggerated his breathing—in through his nose and out through his mouth—until she matched his breaths. He’d been mentally counting each inhale and exhale for about sixty seconds when she blinked a few times in rapid succession and lifted some of her weight off him.

“Good. We’re gonna take it slow, put as much weight on me as ya need.”

They managed to make it to the staircase without stopping but as soon as she lifted her leg to move up the first step, Leah collapsed into Sy, her leg giving out below her. She bit down on her bottom lip to the point of drawing blood, swallowing her whimpers.

“Private, what was that about?”

“It’s nothing,” she answered in an unconvincing voice. 

Sy shook his head, bending down to pick her up in a fireman’s carry—not bridal because that’s not how he would do it for the men in his unit. He briefly considered turning around and going back to the medical unit but in the end he decided that he would just carry her up to her room.

He set her down on the rickety bunk they had set up in the supply closet that now served as her quarters. The only upside to the shitty makeshift room was the fact that it had no windows so Leah didn’t have to worry about snipers at night. Sy set about unlacing her boots despite her insistence that she was fine. He pushed her right pant leg up until her knee was exposed.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Sy muttered, seeing the joint which was now completely swollen and painted black and blue. “Ya didn’t think this was worth mentionin’ back at medical?”

“I’ve b—”

“Been through worse,” he finished for her, as unconvinced as he was the first time she said it. “I’m gonna get ya some ice.”

It wasn’t a question, leaving no room for argument. He quickly went back to his office where he kept a basic first aid kit and took out two instant ice packs and a bottle of painkillers. When he got back to her room, Leah had moved closer to the foot of the bed, taken her hair out of its tight updo and swapped her jacket for a clean t-shirt from her pack.

“One for tonight,” he said, indicating the first pack of ice, “and one for tomorrow morning,” he finished setting the other on the stool that served as her nightstand. “You can use these for now but I want that knee looked ASAP.” The bottle of painkillers rattled as he set it down next to the ice.

“Thanks.” She accepted the offered pack of ice with a small smile.

“What the hell happened between the moment ya dropped off the comms and the moment we took down that asshole?”

She crushed the bag with an audible crack and shook it before setting it on her injured knee.

“The first hit came from my right.” She shook her head at herself, looking down. “I cleared the first room and as soon as I turned back around the man knocked my rifle out of my hands. The ax blade caught the strap and tore it clean off my body. While he took his next swing I just lunged at him. We fell, he dropped the ax, we both got a few punches in.”

She stopped closing her eyes as she tried to remember what happened earlier that evening.

“He made it back up before me, the ax was back in his hands and he aimed for my head… I rolled away just in time  to not be decapitated.”

“That’s when the head happened?”

Leah nodded. “I tried to kick his legs out from under him but he managed to stay upright. I got back up, dodged a hit and jumped behind him while he was off balance to catch him in a choke hold. He panicked and just blindly started swinging and I took the butt of the ax to the knee.”

“Are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” he barked pushing himself off the wall he’d been leaning on. “For all you know your kneecap is blown to fuckin’ pieces!” Sy bent down again, poking and inspecting her knee.

“That’s a little excessive,” she whispered, looking down at the ground. “I can mostly walk on it.”

Sy shook his head, releasing an exasperated sigh as he brushed his hand over his face. “Jesus fuck. Alright, what happened after that?”

“I lost my hold on his neck but he was stunned enough that when he turned to swing again it was so wide that it gave me time to duck. I got a few good punches in before he managed to push me back far enough to swing at me again. You know the rest.”

He did. He’d actually arrived just as Leah let go of the man’s neck but she’d been too close to him for Sy to get a clean shot. As soon as she moved more than a foot away Sy had pulled the trigger, hitting the man square in the temple and dropping him to the ground mid-swing.

“You’re on desk duty for the next two weeks,” he instructed, straightening to his full height and putting a hand on the doorknob. 

“What? No, I’m fine.”

“Those are your orders, Private. Unless you’d rather be medevac’d like you would have been if you hadn’t lied about the slash bein’ your only injury? ”

Her jaw visibly clenched as she held back any further argument. “No, Sir.”

Sy gave a curt nod and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Chapter 2

#captain syverson fic #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson x ofc #captain syverson #cpt syverson fic #cpt syverson fanfiction #cpt syverson x ofc #cpt syverson #cpt syverson fanfic

[doll-r-t]

The Lost Pearl Part 14

Syverson x reader

TW: non, Sy trying

Masterlist (can find all parts there)

(Pictures, You and Rosamund, the blue flowers Sy got you, Your dress, You and Ethos dancing, The books, all pics found on Pinteres, credit to owners)

Syverson realized as soon as he was back in Warhorse that Ocre was right and he had to have a better plan than just flowers. He went straight to his office walking up and down. He felt like he was walking a hole into the ground when his eyes caught something on one of his shelves. Of Course! How had he not seen it before, it was quite literally in front of him. He walked over to the shelve brushing his fingertips against the fragile binding of the book. He immediately turned around and walked out towards the storage. He was a man on a mission, blood was pumping his heart was racing in the most pleasant adrenaline-inducing way. His face was set, determined to achieve what he not only wanted but needed. 

He walked down the cold stone steps towards the cellar of Warhorse. He pushed open one door. His great uncle had stored the possession of his wife. She loved beautiful dresses and to the surprise of the people of the oral tradition, she was an avid reader. 

He searched trunk after trunk pulling out old smelly clothing, hoping that some books were still well enough to use. To his annoyance, the books were in the last trunk he could find. He was starting to sweat despite the cold underground. He pushed the trunk open looking inside, there were three stacks of books in there. He pulled them out and looked through them sadly most of them were destroyed due to the cold and wetness in the room. He brushed some dust off the ones that were still good. It was about five. Not much but it had to be enough. He had no idea what to do if it was not. 

He walked to his office as fast as he could. He needed more light to inspect them more. He instructed Gisla to put the flowers in water. He was just about to pass the Parlor when he stopped turning back to look at the door. He knew you and Cella were outside so he opened the door and took a look inside. This Parlor was usually given to the women of the household. In this case, it was still Cellas but once she was gone it would go to Rosamund but mostly it would be empty as Rosamund was not necessarily fond of the room. He turned about the room. A plan was forming in his head. It was spacious with a couch, table and chairs, fireplace, and space to host people. The walls were primarily bare but one with a tapestry hanging from it. He smiled to himself, yes this would work, he thought. A lightness settled in his chest that he had not felt since the fight between you. He spotted a trunk in the corner of the room, he went over and looked inside. He had to chuckle, the trunk was filled up to the hill with books. He shook his head at that. 

He moved on to his studies, it was getting dark and he did not have a lot of time to put his plan in motion. He looked at the books closely. Wondering if some of the rough edges could be preserved. He had no idea how to do it. Maybe some of the craftsmen could, although they had never restored a book they do work with leather and should be able to fix it. But there was no time for it now. The longer he waited the more he felt the cold shadow of indifference between you. So he left the book behind in his studies and walked outside. He went down into the town, walking along, past the many wood houses on the gravel path. He was searching the shops looking for the crafting woman. He spotted her sitting on a chair outside, a knife in hand and her long greying hair in a braid. She was fiddling with a piece of wood. “I apologize for my interruption crafting woman, Chae-Won.” The woman looked up, her eyes were dark, almost as dark as the ends of her still black hair. She had high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. “Captain.” She nodded in greeting. She got up pulling up another chair. “Some tea?”

Before he could answer she was off. Back rounded from long years being bent over wood, crafting, and building. While she got some tea he sat down looking at the piece of wood she had been working on. For him, the lines did not make a lot of sense but her carving seemed steadfast and confident. She came back out of her hut. He stood taking the cups from her and offered her his arm, helping her sit. She smiled, holding onto his arm. “What bring you here my Captain.” Straight to the point. She took a sip from the steaming water and he followed suit before answering. “I have some books up at the castle they are damaged. I was wondering if you know how to craft new leather bindings for them.” She thought about it for a moment. “I spent some time at the borderlands, there we had occasion to craft new leather armor for soldiers passing through. I will try. I cannot imagine it would be much more complicated than that.” Syverson sight in relief. “I also wondered if you could come up to Warhorse tomorrow and look at the Parlor. I would like to put up some shelves for books.” She hid her smile behind the teacup. “I will be there tomorrow after breakfast.” Syverson nodded drinking from his tea. “Is there any specific wood your lady has in mind?” Syverson started to cough, the tea running down the wrong pipe. “I am sorry?” “The Lady you are building the shelves for, her people like lighter wood than ours. I might have to search for a while to get some wood like that.” Syverson was adjusting himself in his seat. “Why do you think it is for her?” “Do not act bashful with me. I have no interest in your love life Captain. But I do care for my crafting.” Syverson looked at her, she had that twinkle in her eye that told him he had said more with his bashfulness than he had if he would have been straight with her. “I am not sure.” Syverson had not thought of the different kinds of woods and tastes. “It will do good to have more information by tomorrow. I will bring some suggestions with me.” He drank the rest of the tea. Thanked Chae-won and went up to the castle again. As usual, he had not thought things through. He would have to talk to you before he did anything. He wanted to do it now, rather than later. 

He walked to his study. The flowers were on his desk, in a beautifully painted vase. He had not seen this vase before but he did not care as long as everything looked beautiful he had no care. He took a couple of books and took out one of the green ribbons he usually bound his cloak with. It had fallen off his cloak and now it came in handy. He wrapped it around the books tying it with a bow. He looked at it satisfied. Taking one deep breath he walked with the flowers and book in hand to your room. He knocked at your door, with his foot. Just when he knocked he realized she should have put on a nicer shirt and combed his beard. He was so wild and unkempt in contrast to your people. He realized with embarrassment that he had mud on his shoes. Oh, I hope I do not have any on my face, he thought. 

Suddenly the door opened, there you were. Your hair tied back, a lovely light sea-green gown on. He had not been so close to you for a long time and he had to resist closing his eyes when the flowery smell of you wafted towards him. My, did you always smell this good? He could feel his heart speed up. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “My Captain.” You bowed slightly. He cleared him through. “Princess.” With this, he thrust the flowers into your hands. You were taken aback but stepped aside to let him in. 

Syverson stood in front of you, in your room. You had no idea what he was doing here. Confused and a bit shocked. He looked slightly uncomfortable and had not said more than one word. You let him have his space, waiting for him to speak. He looked around your room and when he finally looked at you again his cheeks were on fire. You thought him blushing was an endearing feature of a leader. “I apologize for interrupting you before dinner.” He wrung his hands. “I-, these are for you.” He pointed to the flowers in your hands. “Thank you.” You smiled unsure where he was going with this. You looked down at the flowers in your hands, setting them on your table. It was the same blue flowers he had plucked once when you were in the garden after saving Rosamund. They looked like blue little stars. “Would you like me to call for some wine?” “No.” The silence became uncomfortable but finally, after he rubbed over his head Syverson began to speak. You had sat down and he followed suit. “I wanted to talk about what happened. Well, not necessarily talk. But apologize. I am sorry for all the things I have said.” He went silent waiting for something. You remembered his words clearly, the pain opening like a wound in your heart. You nodded avoiding his eyes. “I let my anger get the better of me. I want you to know, nay I need you to know that I was not angry at you.” Your eyes looked at him questioningly. “I was angry at myself.” He leaned back into the chair, looking into the fire. “I hated that I was not able to feed my people and that someone from the Southern people did.” He looked at you apologetically. You nodded in understanding. “It was not my intention to make you feel this way. I just wanted to help,” you said. “I know.” He leaned forward his hand closer to yours as if he wanted to grab it but stopped himself. “And I never thanked you for it. You have done so much for my people, my family, and me. You did not deserve my treatment of you. I hope that, in time, you can forgive me.” You smiled slightly at him, not your full smile but it was a start and it made breathing easier. “I do have to apologize too. I should have told you that I was writing a letter to my father. And although it was just a letter, it was my intention for him to send food. I am sorry.” This time he did reach for your hand, giving it a small squeeze. His hand was warm and rough. You wanted to close your eyes and savor the warmth against your cold skin. “I would not do anything to intentionally hurt you, Cella or Rosamund,” you added. “I know that. I am sorry I hurt you.” He said softly, his eyes not leaving yours. He still held your hand. “Thank you for the flowers,” you whispered.

He abruptly rightened himself, clearing his throat. “I have something else for you.” He handed you a small stack of books. This time you could not suppress your full smile. Immediately you reached for it. “It is not much, but my great aunt liked to read. I am not sure how good they are, and they are a bit damaged,” he rambled on, rubbing the back of his head. He had this bashful look about him again and his cheeks were rosy underneath his beard. You wondered, not for the first time, how it felt. “It don’t matter.” You pressed them against your chest. “I hope you do not mind but I have someone come in tomorrow to look at them to see if they could be restored. She is a talented carver, her name is Chae-Won.” “That is very sweet but I don’t think it is necessary.” You hastily added. “Not that I do not believe that she is not talented but I think they are perfect as they are.” Syverson’s chest felt tight as if there was not enough air in the room, your lips had a soft smile, looking soft and more inviting than water after a battle. Your eyes had lost some of the coolness, you looked like you again. “Indeed perfect,” he whispered. One of his hands was reaching for yours again, softly stroking his thumb on the back of your hand. “I wanted to discuss another thing. The Parlor has some bare walls and I saw that your brother has brought you some books. I was thinking about putting up some shelves so you could display them and have a room for reading. If you do not wish we can also do it in your room.” You stopped his caress of your hand, grabbing it hard. “I would love to. I am keeping them in my trunks right now and it does not do them justice. They are so beautiful they should be displayed.” He had never seen you as open as when you talked about books. Maybe he should pick up one for himself and see what the fuss is about. He always preferred spoken stories but he should be open to new things. Although looking at the shine in your eyes he thought you should be in stories. “Chae-won will come with some options for wood tomorrow. You can choose whichever you want. And anything else you might want or need Just say the word.” You nodded. “Thank you.” With one hand you were still holding his hand and with the other, you were clutching the books against you. Throughout your talk, you both scootched closer and closer to each other. You could finally smell him again, the herbs, woods, horses, he smelled like freedom and strangely enough something like home. You were completely ensnared by the smell and were slowly leaning closer. 

“Y/N it is time for dinner soon-” Gisla came in but stopped abruptly when she saw Syverson in your room. You swiftly scootched back from him. As if you were a child caught with the hand in the cookie jar. “Thank you Gisla. I do need a wash-up before.” Syverson stood, clearing his head. “I shall leave you to it then.” Before he left, however, he picked up your hand pressing a small kiss on it. “I will see you there, Princess.” You felt your heart stop for a second and your breath halted. You could do naught but nod in agreement. Your hand felt light and tingly. He gave you one small smile and left. Gisla was looking at the ground trying to hide her smile. You still stood rooted to the spot. She left you to you and pulled out a gown. “I will bring you some water for washing.” She walked to the door. “I will put in some of your oils so you will smell extra good tonight.” She smirked at you, before leaving with a chuckle. You wanted to be outraged at her but you did not have the heart. As you did not mind putting in some scented oil. You walked over to your bed. Sitting down and unwrapping the books. You looked at them closely. There was a book about tales from the old world, a book about herbs and flowers, and some other stories. The last one caught your eye, it was a book about language and different regional accents. You opened it, to your surprise and delight there was a chapter about the woodland people. This one you would read first. Gisla came in and you began getting ready for dinner. 

You walked to the hall you felt like you were far too overdressed, your gown was different shades of blue and lilac. Layered over another flowing with every step. Gisla had insisted on it. She had also added a small necklace with a white shining stone and pearls for your hair, instead of the net. 

You walked into the hall passing tables of already eating and drinking people. Everyone was in a merry spirit and you let it infest you. You felt so much lighter, and you were more than hungry. You smiled at Cella who joined you, walking towards the high table. You laced your arm with hers. She shot you a confused look. But you did not see as Syverson was sitting at the high table watching you walk towards him. You smiled at him. 

You pulled the chair out for Cella and she sat down as you had instructed her. You nodded in approval. Your brother stood wanting to pull your chair out but before he could Syverson stepped in front of him reaching the chair before him. “I might as well practice my manners too.” You laughed lightly. “I fear I have to agree Captain. This must be the first time you ever pulled out my chair for me. Very poor form indeed.” You smirked, sitting down. You could feel the deep rumble of his chuckle go through you making you shiver. Ethos and Cella looked at you both with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Syverson and you paid them no mind. He sat down next to Ethos again but throughout the dinner, he sent you small smiles. 

Rosamund had come over to you and Cella and Syverson watched as you picked her up settling her on your lap. It tugged at his heart. When you first walked in he had thought that you were the most beautiful woman but seeing how you took care of little Rosamund, he had to go back on his statement. Now you were the most beautiful woman. He was glad that you were his friend again. And he hoped in time you would make your opinion known again. He would not admit it but he was dependent on it. You were smart and had much more knowledge about political matters than he had. Yet, there was one thing he had to do. Something did not sit right with him and he wanted to address it. But for now, he would enjoy the evening and the companions of his people, friends, and families. 

Once the ale was flowing freely, and the tables were cleaned he waved a servant over. He asked them to bring out some of the sweets they had baked this morning. It was the first time they had the resources to actually bake some sugar bread. It was soft sweet dough with some fruit in it. The servants promptly brought some. Before the people could dig in Syverson stood up. The hall went quiet. 

“My friends, my family. Before we eat sugar bread I would like to tell you a story. A story about someone extraordinary whose heart is brave and kind. For so long darkness, despair and suffering have plagued the people of the north, the people of the borderlands, and the people of the south. I have to admit I also was gripped by it. I was surrounded by paper, darkness settling over me, taking me with it more and more. Yet, one morning, when the morning light was still soft and the air still fresh from the night, I awoke. Awoke to something, something that could be so insignificant. A note. Made with a simple tool of a writing feather and ink. It was written, in soft curves and elegant flow, on my paper. It was so small I nearly missed it. If it were not for the light, I would have. All darkness that I carried in my heart felt like it left my heart, infused into the ink, and turned into hope.” 

The people were listening to every word and so did you, following the lines of his lips. You had a weird feeling in your chest between an ache and a flutter. “I never knew how strong words could be, how they could chase the darkness away and make you realize that no matter the hardship, light is always there you just have to look for it.” He turned to you, his eyes were so soft and blue. “Which reminds me of a story of a bear, his fell was disheveled, trotting slowly through a dark and cold forest, hardly any light, no food for him. This is when he came to a river and with his thick brown fur, he trotted towards it. An ache in his side made him slow, but he was stubborn. I will fight, I will protect, I will provide.” Syverson boomed in a deep voice. It caught your attention more, his face had changed displaying pain but determination.

“So the bear went into the water, he pawed, clawed, and roared. The coldness pulled him deeper into the water, his strength leaving him, his thick fur pulling him down. I cannot give up,” Syverson roared in that deep voice again. “I cannot give up,” He said a bit more desperately. “He dragged himself through the water still pawing, clawing, roaring. Trying to catch fish. He did not see the silver feathered owl landing on the rock just off the side of the river. Its eyes were watchful. And with just one look it had figured out that the bear was about to drown.” Syverson looked at you again, his voice had turned soft almost reminiscent. “Slowly the owl rightened itself, extending its wings suddenly it looked double his side, strong, powerful. It soared high into the sky, letting the wind do all the work, using the ability to oversee the river from high up. It observed the bear for a second more and flew a bit further. Suddenly it swooped down, disrupting the surface of the water. Once it soared up again it had a fish in its claws. It let out a hoot, catching the attention of the bear. The bear had thought he had never seen such elegance and beauty. Yet, he roared out in anger, trying to claw at the owl. How dare it mocks him, did it not see that he was trying to catch a fish too? Before the bear could claw at the owl again it let go of the fish and it landed. To the bear's surprise. Right in his mouth.”

Rosamund giggled at that and you joined in. “Stubborn bear,” you whispered to her. Syverson had heard it. “Yes, a stubborn bear he was.” He grinned at you.

“But not for long. Once his stomach was filled with the fish he realized that the owl was not mocking him. It was trying to help him. So it dragged itself out of the water and laid down. The owl swooped down, landing next to the bear, burring its head underneath the bear's snout, its face in the fur. The bear lifted his paw and covered the owl more. Soon the sun would be high and shining and the owl was seeking a dark spot to sleep. The thick fur of the bear provided the perfect spot. They slept, one day and one night, and one day again. The bear was healing, and the owl was resting. Once they awoke the bear found that the pain in his side was gone and to his happiness, the owl was still there. It blinked slowly, with its observing eyes, shaking its shining silver feathers. It looked at the bear once before soaring up into the sky again. The bear road out, but this time not in anger but in desperation. The owl had become his companion and he wished for it to stay. But the owl was not moving far, it crashed down into the water again catching a fish once more. This time it had caught a big and a small one and together they ate at the side of the river. The bear dangling its feet into the river and the owl sitting crossed-legged. Looking up into the sky the bear did not mind the darkness, as if it were not for it he would not see the beautiful stary night.” Syverson finished off.

He grabbed the first sugar bread and walked down to the table. He stopped right in front of you. Cella quickly took Rosamund from you. You did not even notice your focus on Syverson. “And as the bear was hopeful again. So was I. On that day the sun had risen shining a light on the note on my paper.” You knew exactly what he was talking about. Your heart was beating so fast but you could not look away from him his words and eyes capturing. “A note that helped my people and opened my heart. For the strong woman who wrote it my people and I owe much to. As she was the one that made the trade that provided my people with food possible. Princess Y/N Commander of the Pearl, daughter of the moon, and from now on, a sister of the Woodland people the Owl of the South, strong and smart.” He bowed to you. “You will always have a home here.”

He handed you the sugar bread. Your hand was shaking. And your voice failed you. You knew that the first bite of a meal was reserved for the leader. And you knew how significant it was that he was granting you the first bite. You stood up shaking, you broke the sugar bread in two putting the other piece into his hand. Without looking at the people, that had gasped at the Captain's gesture, you bit into the bread. The sweetness almost overwhelmed your senses. But you were not sure if the tingling came from the sugar rush or from the look on Syverson’s face. The people were cheering your name. “Hail Princess Y/N Commander, Daughter of the Moon, Sister of our kin, Owl of the South.” After you took a bite Syverson followed suit. Smiling that even now you would share what you had. He did not tear his eyes from yours as you had done. Yet, he hummed at the taste of sugar in his mouth. The people erupted in cheers, digging into their own bread, and some started to play on fiddles. Rosamund pulled you on your skirt dragging you away from Syverson and to the people who started dancing. You both spun around. You were laughing, twirling, and spinning faster and faster. You had not done this since before the war. You danced song after song, finally you were so out of breath that you hugged her to you and went off to drink some wine. She was far younger than you and had much more stamina. But it gave you great joy seeing her big smile. You took your rest at the side, talking with some people. A hand landed on your back making you flinch but when you turned around your brother Ethos was standing there. “Common sister.” He took your hand leading you to the dance floor. You started to dance one of the more traditional southern ones. Ethos was holding up his hands in front of his body, chest high. You followed suit, your hands were not touching. Once the music set in he took a step forward and you took one back, it was a chase. It was to symbolize the push and pull of the water. It got quicker and quicker. Stepping forth and back, without touching. The footwork was simple back forth, side step, side step. But the hand movement was intricate. Showing the difference in waves. Sometimes you both would lift your arms high, slowly dropping them down in a cross-movement towards your chest. You both had not realized that the music had started to mimic your movements. The people around you stopped dancing watching you. Your gown was flowing as if it was water. Once the final notes played you went into your original position but this time your hands touched. Your brother had a small smile on his face. You two had not danced like this for so long. He leaned towards you kissing your forehead. “I am proud of you sister, my commander, my high Princess,” he whispered. Then he walked off into the crowd. The people around you started to dance again as you teared up at your brother’s acknowledgment of your accomplishments.

Chapter 15

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#Captain syverson #Captain Syverson #Captain Syverson x reader #sand castle (movie) #syverson #syverson x reader #captain syverson x you #captain syverson x reader #captain syverson #henry cavill #syverson x you #captain syverson imagine #syverson imagine #captain syverson fic #captain syverson fluff

[scotianostra]

July 7th 1307 was a massive day for the Scots, when the thorn in their side, King Edward I of England, died.

Edward was on his way to finish matters with the Scots once and for all.

Robert the Bruce had seized the Scottish throne the year before and took up the cause of Scottish independence, but was far from ruling a united country, many Scots still supported the English, most notably the Comyns.

When the news reached Edward about The Bruce, he is said to have burst into a violent fury, orders were sent to hunt down Bruce, who in his eyes was now an "Outlaw King", the English and their Scottish allies had initial success in Scotland, and had forced Bruce into hiding, but Bruce reappeared in 1307, invigorated by seeing a spider try, and try again to spin its web. Edward ordered his army to muster at Carlisle in July and set out to base himself at Lanercost Priory, home of the number one "newspaper" of the day, which you might remember me using many times on my posts, The Lanecrost Chronicles.

By this time Edward was in his sixties, a very old man in terms of medieval lifespan. His body was wearing out and he was not capable of riding. Carried north by horse-litter, which was a carriage hung on poles, and borne by and between two horses, it mustn't have inspired confidence in his army. Possibly knowing his body was failing him he became more cantankerous, having arguments with his son, the future Edward II, mainly regarding partiality for his favourite Piers Gaveston. The old King turned on his son and seized him by the hair, calling him ‘whoreson mis­begotten boy’ and tearing handfuls of his hair out. I must point out though, that unlike in Braveheart, he did not throw the man out of a window!

Edward was suffering badly from dysentery and his opponents were anticipating his end. A supposed prophecy of Merlin was in circulation, that after his death the Scots and the Welsh would unite and have things as they wished. A defiant Edward decided that he must take the field himself. He mounted his warhorse and led his army north, but he could manage to ride only two miles a day and when he reached the village of Burgh-on-Sands, not far from Carlisle, he had to take to his bed.

It was said that he realized he was dying and sent word to his son to have his embalmed body carried with the army into Scotland so that even in death he could still lead his men. The suggestion was not carried out.

About noon on July 7th, when his servants came to lift him up so that he could eat, the king died in their arms. He was sixty-eight. His body was however interred in Westminster Abbey in October.

The pics are Edward's memorial at the marshes, Burgh-by-Sands, one of the many plaques that it bares reads: Memoriae eternae EDWARDI I. Angliae Longe Clarissimi, qui in Belli Apparatu contra Scotos occupatus Hic in Castris Obiit, 7 Julii, A.D. 1307. Roughly translating to : Eternal memory of Edward I of England, (who) preparing for a war against the Scots here, died July 7, 1307 AD.

The second pic is a 21st century statue at Burgh-by Sands which reads: Statue dedicated on 7 July 2007 to commemorate the death of King Edward I near Burgh by Sands on 7 July 1307. Edward I "Longshanks" was on his way to give "The Bruce" a good hammering, ( that went well eh!) but died before reaching Scotland. History records that his son, King Edward II, who lacked his father's military skills, was defeated by Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn in 1314.

The third pic is of Edwards tomb in Westminster Abbey, England was broke after all the wars and castle building of Edward’s reign, so the king’s tomb was a plain grey marble sarcophagus without effigy or decoration. The inscription on the tomb reads: “Edwardus Primus Scotorum Malleus. Pactum Serva” (Edward the First, Hammer of the Scots. Keep Troth). It has to be pointed out that this was not added until the 16th century though, what I would also point out is he indeed he was The "Hammer of the Scots", but in the end the anvil had worn down the hammer.

#english #england #scotland #longshanks #history #the first war of scottish independence

[thestressedsimmer]

August 1312

The Glasse home was abuzz with excitement. Both of the children had birthdays and so the servants and Olive were all rushing to try and make sure the home was clean enough for the children's godparents - the king and queen - to come to visit.

Of course, this led to a lot of stress. Olive could barely think straight - let alone make good decisions. She was keeping a smile on her face to play with her children during the day, but in her mind, she was screaming.

In order to try and get her thoughts in order, Olive has gotten close to Adelinne, Upton's warhorse. She had stablehands to take care of the mare, but she shooed them and promised that it was easing her mind.

They tried to argue with her. After all, it was record heat and she was a woman of fragile health! But she would hear nothing of it.

As she finished up tending to the horse, the heat was starting to get to her. She could barely breathe - she frequently felt faint, but she was usually inside with her servants when it happened.

This time, she was alone. She tried to step towards the house, but her knees buckled. She tried to call out for someone, but her voice came out as a mere squeak. She collapsed to the ground and the world went black.

At the same time, Camilla was sent outside to fetch her mother. There were party plans that she had to decide on - and they were trying to kick Monarch (Camilla's trusted pup) out of the house!

"Mama, are you ready to ----?"

"MAMA?!"

#ts4 #sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 ultimate decades challenge #ultimate decades challenge #udc #morbid's ultimate decades challenge #windenberg #1312 #1312 windenberg #glasse family

[darklordazalin]

Azalin Reviews: Darklord Malken

Darklord: Malken, alter ego of Tristen Hiregaard Domain: Nova Vaasan Domain Formation: 682 BC Power Level: 💀💀 ⚫⚫⚫ (2/5 skulls) Sources: The Awakening (2e adventure); Realms of Terror (2e); Domains of Dread (2e) Secrets of the Dread Realms (3e); The Enemy Within (Novel); van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft (5e)

Malken is the Darklord of Nova Vaasa. I am told that some find beauty in the endless plains of grass and mud of Nova Vaasa, though perhaps that was just in comparison to the desolate squalors that make up Nova Vaasa’s settlements. The ecosystem is quite suitable to horses far more than humanoids and the Vaasans do love their horses. I remember a young serving girl from my youth that was quite obsessed with horses and dreamed of having one of her own one day. It was all she ever talked about. That girl lives on in the hearts of every single Vaasan.

Nova Vaasa mirrors its dreadlord’s dual nature. In whatever beauty one finds in the monotonous sea of grass lies venomous snakes, deadly plain cats, and a number of mythical beasts, most having a horse-like appearance from undead skeleton warhorses to herds of nightmares. Some of these tales are built from peasant superstition, others are quite real. In Nova Vaasa, there is always something lurking beneath the surface. Even a kind, helping hand could turn into something unseemly once one’s back is turned.

One cannot write about Malken without discussing Tristen Hiregaard, for they are one and the same. Tristen, unable or unwilling to recognize his own sins, would argue against such a factual statement, but Tristen is as much a Darklord of Nova Vaasa as Malken is. This young lord’s story starts with his father, Romir Hiregaard, as many son’s stories often do. They are our legacy after all, disappointing as some may be…Ahem, I digress. Tristen was born into a family of aristocrats and had a noble upbringing and was groomed to become a Knight of valor by his father. The nobility and peasantry of their land held Romir and his family in high regard; note that, if one wishes to insult one of the Hiregaard family, pronouncing their surname in a particular way with a bit of venom on one’s tongue always does the trick.

According to historical records, Romir was known as a fair and just ruler to the people. Private, family accounts, on the other hand, indicated he was most irrational when it came to his wife’s affections and flew into rages whenever he even thought about his wife potentially laying with another. There was no rational behind this blind jealous, for his marriage was one built from love and not one forced upon him for political reasons. Of course, some men are incapable of acknowledging their own shortcomings and deflect them upon another; in Romir’s case, it was his wife. Such jealousy often leads to violence and Romir was no different. When he chanced upon his wife in the arms of another man, he slew them both in a blind rage.

When the rage ebbed, it was only then that Romir realized his wife had simply been receiving dance lessons from an apt tutor. His wife cursed him with her last breath to ‘kill any woman he loved and any man that crossed him’. A strange curse, truth be told, but the dying are rarely coherent. Romir was unable to face the consequences of his own actions and took his life instead of living with his curse. As such, the curse was passed on to his son, Tristen. Something I doubt Tristen’s mother had intended.

The curse laid dormant within Tristen’s soul until he fell in love and shared his first kiss. Tristen found himself overwhelmed by desire to kill the girl and barely resisted acting upon it. Worst of all, Tristen found he enjoyed the act of taking her life. Now, there are some that would say this was the curse and the curse alone and others who believe it was something he had always been capable of. I believe it is a little of both, for Tristen continued taking pleasure in murdering those he developed tender feelings towards, taking nine more lives.

Tristen could have avoided courtship if had truly desired to cease his murderous tendencies, but he believed the only escape was the same path his father had chosen before him – to end his own life. However, before he was able to finish the deed, our tormentors interfered and allowed his ‘cursed’ side to take on a life of its own as Malken. Malken and Tristen share a body and while Tristen attempts to do good in his life, Malken enjoys tormenting his other half and murdering as many people as he can. Tragically or hilariously, depending on your point of voice, Tristen spent years trying to find and bring Malken to justice, only to discover he had been chasing himself the entire time.

Tristen and Malken continue to fight one another. A futile effort, but they persist, both hoping that they will eventually be free of the other. That, of course, is naturally something our tormentors would never allow.

Confined in a prison of their own making, Tristen married Katya Chekiv purely for political reasons. As most such arrangements go, theirs was a loveless affair. Despite Malken’s obvious taste of killing the lover’s Tristen had on the side, this ‘do gooder’ continues to seek love outside of his marriage. Katya bore four sons with Tristen and, because our tormentors are very bad at letting things go, if Tristen were to ever perish, Malken would likely live on within one of his sons.

The tale continued within the accounts entitled “The Enemy Within”, tells a slightly different story. In this version of their history, Tristin himself was cursed and Malken was always something he had the potential to become, not a curse inherited by his father. Given Tristin’s tendency to show one face, yet think the opposite (a common trait amongst the nobility) and his pleasure at committing violent acts, this is an accurate description of his character.

Within the good doctor’s latest book, Myar Hiregaard is the Darklord of Nova Vaasa. She was a war leader and united the tribes of the plains of Nova Vaasa. Though, much like von Zarovich, she found leading during times of peace dull. This is not something I can sympathize with, there are countless tasks and responsibilities one must uphold while ruling a land. Myra does not share my thoughts on these matters and instead of seeing to her people, she incited hostilities amongst the tribes and sent her forces to stabilize the situation through brute force. She did this many times and the Mists eventually took her. Within Ravenloft she is split into two, Myar and Malkan; Malkan showing their face whenever Myar’s bloodlust overwhelms her.

Interestingly, before the latest *ahem* experiment of mine, Myra was one of Tristen’s sons and served as an ambassador to Darkon. He resided in the mining village of Tempe Falls and I ensured his memories would not be replaced while he stayed in my realm.

This Darklord is forced to share the body of someone who believes they are a good person, though careful study leads me to conclude otherwise. They’re trained in an array of weaponry and quite deadly with martial weapons. Still, they lack self-awareness and blind bloodlust is anything but refined. I shall be generous and give them two skulls, one for each persona.

#Malken #Tristen Hiregaard #Nova Vaasa #Myar Hiregaard #darklordreviews #ravenloft #azalin rex

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Matty Kincaid Species: Vampire Occupation: Musician Age: 76 Years Old (Looks about 33) Played By: Gray Face Claim: Sam Claflin

“I don’t live with anything, man. Technically.”

They were supposed to be a forever kind of thing, Matty and the band. That’d been more than the idea, when they started out; it was a promise, stacked up on all the promises that came before. Like I’ve got your back, dickhead, and can’t get rid of me that easy, asshole, and always - so many alwayses, which everybody knows never, ever turn out that way. But you want to believe, yeah? Matty sure as hell did. 

And he believed in the music, too. In what they could make, together. It showed, and people noticed. Fast. Matty spent his twenty-first birthday touring the country to sold out shows, and by his twenty-fifth, it had all gone global. They were legends, and he was thriving on it. And on the fiercely tight-knit family he’d found, in his bandmates. They weren’t gonna be like the rest, falling out and apart. No way. Not that there weren’t highs and lows, of various kinds. But they made it through, for love of the music. And they always would, despite all the drama, and the distractions, and… yeah, the drugs. Hey, they were rock stars. Par for the course. 

Through it all, Matty didn’t just believe - he worked for it. Blood, sweat, tears, a throat sang hoarse, apologies tugged out like cactus spines, pride choked down, a heart laid bare, guts spilled. All that musical, creative stuff. All that human, growing up, figuring yourself out crap. All that real shit that none of the there-and-gone, stone-faced people in his army brat life gave a damn about. Not like the band did. They were worth it. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad nights. 

The worst night, though - they were there for that, too. His best friend in this life - and the next, as it turned out - was there, wide-eyed, horrified, searching from the blood-soaked hotel room he’d died in to the dingy alleyway he’d stumbled to, neck still torn wide open but working, working, as he gnawed the life out of an unfortunate cat. Which was fucked up, man. He’d always loved cats. 

It should’ve gone worse. But it didn’t. The band, they’d read their comic books growing up; they could tell a vampire when they saw one, and Matty sure looked the part. There was a certain amount of trial and error from there - but it wasn’t like Warhorse could just go on without him. They’d figure his bloodsucker shit out. They had to. Matty was one of them, no matter what. 

For a while, a good while, it seemed like they’d managed it. Actually! Sure, rocking with a vampire frontman took some tricks. But a band of their caliber could be eccentric, if they wanted. Just added to the mystique, right? Yeah, it might’ve been nice if he hadn’t got drained and dumped with no idea what might come next. He didn’t need some deadbeat old vampires hanging around, though, telling him how to live his life. Unlife? Whatever, man. Matty and the band, they had this covered. Seemed like. 

Seemed less that way, as the years ticked by. Or didn’t, for him. There were weddings, and divorces, and weddings, and kids. Laugh lines. Gray hairs. Reunions he couldn’t go to. And accidents. And addictions. And, almost, a death - too goddamn soon, way too soon. Cradling his best friend in his arms, Matty did the only thing he could think to do: what’d been done to him. At least, he tried to. Too bad he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. How hard could it be, though? His “sires” had just abandoned him, and he’d turned out… fine. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because he screwed it up, and - then what? Well, shit, he’d find a way to make it right. There had to be a way. If things like him, like them, could exist at all, then… was it so crazy to hope there was some sort of fix? Matty could believe, again. Was desperate to, in fact. How couldn’t he be? His best intentions had gone so goddamn bloody. The band, the band they’d built, was dead. Dead like his best friend could’ve been. They were both still here, though, even if it was all fucked. Which meant he could keep trying. Yeah? 

So he has. For months, then years. Then decades. Matty’s tried, and, man… the things he’s done, to keep that fucked-over friend as safe as spawn can be. He’d do it all again, too. He would. He will, in Wicked’s Rest, he’s sure - the rumours said this place was different, but how different can a place be? A vampire’s a vampire, no matter where you go. After so long spent cleaning up the ongoing, ugly consequences of his own stupid hopes, his own selfishness, his own reckless, thoughtless mistakes - whatever you want to distill it on down to - Matty’s starting to run out of all that believing he used to do so well. Now, on bad days, he wonders if his friend’s still somewhere inside the monster he made at all. And on bad nights? He’s petrified by the thought that they are, that they’ve been there, all this time, fully present, knowing, feeling, howling to escape the hell of an unlife he’s put them through. That even if he does manage to save this best friend to the end, and beyond… they’ll never really be themselves again. Never be able to survive this strange world of theirs, still shadowy and mysterious even after all the time Matty’s spent in it. Never, ever forgive him. Yeah, that - that’s unbelievable.

Character Facts:

Personality: Passionate, creative, quick-thinking, affectionate, loyal defensive, conflicted, guilty, reckless, fixated

So far as the old fans, managers, record labels, lawyers, and so on know, Matty Kincaid just… retired, back when things went wrong. Warhorse hasn’t performed since, but their music never really disappeared - like with Journey, REO Speedwagon, ELO, Fleetwood Mac, and other headliners of their time, everything that’s old is new again. There’s usually a song of theirs on your average radio mix of standard summer tunes, and since the band’s gone official on Spotify, they’ve popped up on plenty of those “Essential 80s” and “Roadtrip Classics”-style playlists. A few of their big tracks have even made their way into blockbuster soundtracks lately. One of those bands that you’ve definitely heard, even if you don’t really know them. 

Matty has mostly moved with the times, fashion-wise. But the rockstar hair has stayed, unchanged - obviously - and his sense of style absolutely skews retro. Some of it is even vintage. Like really, really vintage. He hates to throw things out, honestly. We could psychoanalyze that, but he’d rather we don’t. The only thing that’s saved him from becoming a real hoarder, frankly, is how often he’s had to move around to keep his friend as safe as feral vampire spawn can be. 

On that note. His best friend, that one, is currently hidden away in a crypt in Eluria Cemetery. Specially paid for, for the purpose. Seemed the safest spot, given the cemetery’s haunting legends; who’ll notice a few more vampiric roars? Hopefully no one. Matty would rather have his friend closer, and usually does - he’ll find somewhere they can hang. For a given definition. Honestly, they’re a hell of a roommate. Well, basementmate. But he owes them better than a mausoleum. He is well aware - maybe over-aware - of the psychic connection between him and his spawn; it does feel like a kind of closeness, even if he's not exactly sure how it works.

Matty’s acquiring his first vampiric “upgrade” - a second set of fangs, beyond the usual canine set. Gnarly. This, like much of his experience of vampirism, is not something he’s at all aware is coming or prepared for. Man, couldn’t those asshats have left a pamphlet?

Though he spent most of his time with Warhorse at the front, singing, Matty is also very capable on the piano and guitar. The rest of his artistic side shone through in the work he did designing the band’s album covers and show sets - so, for some viewers, his art has seriously nostalgic vibes. Even if they’re not sure why…

#retired