#Burning Maiden Princess Valkyrie | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

docholligay · 3 years

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For the rewrite: You get to rewrite D-Point/S1 finale but in a way that it could still fit into where the rest of the series goes and R could start as normal. How would you do it?

UGH. So basically I have to keep the weird false divide between inners and outers. FURI YOU LOATHE ME. This is obviously only part of it, as, uh, I am long-winded and love a bit of drama, but 1800 words. please enjoy

The wind whirled grey across that empty arctic plain. Well, not quite empty. If rei had been turned another direction, she would have seen Ami’s body, perched on a mound of ice, there in the far background from where Mina had dragged them both away from the scene, as if her own element were constructing a tomb to her. She knew without seeing that Ami would be dressed in that loose grey sweater and awkward green skirt that came down to her calves, a pair of loafers on her feet. It was what she had been wearing last time they’d transformed. The uniform leaves, when a senshi dies.

She’d found that out with Mako.

Rei hadn’t seen Ami die. She hadn’t needed to. It had, like she’d said, afforded Rei and Mina the time to move forward along that plain, trying to find the place where they could enter the lair where Beryl was said to sit, on this desolate patch of earth that might have been beautiful, thousands of years ago, when it was the seat of power for the earth, but now was as lifeless as everything else behind them.

Mina’s nose was in the air, as if she could smell anything but the bright cold of the wind. As if she could hear anything but that howling which might have been the same wind, but just as likely might have been Usagi. It could have been Rei’s own soul, too, she supposed.

She wanted to melt all of it. She wanted to take her arms off from around Usagi, put her hands together, and bring it all to dirt. How foolish they would be, bringing a fire maiden to the ice, not knowing what sort of powers she contained. She was the ace in the hole, she knew. She was the strongest one, here, if her pride did not allow her to remember that might not be true everywhere.

MIna stepped back from her lookout and glanced over to Rei and Usagi. “Sailor Moon. Princess.” Usagi looked up at her, tears half-frozen on her cheeks, “We have to keep going. If we stay here, they’ll find us straightaway.”

Rei wanted to protest, but only in the way that she wanted the girl before her to be Mina and not Venus. She had never mastered that in the same way Mina had, to be two people in one body. She was always Rei, and Mars was only ever Rei with the fire at her fingertips instead of her heart. Mina was warm and bright, if a bit annoying--a neon light, flashing in the cool darkness--but Venus was sheer steel, cold and unrelenting.

Usagi began wailing.

“But, but--” she took a deep breath, and coughed against the cold, “Am--”

“Sailor Mercury did her duty. It would be worst disrespect to her death not to do ours.” She looped the chain at her waist, tightening it as she went to move forward. “It’s getting closer to the surface, over that way.”

Rei hadn’t known Mina very long, as a practical matter. It was only recently that Rei had come to see her as anything other than a usurper, strolling into the group and declaring herself the military commander of the entire operation. Luna had said nothing to disagree, simply called her Commander Venus as Rei glared.

“I am the commander,” Mina had sipped at her tea, eyes sparking in the way they often did when she and Rei were alone, something that tugged onto Rei and made her keep looking. She blamed the moon. “But you are the personal bodyguard. You are the last one standing, because that’s your job.”

“Who decided that anyway?” Rei had scowled across the table, Mina leaning toward her, those clever eyes searching her too deeply, “You? You just think you can show up and--”

She’d laughed. “Oh, I don’t decide anything.” She looked up out the window to the sky. “This is so far beyond you and me.”

Rei went to protest that it didn’t have to be that way, that nothing was beyond her exactly, but Mina never gave her the opportunity.

“Don’t you want to protect Usagi?” MIna had come just a little closer to her, and she could smell that near-syrup sweetness, like peaches in a can, “Can’t you feel that you should? Why do you think that is.”

“That’s different.” Rei said, both then and now, Mina and Usagi both looking at her suddenly.

“What is?” Mina had her hands on her hips.

Rei shook her head, but did not remove her arms from Usagi’s side. “Let’s go.”

The terrain was not so flat as it looked, and Usagi stumbled as she cried, protesting that Rei and Mina didn’t care about their friends, neither of them rising to the occasion. Even now, Usagi did not seem to realize that this was it. This was the grand battle for which they had been reborn, this was the one they had to win. Every battle leading up to this had only ever been dress rehearsal.

It was not Ami and Mako at risk, but the world entire.

Mina stopped, putting her hand on Rei’s chest to pause her, but flashing her a grin that was beyond Venus as she did so. There was a glow in the earth, here, just barely, if you looked beyond the snow. Anyone else might have walked past it, might have stepped over it, but Mina put her hand down onto it, and it pulsed beneath her hand.

There was a rumble, and a crack, and Mina pushed them both back, grabbing to the chain at her side and beginning to swing. Usagi whimpered, again, and Mina turned back to the two of them, chain still gliding in golden figure eight over her head, as if it were a crown all her own.

“You have to go.” Mina’s eyes looked greyer, somehow, in this light, “Take her and head for the point on the far horizon. You have to get her there, Mars.”

Usagi tried to pull away from Rei’s heat, to no avail.

“Venus! We can’t leave you!” She began to cry again, her whimpering cry mixing with that same cold wind and drilling into Rei’s ears. “You can’t die too!”

“No,” she shook her head, “you can’t die, Princess. You’re the key. You’ve always been the key.”

Rei saw, in that moment, that it was never going to be otherwise. This was always how it ended. It was always Mars, bow on her back, taking the princess where she needed to be. Even if they won. Even if they failed. She was always the last one standing, always the final line of defense, and it was always her fire that protected the princess. The fire hadn’t shown her that before. It had never been close enough to see by its light.

Before Usagi could say otherwise, the ground burst open, and two of the youma guards popped out, mouths wide with delight and fury as they careened toward the three. MIna’s chain curved in a broad arc in the air, and came down, wrapping around a youma’s arm, twisting it back as she drew the chain in. But the other youma was fast approaching, and Mina was forced to step back, hurtling one youma into the other with a fierce swing of the chain.

She turned her head.

“Go!”

Rei stammered for a moment, unsure in a way that felt wrong and less stable than the crust of snow beneath her feet. But what about you? She wanted to say. If we leave you, you’ll die, and she saw Mina leaning over the table again, and she felt her body close in, and she could barely draw a breath at this moment, everything that might have been burning in the fire of what was to be.

Mina whipped the chain over her, moving deftly as she looped in around her neck and rerouted it, sparking one and then the other with its tip, blood beginning to tear from the two of them. Her violence was poetry, Rei thought, the chain her pen. She was nothing like the rest of them, stronger than Ami, more elegant than Mako, and, though she would only ever allow this in though, perhaps more clever than Rei herself. She was a creature created for this moment, a valkyrie of the long odds.

They staggered back, weapons drawn, unsure of how to handle this unusual weapon.

Mina looked back, blonde hair whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed.

“Go or I will kill you myself.”

Rei nodded, in that, the first command from Mina for which she had no moment to question or balk, and for which she felt no drive to do so. She took Usagi by the shoulders, her cries fading into the background against the shoosh of Mina’s chain.

As Rei started to move away, the youmas rushed at Mina, trying to flank her from the sides, but Mina was too quick and too studied, whipping the chain around her and knelling to the ground, catching them both with the end of it, howls as they furiously took another blow before they could turn to run, but un they did, escaping back down the hole in the ice.

“Have to go after them, unsettle the place.” MIna grinned back to Rei, and blew a kiss. “Think of me, fireball.”

Rei hated the nickname instantly. Rei hoped she would say it again. But she became Venus again.

“Princess. Your duty to the world is at hand. Do it.”

She did not wait for a reply, simply whipped the chain above her and disappeared down the hole. As Rei dragged Usagi away, still crying and screaming, Rei fought back tears of her own, hearing the fighting below them, hearing the thunderous roar of the troops coming to aid, knowing that Mina would die down there, bloody and bruised, her body broken in a horrible, dark, cold cave at the end of nowhere.

There was the entrance up ahead. Mina was right, they were scattered, they assumed the senshi had all entered together, they had not thought of it as Mina had, as Venus always would, and now was their moment.

“CRESCENT!!! BEAM!!!!” She heard echoing on the tundra behind her, and then there was a grand explosion, the tearing and rending of the earth behind them, and Rei and Usagi looked back to see a golden crest in the sky, rocks and dirt and snow flying from where she had blown apart the tunnel she was in, a sudden still silence filling the air, a fine red mist settling into perfect ruby snowflakes into that same wind, and whispering out toward she and Usagi.

Usagi screamed. It might have been Mina’s name, or Venus’, but it was a tuneless thing and might have been neither of them at all.

Onward. Make it worth it.

She grabbed Usagi’s arm, and pulled.

#thoughtfulfuri #Eight Days 2020 #SM rewrites #basically what if instead of just a line of getting killed there were a handful of tactics #give them some credit

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idontmeantosoundrudebut · 4 years

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To start this off this HTTYD WHUMP Collection, I'm taking inspiration from a whumptober list and the second on the list was Gutspill and I had a fucking brainstorm (do mind my french, I swear like a sailor and a trooper, I'm also British). I wrote this five days ago and finished it, but as I was highlighting it so I could copy it to move here, I accidentally deleted half of it so... after my five-day meltdown, I've finally finished it and I think I turned out even better than it did the first time. I hope you have a box of kleenex or whatever tissue brand you have in your country, this one is a corker.

(you can also find my works on my archive of our own, name in profile)

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There is blood everywhere. It's on his hands, on his face, on his sword, the world has become a thing of blood and ash, they clog up his lungs and he's choking on it. But his blood, it boils in his veins like water over fire and his heart pumps it hard throughout his body, hungry and starved for flesh, for death. Snotlout is a warrior, born and bred, and there is a mercifulness inside him that has long kept this beast at bay. But today, on this battlefield where mercy leaves you dead, he can let the starved beast writhing in his chest out and allow it to sate its hunger. Just for today, just for one day, he'll be an animal.

The shores of Berk are red with blood and will be for days afterwards. The bodies, broken and bloodied, add a layer onto the sand like a second crust, piling upon each other and almost looking like some gruesome, horrible beast that stretches on for miles. Those muddy, grasping hands, those black, gaping maws, those dead, dead eyes. The sky is terribly blue and dragons soar down with fire in the chests, spewing it across the enemy like they are wild monsters again, like they've forgotten kindness.

Today, everyone has forgotten the tenderness of mercy.

Snotlout slashes his sword across a man's chest and blood sprays across his face. The enemy falls onto one knee with a cry and lifts his mace to retaliate, but he's too slow to stop the blade from plunging into his stomach. Through the slits of the enemy's helmet, Snotlout notices that his eyes are green and, before he dies, that they are full of fear. Those eyes will haunt him tonight, but today there is no compassion in his heart for those who dare to threaten his home.

Pulling his sword from the corpse, he looks in awe at how it steams from fresh blood. Snotlout's face is hot with blood that is not his own and he can taste it on his teeth, a coppery wash on his tongue. Blood tastes like lightning. Two men try to rush him, but he cuts one down with a swipe to his legs and the other he grasps by the neck, headbutting him angrily. He drops the unconscious enemy and impales the floored man through the back. More blood, but it's not enough the please the hungry thing inside him.

He hears a mighty battle cry and turns to see Ruffnut, braids matted with blood and bleeding from both nostrils, she looks wild like a creature. She feels it too, she's also got a hungry beast inside her, she's also been starved of blood. She grabs a man, pulls his back to her chest and slices his throat with a smile some would say is mad. Today, we are all mad, mad things are best at killing.

Tuffnut is not far from her and he's swinging in circles, fatally hitting anyone brave (or stupid) enough to get close to him. Snotlout watches Ruffnut kill again, and he's falling in love with her all over again as she buries her dagger to the hilt into a man's eye. He screams. She laughs and slices his throat too. Her face and chest are washed with blood from his squirting neck.

They catch each other's' gaze and, just for a moment, the starved monsters crawl back into the darkest corners of their hearts to allow the tenderness to come back. Ruffnut's eyes soften, those thunderstorm eyes lose their madness and gaze deep into Snotlout, conveying all the words that they both struggle to say. He lets out a short, breathy exhale because, Gods, she is so beautiful, she must be from a dream.

Suddenly, Tuffnut is in the picture and he looks both disgusted and displeased.

"Uh, guys, big battle happening all around you," Tuffnut yells over the sound of war, gesturing around him with a blood-caked Macey II, "don't think this is an appropriate time to be making-love via eye-contact,"

An axe-wielding enemy charges towards Tuff and Ruff from behind. But before Snotlout can even open his mouth to warn them, Ruffnut throws her arm back and the man goes down hard and fast, a dagger lodged in his throat. Oh, by Freyja, he loves her so much. Ruffnut gives him a smirk, sharp and deadly, before charging away with a dragon-roar cry.

"See you on the other side, Princess!" Snotlout shouts and then the beast lunges out from the shadows of his aortas, he's back to being an animal again and races deeper into the battlefield.

His eyes catch sight of a monstrous opponent. The Commander. He's tall and wide, built like a mountain, decked out in black, hateful-looking armour and he's pulling his sword from the chest of a Berkian shield-maiden. Snotlout doesn't recognise her, almost mistakes her for Astrid from her blonde hair, but she's far too young, far too small, far too innocent to be here. Doesn't matter now, she's dead and being carried away on the backs of Valkyries to Valhalla. Still, she was too young.

Then, the all too familiar sonic-whistle fills the air and he watches the Commander look to the sky.

"NIGHT FURY!" A man distantly warns. Everyone ducks to the ground in fear. Snotlout remains standing. So does the Commander.

There's only a flash of Toothless, a black dart across the pale sky before a purple blast dives to the battlefield. The explosion is bright and blinding behind the dark silhouette of the Commander and a shockwave sends those already crouched down to the sand, but still he remains standing, unyielding. Snotlout also stands, unbowed.

His ears are ringing from the explosion but there's an anger in his chest, building and building and building, soon its going burst out of his chest. Warriors lay around them, disorientated and directionless, and the Commander turns to him, his only worthy opponent. Snotlout breaths violently through his nose, a deep rage coursing through his blood like a forest fire and there is nothing that will stop the inferno in him. His entire body is shaking, like a dragon ready to take flight. Gods, if he was a dragon; the world would be ashes at his feet.

For a moment, they size each other up. Dragon-fire reflects of the Commander's black armour and Snotlout's blade of steel becomes a spine of flames. Everything in his life has been leading up to this moment, this moment which will change the course of his life forever, this is what the Fates have planned for him. Prove your worth, Dragon-Rider, Fire-Swallower, prove your worth to the ones who believe you to be nothing.

Snotlout closes his eyes and wraps both of his trembling hands around the hilt of his sword. The sounds of battle are distant and his heartbeat pulses in his ear like a war drum. This is it. Let the beast free, let it out the cage, let it off the chain. Let it kill them all.

Snotlout opens his eyes and that unbridled rage comes forth in the form of a thunderous howl, tearing through his throat. He runs towards what could be his beginning or his end, either will be fine but he'll die proving he's something, something fierce, something brave, something worthy. The Commander too starts to run, charging towards him with his blood-shining sword and he's silent like death, his eyes shimmering like stolen sapphires beneath his helmet.

And as they get closer, Snotlout raises his sword into the blood-thick air and again roars his worth for all to here, a stream of fire bursting like dying stars behind him.

But the beast is a primal thing, while the Commander is a calculating thing, silent and cunning; Beasts are sometimes made to be fools in their wrath.

And as Snotlout brings his blade down for the kill, the Commander falls and skids across the sand, kicking it up to momentarily blind him. It takes him a moment too late to realise the grave, fatal mistake he has made.

As the Commander slides past Snotlout, he slashes his sword across his gut and the terrible feeling of his skin and flesh being carved open makes him halt on the spot. His ears are ringing again and there isn't even pain, there is just a hotness in his gut and the vague feeling of something slipping, he doesn't understand what's happening. Dropping his sword, he stares wide-eyed into the distant and gasps for breath, it feels like he's been hit in the chest with a war hammer.

Over the ringing in his ears, Snotlout hears the movement of feet disturbing stand and the whistling sound of a sword cutting through the air. In the distance, far away, he hears a woman screaming in despair. He thinks it might be Ruffnut.

That primal beast wakes up again and he isn't even thinking when he turns around, hands up ready to catch something. The blade of a sword falls into his grasp and it cuts through his leather gloves, digging deep into his palms as he pushes the sword from his face. He bares his bloodied teeth like a cornered animal and stares deep into the eyes behind the helmet, blue and angry and hateful; they gaze back.

He's going to die, oh that's okay, but by the Gods is he taking this bastard with him.

Snotlout releases one hand to immediately grasp at the Commander's armoured wrist. The blade digs further into his hand, hot blood tracks down his arm. It is only due to the rage and adrenaline burning through him that allows Snotlout to twist the Enemy's hand till it near breaks before dislodging the sword from the cursing man and, as quick as lighting, he wraps his fingers around the hilt and does a half turn.

The sword is plunged deep into the Commander's stomach. Snotlout lets go of the stolen sword and allows it to fall with its owner behind him. He smells blood and ash, tastes it too. Gods, he's choking on HIS blood and he doesn't know what to do. Looking down to his stomach, Snotlout is full of horror as he sees his guts partially hanging out of the slice in his belly. He touches them with his hands and they come away red, hot, steaming.

"The Commander is dead!" Someone cries, "Retreat! Back to the boats!" Others chime.

Snotlout falls to the bloody-encrusted shore on his back and stares up the terribly blue sky, disturbed only by dark rising smoke and the shadows of retreating men that leap over his body. His breath is loud in his ears and he can feel the blood pouring from him, soaking into his tunic and running down his sides to stain the sand beneath him. There should be fear in his heart, but he can only find the sweetness of victory, the relief that the battle is over and they came out the victors.

A body skids beside him and he looks up to see Ruffnut, eyes white and wide with fear as she stares at his stomach, at the blood that pours and oozes, a never-ending river draining from his body. The tide will come in soon and wash it all away. Maybe it'll take his body too, the sea stealing him away and dragging him to the ends of the Earth, it sounds like a peaceful end.

"Gods, you idiot, what have you done?" She whispers, voice raw from screaming, from terror, and he watches in a dull sort of morbid curiosity as she pushes the exposed intestines back inside him.

The pain is suddenly everywhere as his cut flesh is disturbed and his body goes into spasms, agony setting his nerves ablaze and making tears sprout in his eyes as he shakes his head side to side. Snotlout lets out a broken scream, by Gods, won't he just die already. When the torment simmers down, he opens his watery eyes to see Hiccup knelt opposite Ruffnut, his hands using the fabric of one of Toothless' spare tails to stem the bleeding as he shouts orders to people. ("We need Gothi here! Now please!")

"Did we win?" He croaks stupidly, because he knows that they have but he wants to here it, wants to make sure it wasn't some illusion from his deluded mind.

Hiccup snaps his head to him and those green eyes are vast with panic and dread, but still a smile cracks across his cousin's face as his trembling hands are stained with his blood, stark against his pale skin.

"Yes, we won," Hiccup breathes, then swallows, "Thanks to you, Lout, we won and they won't be coming back, you did great, you were amazing! And you have to keep being amazing now, okay? You have to stay awake, just for a bit longer,"

"I-I don't think-" Another bout of pain, another agonized yell.

Ruffnut pauses for a brief moment, her hands hovering over his gut as she looks at him with anxious eyes, but she's an experienced healer and knows that the more time she wastes, the more blood he loses. The higher the chance she has of losing him. She continues to cut open his tunic so she can start to bandage him up. Snotlout recovers and regains his breath, body sweating and shivering from the pain.

"I don't think you can fix this," He whispers honestly, because there is so much blood and he feels so tired, Gods, there's a hole in him and it won't stop bleeding.

The sun is starting to set and the stars are faintly beginning to shine in the darkening sky, it's making everything feel like a dream, nothing feels real. Hiccup stares at him with low brows and a firm face before he replies, determination shimmering in his eyes as he looks back down at the blood-sodden fabric in his hands.

"Of course, I can,"

Ruffnut and Hiccup briefly share a look over Snotlout's bleeding body, she can see the dread beneath his determination, she can see his doubt. So can Snotlout.

"Where is he? Where's Snotlout?!" Comes a harsh, familiar voice and Snotlout watches as his dad pushes through the crowd circled around him, Chief Stoick and Gobber close behind him.

His dad pauses at the sight of him, dulled eyes glazing over as his chest expands with his shocked inhale, his axe slipping from his loose-fingered hand as he crumbles to the sand, crawling over to him. Snotlout has never seen this look on his dad before, never seen him broken like this, and it's making him realise how bad of a state he is in, how a jaded warrior like Spitelout can be brought to his knees just by the sight of him.

"Dad," Snotlout says quietly, he has never felt so relieved to see his dad in his life.

"I'm here, boyo, I'm here," His dad answers as he sooths his scarred hand over Snotlout's head, pushing away stray strands of blood-slick hair with a tenderness he has never shown to possess. (Spitelout lost all his kindness when his wife died, she took his heart with her)

"I'm sorry, my boy," He whispers, voiced choked from the sobs lodged in his throat, his other hand coming down to rest against Snotlout's jaw, "I've been a cruel man to you and I know-"

"Dad-" Snotlout interrupts, not wanting to hear his father's regrets because he can see them in his pale eyes, writhing around like trapped birds begging to get out. His dad, unsurprisingly, doesn't listen.

"I know it's too late now, but- But I don't want you going believing that I wasn't proud of you," And Snotlout gasps shakily at those words because that is all he's ever wanted, isn't it? His dad's acceptance, the knowledge that he wasn't some burden, that he was loved, "because I am, Snotlout, I am SO proud of the man you've become, a man I could only dream of being,"

Tears drip from his dad's eyelashes and the wetness that's gathered in Snotlout's eyes finally break over, pouring down the side of his face as his throat tightens up. He can feel Ruffnut swathing bandages aground his abdomen, the terrible pain nothing compared to the relief in his heart that if he dies today, he dies with everything he's ever wanted. He'll die like how good men should; worthy, accepted, loved.

"I'm not scared, dad, I'm- I'm not scared," Snotlout reassures, voice tight as more tears spill over, he needs his dad, everyone, to know that he's no afraid of dying, "I'm not afraid anymore,"

His dad smiles with quivering lips and lowers down to press his forehead against Snotlout's, he closes his eyes and he feels like a child, protected in his father's embrace, calloused hands cradling his jaw and head. This is goodbye and Snotlout only feels like he's just got his dad. But it doesn't matter, at some point in his life, his dad was proud of him and this small moment is enough. His dad presses a kiss to his head.

"I'm proud to call you my son," He whispers against his blood-caked skin and suddenly Snotlout knows what it is to be a son, knows what it is to be whole.

With hands hesitant to let go, Spitelout stands and stumbles backwards from his son, not daring to take his eyes off him. Stoick wraps a comforting arm around his back and takes hold of his bicep, squeezing it sympathetically.

Snotlout can see the others standing there too, watching him die. Astrid has her shaking hands over her mouth and tears streak through the grime on her cheeks, he hates that he's caused that strong woman so much grief. Besides her, Fishlegs stands with his war hammer clutched in his grasp like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart, his face taut with sorrow and sadness. Tuffnut has his arms thrown up over his head and his teeth are bared in anguish, staring between Ruffnut and his broken body as his tears fall, gathering along his jaw.

He wants to apologies, but he feels so weak. It's nearly time to go.

Hiccup is still, sat back on his ankles with a despondent and grief-stricken look on his face as he watches Ruffnut securing his bandages, adding more layers as more blood seeps through, her hands frantic in their movement. And Snotlout thought he was the stubborn one, surely, she can see he's times up.

"Ruff-" Hiccup starts with a sob-choked voice but Ruffnut is shaking her head feverishly, face full of denial.

"No, we just need to get him out of here to Gothi's, she'll stitch him up and he'll be fine-"

"Sis-" Tuffnut steps forward, trying to reason with her.

"HE'LL BE FINE!" Her scream echoes around them all and it's so ferocious, so heartbroken, so desperate, he swears the stars will fall upon them.

Taken aback by the savageness in her eyes, Tuffnut quickly steps back and Ruffnut goes back to fussing with bandages, drawing more out from a compartment in her side armour so she can stem the flow. It won't work, he's lost too much blood. Snotlout know it, she knows it. He's too tired to do much, but he has to make her understand that this is it for them and he doesn't want to die without telling her.

With what little strength he has, he raises his hand and cards his hands into her hair, the part he's latched onto is silky smooth and free of blood, pure. Tugging her braid, Ruffnut turns to look at him, her wet eyes are wild with grief and anger and her lips are curled into a snarl tight with both sadness and rage.

"Don't," She growls, voice wavering, grabbing his hand to pull it away as she looks back to the already soaked through bandages, but he hasn't long left and he wants her to know, needs her to know, he needs to say it one last time.

Snotlout takes her hand into his and rubs his thumb over her bleeding knuckles with a tenderness that aches deep inside him, Ruffnut pauses and turns her head to him, looking hopeless and afraid.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," He breathes repeatedly, his mind is going dizzy but he doesn't need to think, he just needs to feel and the words come out on their own, drenched in his love and adoration for her, "Ruffnut, I love you, I love you, I love you, only you,"

With her head tilting, the tears dribble down her blood-slick face and over her trembling lips as she finally understands that this is it, sobs racking her body as she crawls swiftly over to him. They kiss because it's the last time they will hold each other again and it feels like freedom, feels like coming home. He touches her face gently, branding her eyes, her lips, her hair to his memory in hopes that he keeps it when he goes. If he can't live without her in life, he can't live without in death.

"Snotlout," Ruffnut begs with a keen, her quaking hand weaving through his hair, and he smiles at her, his hand falling from her face.

"It's okay, Princess... you can let me go," He murmurs softly.

Gods, he's going to miss seeing her in the morning, going to miss her barking laugh, going to miss the feeling of her hair in his hands as he braids her hair. He's going to miss her so much; he'll die again in Valhalla from the pain her absence.

"I don't want to," She weeps, shaking her head, cradling his face in her hands, "I don't want to let you go, Mutton-head, don't you get that? I can't!"

"You ca-can," He cracks, tears mixing with blood on his face, and he squeezes her hand, "Let me go,"

And with that, she slips her hand from his. She's taken the first step, she has to do the rest on her own now.

Suddenly, the sky is trembling with a roar and the Earth shudders as Hookfang lands upon the battlefield.

The Dragon's hide ignites when he sees his Rider and he kicks up bloodied sand as he races over to Snotlout, warriors scrambling out of the beasts frenzied path less they be trampled. Hookfang comes to him with alarmed noises in the back of his throat as he dances lightly around his Rider, a dreadful look in his eyes as he tries to find out what's wrong with him. When he sees the blood, an awfully sad wail leaps from his maw and his flames die out. Gods, Hookfang already looks sodden with grief.

"Hooky," Snotlout murmurs tiredly and he turns his head to look at him, his fire-streaked eyes are slitted in horror and with a desperate whine, digs his snout under the Rider's arm before lifting it up, but it falls limply back to the sand.

Get up, Hookfang is begging him, get up, get up, let's go home now.

"I'm sorry, Hooky," Snotlout apologises brokenly, shaking his head, "I can't,"

The Nightmare tenderly nudges his muzzle against Snotlout's red cheek with a guttural purr, the familiar warmth of his scales helps to ease his hurting heart. He lifts his head and again stares at Snotlout with that look, asking him to come home. Snotlout softly shakes his head, blinking away tears so his vision isn't blurry. This is the last time he's going to see his best friend; he can't waste a single second. After a moment, the desperation in Hookfang's eyes morphs into acceptance.

Weakly, Snotlout lifts his hand and holds it out to Hookfang, too exhausted to stretch it out any further, but his friend understands and meets him halfway. Gods, it's like the first time they touched all over again and there is a deep grief in his heart, he's never going to touch Hookfang again, he's never going to fly again. He'll fly with the Valkyries, but he'd choose Hookfang over them any day. He'd chose dragons wings over honour any day.

"You're my best friend," He says softly and in Hookfang's eyes, he sees himself. He doesn't have to say more, doesn't have to pour his heart out his mouth for Hookfang to understand, he just has to look at him and it's enough.

Looking to the sky, he feels his heartbeat slowing, feels very tired.

"Thank you," He breathes weakly and closes his eyes.

Snotlout's palm slips from Hookfang's muzzle, fingertips dragging against the scales like they don't want to let go before they fall, and his hand hits the sand with a sense of finality.

#how to train your dragon #how to train your dragon fanfic #rufflout #WHUMP #snotlout whump #snotlout #ruffnut

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kingbennyboyyy · 3 years

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benny’s RWBY rewrite: team JNPR

it’s time for part 2 of my character ramblings, and this time i’ll be focusing on team JNPR! while i’ll be going into individual characterization and themes for these characters, my main goal is to analyze their uses are narrative foils for team RWBY. one of my main critiques of the show as-is is that there’s too many main characters, so i’ve opted to delegate team JNPR to side character status. this is nothing against them, this is purely a structural decision. with the preamble out of the way, let’s get to team JNPR!

jaune arc:

- ah yes, vomit boy. i’ll admit, my personal opinion of jaune isn’t the best: i thought he took up way too much time in the first few volumes of the show, time that should have been spent telling the viewer about the rules and power systems that exist in the world. despite this, i think jaune as a character has the potential to do a lot for the main cast. as a character in his own right, he’s defined by his bold nature, contrasted with his deep emotional concern for the people around him. i think that his issues with cardin can stay (so long as cardin is less of a cartoon bully and more of an actual issue), and i think that somebody else should have issues with cardin: weiss.

- i think that the contrast jaune and weiss have is part of the reason a romance was originally written between the two. they have very stark similarities and differences: both of them care extremely deeply about their family names and expectations, and act somewhat carelessly to keep up appearances. jaune cheating his way into beacon, and weiss’ spoiled princess routine, are both direct results of them taking their expectations very seriously. i think that cardin should be the key to both of these characters thinking more critically about what their family names mean to them. for weiss, it could be cardin expecting weiss to be in on some kind of malicious prank against velvet, or even blake after defending velvet. for jaune, it could be cardin insulting jaune’s living up to his family name, or even (and this is mostly me being dramatic) breaking his family heirloom after insulting its effectiveness as a weapon. dealing with cardin should bring these two characters together despite their initial difficulties in getting along. both of them should have to think critically about what their families represent, and if they even want to live up to those expectations.

nora valkyrie:

- now i like nora a lot. i think she fills in the position of “traumatized happy-go-lucky tank” very well, almost better than yang does. she and yang are a bit too similar for me to feel comfortable pairing them up, though. nora’s later development is what intrigues me most: having grown up with ren for a majority of her life, and having had to keep the trauma of losing her hometown and her family to herself by masking it with overwhelming joy and energy, she holds a lot of conflicting feelings and emotions. as much as she comes to resent it, the role of the ditz that smacks things with a hammer is a role that has its benefits. this masking of true emotions with a wall of a conflicting one is something i’ve described in another character: blake.

- as different as these two characters appear to be, they do have a lot in common. both blake and nora have expressed concerns with being defined by the people they surround themselves with. i am in no way at all trying to say that ren and adam are similar characters or people, but i am saying that they debatably play similar roles for nora and blake. for nora, ren is her rock, the person who keeps her grounded, and the person she’s had to change and mask aspects of herself to appease. adam, although much more abusive and violent, forced blake to do similar things: to mask her emotions, do what was expected of her, and to give and give until all that was left was a tool. for both of these characters, learning to be more authentic without fear of hurting the people around them is key.

pyrrha nikos:

- i fucking love pyrrha. the fact that we only had her for two volumes is a crying shame, because i think that her place in the story is really important. it’s easy to forget that past the fantasy high school backdrop, these are children training to become killing machines, who will almost certainly die in battle. pyrrha has embraced this expectation: she’s one of the most competent fighters in her age group, has essentially a cult following, and has somehow gotten through that being pretty well-adjusted. however, the burden of excellence has made it impossible for her to make decisions for herself, for fear of letting down the people who have placed her on a pedestal. this fear is a pretty stark contrast to another character: ruby.

- ruby and pyrrha should have been much closer in the original story. it would have made her death hit ruby a lot harder, but i also think that these two working together makes total sense. pyrrha is the ideal that ruby is striving for in her huntress training, and the two having a mentoring friendship would be really nice. as much of a good fighter as ruby is, she has room to improve in the leadership department, and learning from pyrrha would be great for her. in addition, she and pyrrha have opposite issues: ruby knows what she wants to be, but not what she has to be, and pyrrha knows what she has to be, but not what she wants to be. where ruby’s naivety and optimism drives her to make decisions based on her personal ideals, pyrrha’s comparative maturity makes these decisions much harder. ruby would not sacrifice herself to become the maiden in the same way pyrrha did. i think that pyrrha’s death should be a lesson for ruby: a lesson in sacrifice. it should remove the rosy tint from her gaze, and show her that being a huntress isn’t just about fighting monsters and saving lives- it’s also about giving up your own.

lie ren:

- finally, it’s ya boy. ren is a really interesting character, especially when contrasted with nora. he and nora went through the same trauma, but he came out the other end much different. ren’s semblance is literally masking emotions, and he’s come to do this extremely well. while he’s more recently exhibited a propensity for exploding, for the most part, he’d much rather sit and broil in his angst and anger than let it be readily seen. similarly to blake and nora, he’s the opposite side of the emotional coin to our final main character: yang.

- these two have very different demeanors: one of them is calm, cool, and collected, opting to simply tolerate things that bother him. the other one is almost exclusively at 11, wearing her emotions on her sleeve at all times. however, these exaggerated displays of emotion both serve the same purpose: to mask their suffering. where ren sits in his emotions, slowly and methodically boiling off feelings that are inconvenient, yang is the kind of person to pour gasoline over her feelings and throw a match onto the pile. make no mistake, these two characters are 100% prone to lashing out, and both of them often lack the ability to see how their explosions harm the people around them. ren and yang, at the beginning, shouldn’t get along. ren should see yang’s emotional nature as a distraction from more important matters, and yang should see ren as a doormat, perfectly willing to be walked all over. however, something should unite them (their loved ones being endangered, perhaps), and allow them to see how similar they are. maybe they’re surrounded by grimm, yang’s semblance has accidentally activated, and her holding onto ren is burning him. ren and yang talk about emotions, how deeply they both feel them, and where ren comes away learning to emote more freely, yang comes away learning to be more cognizant of what her anger does to people. these are both deeply emotional people, but they need to learn that being completely unhinged or completely repressed are far from perfect.

with that out of the way, i hope you’ve enjoyed my thoughts! they’ve gotten a bit more jumbled as time went on, but i really think that team JNPR’s role in characterizing the main 4 is a really important one. as for what happens after the fall of beacon, i think that they should go their separate ways, ren, nora, and jaune splitting up to contend with the death of pyrrha. this mirrors the split of team RWBY, where yang goes home to recover from her injury, ruby, no longer accompanied by team JNR, goes off on her own to try and stop cinder’s forces, weiss is taken home by her family to contend with its newly-illuminated legacy, and blake ventures off to put a stop to adam. i think they should reunite at the end of the volume, after a bit of emotional work is done. but that’s a discussion for another post.

#benny's RWBY rewrite #RWBY #pyrrha nikos #jaune arc #nora valkyrie #lie ren #characters

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holylulusworld · 4 years

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The wolf and the princess - Part 7 - United again

Summary: A princess and a wolf meet under difficult circumstances. Can they give each other shelter in a cold world?

A/N: prompt/idea by @gypsyjucar: Ulf Johnsen (Dean Winchester) is the leader of his land with the help of his brother. On a trip to Dean gets captured by the king's guards, the princess, was just walking along the castle when she hears her father and guards talking about a barbarian in the cells and this is where their journey begins...

Pairing: Viking!Dean /Ulfr or Wolf) x Princess!Reader, Viking!Sam (Frode) x Shield-Maiden!Ruby, Castiel, Garth, Cole Trenton, Ivar (Bobby Singer), Rufus Turner, OFC’s

Warnings: angst, innocent reader, mutual pining, longing, shitty father, language, tension, fluff, bad use of Norse language, gentle Dean/protective Dean, fighting, characters death, mentions of past rape (nothing graphic), betrayal

The wolf and the princess Masterlist

Day 7

Ruby is unstoppable. Her blood boils, as the Valkyries call for the fight.

While you stay behind with Rufus and Castiel, your Viking along with his brother runs after the shield-maiden.

“I must excuse my son’s behavior, princess. Sam is not fond of outsiders, but he’ll change his mind.” The elder man gives you a soft smile.

His thick brown hair hangs loosely over his shoulders. The single braid he wears at the back of his head is already grey and you assume he must be older than your father, maybe in his late fifties.

“I am Ivar (Bobby). You can call me Bobby as my mom used to call me. I lived in your country for a while.” The Viking explains as he tries to distract you from what happens not so far away.

“That’s the reason you speak my language so well.” Whispering the words, you flinch as you hear the shield-maiden, this goddess of a woman yell orders in Norse.

“Don’t worry, my lady. Dean is a strong fighter and has a reason to come back.” You know Ivar means well but your hands start to shake when the whole forest falls silent.

“Bad sign…” Ivar curses before he runs after his sons. “Stay here, no matter what.”

Ruby’s lance pierces the first knight’s chest. Even wearing an armor didn’t protect him from the almost indestructible metal of her lance.

“Shield-maiden!” One of the knights calls for his comrades but he doesn’t get far as Ruby pierces his throat with the lance.

It seems like she performs a dance when she twists and turns to take more enemies down. Her black hair falls into her face when she picks one of the swords the knight dropped up to throw at another enemy.

“Skjaldmær (Shield-maiden)!” Sam’s deep voice booms through the night, but Ruby is forcing her way through the enemies.

She only has one goal – to defeat all knights and earn her king’s approval. Her whole life she had to fight the prejudices of her fellow Vikings.

Her mother fell victim to a knight’s cruelty during a raid when she was barely fifteen. Everyone believed Ruby is a bad omen, that a child conceived due to rape could never be one of them.

While the shield-maiden hates the knights with burning rage, most of the Vikings believed she would prefer living among the outsiders instead of becoming a Viking.

Only Sam was kind to her since they were children. Now she wants to pay him back, wants to make sure no one will ever doubt her devotion to her king, the Vikings, and the shield-maiden.

“Dean, over there. Three more from left. I’ll take the one to the right!” Sam’s eyes drift toward Ruby, but he knows right now he must concentrate on the approaching enemies not to protect his chosen wife.

“I will take them down, bróðir (brother).” Dean falls back into talking Norse, giving orders the knights do not understand to have an advantage during the fight.

“Minn Gramr (my king),” Ruby warns before she pierces a knight’s back who tried to attack Dean. “We need to retreat sooner or later. We can’t withstand more attackers!”

“Hold the line, shield-maiden!” Sam calls for his love, the one he promised to protect as one of the knights tries to carve Ruby’s arm.

“Ruby is right, Sam.” Silence falls over the forest as Dean and Sam try to hold back more enemies. “Only Thor can help us if there are more coming.”

“Sam, Dean…” Storming toward his sons Bobby attacks the first knight trying to get deeper into the forest. The experienced fighter may be old, but this doesn’t mean he can’t take an enemy down.

“Ivar…” Yelling orders at his fellow Vikings Dean looks at the path he came from. He can’t let any knight get close to you. “We need to withstand.”

“Dean…” Pointing toward an approaching knight Sam gasp as Garth dashes forward, wielding his sword to chop one of the knights head off.

“Where’s the princess? We need to be fast. It was a trap…” Garth calls out as he jumps off his horse.

Luckily Garth prefers to not wear armor, this way he easily gets off the horse to attack the next knights.

“Trap?” Dean pants as another enemy tries to attack him but he dodges the attack to pierce the knight’s arm with his sword.

“Cole sent men before the king mobilized his knights. I came here to make sure the princess and you were able to escape. I hand Castiel the keys to free you.”

Carving an enemy’s face with his dagger Garth nods at Dean who takes down the last knight with his sword. “Cole? How could he have known we would enter the forbidden forest?”

“I don’t know, but can you see the black crow on the knight’s armor? It’s Cole’s insigne. “I can only tell I saw Cole’s men from afar and tried to get here as fast as possible.”

“I hate that man. He tried to touch my àst (love), my princess.” Dean grunts as Garth points toward the horizon. “More men are coming. I am afraid, someone sold us…”

“Someone sold us?” Recalling Garth’s words Dean dashes toward the forest to run to your campfire. His mind races, just like his heart as his fellow Vikings follow him.

“I don’t understand how those knights were able to find us that fast. We barely came here and already got attacked.” Castiel eyes his surroundings warily, grazing his fingers over his sword.

“My friend, I got no clue. Maybe they assumed we would try to find shelter in the forbidden forests. Not everyone fears this place, Castiel.” Nodding the knight keeps an eye on Rufus as he subtle shoves you behind his back.

“You may be right Rufus, my old friend.” Castiel can see Dean approach from afar so he takes a step backward, making sure you stay behind him. “I am just asking myself why they were looking here out of all the places on this island.”

“You were always too smart for your well-being.”

Time runs out on Rufus, so he tries to take Castiel and you down with him. Prepared for the blow that’s coming Castiel dodges Rufus attack with his sword.

“Princess, run!” Attacking Rufus, the knight protecting you since you were born, Castiel glances at Dean running faster to bring you behind his back. “How could you do this? You protect Y/N since she’s a little girl!”

“I gave my vows to the king to protect him and the kingdom. How will people think about our kingdom hearing the princess ran off with a Viking, a wild man. As much as I love the princess, I love my country, my kingdom more.”

“YOU SWORE TO PROTECT HER!” Furious Castiel dashes toward to bore his sword into Rufus's shoulder. “You are lucky I don’t want to kill anyone in front of my princess.”

“Do it! End me traitor! You swore to protect your kingdom and ran off with those barbarians. I know they are not bad people, but we can’t let anyone believe our king is weak.” Rufus presses his hand to his bleeding shoulder, gritting his teeth as Castiel refuses to let him die for his king.

“I am no traitor, Rufus. I swore to my queen to protect her daughter no matter what. I promised her as she was close to death that no man will ever hurt my princess. I swore on all that’s holy to me to make sure Y/N will marry her Viking, the man who owns her heart.”

“We need to go, Lord Castiel.” Garth rushes toward his master, glaring at Rufus as he passes him by.

“That’s the reason you told me to not do anything against Cole. Disgusting.” Spitting into Rufus's face the young knight can’t believe one of the knights he admired is a traitor.

“I know, Garth. Let’s get ready.”

While everyone prepares to leave the forbidden forest, you watch Castiel restraint, Rufus, to a tree. “They will come for you…eventually.”

“Can we not let him go?” Taking Dean’s offered hand to mount Sleipnir you nod as his eyes tell you Rufus would run to your father or worse, to Cole to tell him who is with you and where you are heading.

“Minn Gramr (my king),” remembering the knights do not understand her language Ruby nods at her king. “We need to go. The little guy told me there may be others following our path.”

“Dean, Ruby is right. We must leave and use the darkness to escape them. I pray Thor will lead our way and we can reunite with our men.”

“United again, bróðir (brother).” Dean raises his ax, smirking as you wrap your body around him once again. “For fate and honor.”

“Ulfr (Dean), minn gramr (my king) we need to be fast. If you want to keep this girl, the princess.” Meeting Dean’s eyes Ruby nods. “You have to do the ceremony on our way to the ships. When she’s yours completely, they can’t part you any longer.”

“Ceremony?” Whispering the word, you look up at Dean. “What does she mean, my king?”

“My princess, my love. It means we have to…” Your king, the wild man smirks and you feel the heat creeping into your cheeks. “If you want me, I’ll give you my whole land, my fate.”

“I want you…” Dean slowly leads his horse, deeper into the forest whispering words in his language you do not understand to calm you.

Resting your head against his chest you close your eyes, holding tight onto him - afraid he could disappear when you open your eyes again.

“I want you to search the forest. Kill anyone you find, no matter if he’s Viking or not. Only the princess is precious. I want her unharmed.”

Cole orders your father's men around as they are busy looking at the knight's Dean and the others defeated hours ago.

“My Lord, fighting wild man in the forbidden forest at night is not something we are used to. Maybe we should try to reach the shore before they do so.” Cole chuckles humorlessly before he backhands the young knight.

“I am your master now. Follow my lead or end up in the dungeon. Your king wants me to bring his daughter back, so I will do so.”

The dark smirk on Cole’s lips let the knight’s shudder but just like Rufus, they swore their loyalty to their kingdom and the king.

“We need to hide in the deeper parts and start the ritual. Once she became your kona (wife) they can’t take her away from you.” Watching Dean holding you in his arms Sam squares his jaw.

He needs to make sure to keep his brother and you alive. A difficult task while being hunted once again.

“I know, Sammy. I just wish we had more time to prepare for the wedding. I wanted to give her the world, our fate. I wish we could bring her home and I’ll make her my queen.”

Pressing you closer to his chest Dean, aware he could lose you when more knights come to attack him, he drives his horse deeper into the dark forest toward an unknown future…

Tags will be added to the reblog

#The wolf and the princess Masterlist #angst #fighting #dean winchester #spn meets vikings #viking!dean #viking!Dean Winchester x reader #viking!dean x princess!reader #viking au #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester SPN #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester series

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killem-all-if-they-wont-eat-cake · 4 years

Photo

Image: Freja och Svipdag (1911) by John Bauer

My text "Freyja en Svipdag" published in Covidnine-zine, a magazine edited by the wonderful Winnie Sluis, idealized by Winnie and Lisa @oppergod, with collaboration of several amazing artists.

“With her eyes closed and very sleepy, she could feel the sea breeze on her face and hear the sound of the tide breaking in nine waves, one after the other, until she finally managed to open her eyelids.

At first, she discerned arches and pillars through the blurred image, which she later identified as the ruins of an old cathedral. The stone foundations of this structure immediately reminded her of Glastonbury Abbey. The sound of the violin came to her, as well as the seagulls’ song and the gallop of a gray horse mounted by a masked young man, who headed in her direction. On the beach, an old lady recited the stanzas of ancient poems. Coffins swept across the sand, such as fragments of a shipwreck. The corpse of the violinist, who once was Yorick, the court jester, suddenly stopped the music, marveling at the horizon and contemplating his next song, as follows:

'Oh Páter if I only knew who she was... I swear I would have sought her earlier! Oh Páter, here comes Gwena, who traces This plot, full of diminished chords...

Tis fire, aye, ‘tis pipe’s ember, Burning slow and steady, steaming And if I inhale, choke and clear my throat Bitter-sweet is her surrender, such a delight This woman...

Yet I think she keeps Something restrained For the One of the strings...

She dares not look but only glimpse

Her bearing ever so high, Still entrapped in a gilded cage From which one tries to break With a treble clef... Egnis! Egnis!

Aye, see as it burns strong,

It is painful for Gaius, Her way of walking and fluttering Always a promise of the foreign

Though beware not to cut yourself; For she is like As-Sirāt, Even if broken, she remains sharp.

More so she is intricate and complex, Full of ardor and nothing else, And seems entirely anti-flustered Ah! ... but if there is a breach...

“Tis for sure the apple-tree” I answer myself. Since when I wandered haphazardly, Wandering, wondering, though not seeing If there was indeed an olive tree...

Thus, if the fire she already brought; And I always have some cider; Only the gold is wrought...

What fire is that? Mighty and aristocratic, Convoluted and anti-pragmatic.

Alas, we get to the story’s end,

If you expected me to be light-hearted

To speak of her beauty or noble

character,

You don’t see me for who I really am

For only the sublime pain of a burn

Compares to shall be required

To conquer her troublesome

Spirit.

Nevertheless, if I allow myself

A final indulgence, I think it goes

Without saying.. that she’s beautiful,

Dignified, and a relief to the eyes,

(Though quite difficult to contain)

That’s why I have fallen...O Páter!”

The rider dismounted and removed his mask, revealing a quite familiar face.

Then he burst into tears, moans, and screams, calling out the name “Sophie! Sophie!” A cacophony of chimes and carillon began at an Episcopal belfry, the imposing figure of a castle appeared behind the mist. Brísingamen, the fiery torque, sparkled around her neck as she rose, entirely dressed in white. The young man, who wore black garments, offered her his hand, and spoke:

“Dear Sophie, your father awaits us.”

The strangest thing happened; she felt her lips moving without having ordered so. “My darling Joris, at last you have come for me.”

Although she did not know exactly how, she remembered the young man in front of her was her betrothed, and that they referred to each other by the names of the saints which the ephemeris fell on their respective birthdays. His on the feast day of Sint-Joris van Cappadocië, and hers on that of St. Sophie van Rome.

“Sophie, the owl told me the baker shall hold a banquet in our honour!”

“O, here, have a daisy” she said, taking a flower from the garland adorning her long blonde hair. “I would give you give you some violets, but they all withered when the fishmonger sailed to Crete.”

“Indeed, Aerope told me that Catreus’ ashes are still warm.”

They walked side by side, with hands intertwined, wearing wicked smiles as they climbed the hill where the castle's Tor stood. Upon arriving, they were received by the King of Guilder and the rest of his progeny.

“Welcome, my children, to Kasteel Groninger! Our earthly paradise. Pray, remember the road ahead is still long. Fredegund anxiously awaits Siegbert's return, in deep sleep at the Mountain of Obstacles. Do not forget that: Fafnir must yet perish and Sigrdrífa still needs to be stripped of her armour” King Aegir affectionately warned, embracing both Sophie, whom he recognized as his youngest daughter, and Joris, his future son-in-law.

"Your majesty, I assure you I shall be worthy enough to wed Lady Menglöð" replied Joris, referring to Sophie, the princess of Guilder, by her true name.

“Heer Valentijn,” asked King Aegir, also calling Joris by his birth name “I believe the sacrifice of Galswintha will not have been in vain: Faith, Hope and Charity shall be glorified, but do not forget to greet your new sisters.”

With their faces veiled and sitting on the stairs of an old church, the nine daughters of Aegir, presented themselves one by one. The oldest was called Schnecke, “Bloody-hair”, thus called in virtue of her red hair; the second went by the name of Mimi, the “Billow”, therefore known due to her being prone to fits of nervousness; the third was called Caroline, the “Comber”, because of her explosive temper; the fourth answered by Lily, “Pearl-transparent”, on the account of her translucent complexion; the fifth was named Henriette, the “Small-Wave”, due to her short height; the sixth answered by Olga, the “Lifting”, on account of her extraordinary intelligence; the seventh was called Hannah, the “Great-Wave”, thus known for her bulkiness; the eighth daughter was Jeannette, called the “Well of Origin” for having the habit of reciting prophetic riddles every time somebody asked her something; the last of them, Friederike, the “Cool-Wave”, was therefore called on account of her cold manners.

Each of them, as Joris approached, answered him with witty sentences related to each of their epithets. At the end of these parables, King Aegir once again addressed him:

“Valentijn van Florin, I give you my word as sovereign of Guilder that the most beautiful flower in my garden is your dear Sophie, who at this very hour tomorrow you shall take as your wife. Such a marriage will unite our two rival kingdoms under a single crown, as intended your kinsman, Prince Humperdinck, though in far less auspicious circumstances.”

The bride and the groom waltzed through the castle, covering the walls of each room with snow. Whenever Joris asked if she wanted to be his wife, Sophie burst into hysterical laughing, which echoed throughout the stairs. Sometimes she replied she first owed vassalage to another lord, who was certainly sterner and bonier. This ‘danse macabre’ continued until they faced the stained windows of the cathedral, when the black priest signaled them to stop. For this reason, the nine waves blew out the candles on the candelabrum, one by one, forming a fairy-ring around the two of them and joining their dance wildly.

Joris mused for a moment and said:

“Three times nine girls, but one girl rode ahead,

white-skinned under her helmet;

the horses were trembling, from their manes

dew fell into the deep valleys,

hail in the high woods;

good fortune comes to men from there;

all that I saw was hateful to me.”

For the celebrations to continue Sophie was taken to the hall of Suttungr, while Joris was given the task of finding the severed head of Mimir. Locked up in the chamber of Invitation to Battle, Sophie was punished for exercising her prerogative in choosing differently from what the All-father had commanded. There, Huginn and Muninn, her liege's crows, whispered bad omens at her ears as she repeatedly painted a Byzantine icon of the Virgin of Mercy.

“Torture me all you want,” she said to her tormentors “a tearing joy overwhelms my soul. Plato's aesthetic dictates the beauty of forms is equivalent to the greater good and that which is purer. I merely follow the example of Paris in his preference for the ‘kallistei’; the beloved is always chosen for blind love, and only love. I admit I may be wrong, but I still believe that his heart is as good and generous as I sensed on our first meeting. The world is sustained by hope, we believe in what we want to believe and how we want to believe; it does not matter if nature and experience tell us otherwise. My dreams have never betrayed me, my heart has never lied to me: it is necessary to follow one’s deepest desires, for they are ordained by the Norns.”

In retaliation, the crows of the one-eyed king pecked at her ears until her neck was covered in blood. Ignoring the pangs of pain, Sophie continued to draw the icon that depicted a beautiful sleeping maiden, whose closed eyes showed an expression of tenderness and parted lips outlined a tenuous, albeit provocative smile, as though she was caught in a sensuous dream.

Hence, Sophie chanted in low voice:

“What sort of dream is that, Odin?

I dreamed I rose up before dawn

to clear up Valhöll for slain people.

I aroused the Einheriar,

bade them get up to strew the benches,

clean the beer-cups,

the valkyries to serve wine

for the arrival of a prince.”

At the same time, Joris rode up to the Mountain of Obstacles, where the earth shook and a pit of flames reaching the sky surrounded the red gold of the gods. In this desolate place, the guardian at the gate, who was also the chieftain of the dwarves, gave Joris the sword of anger and the shield of wisdom with which he was able to defeat the horrible serpent, Jörmungandr.

After licking a drop of the creature’s blood on his finger, Joris was given the gift of understanding the crows’ language, which then instigated him to come to the chamber of Invitation to Battle. As soon as he entered the room, he blew on the horn he carried on his neck by a chain. The Virgin awoke from her feverish dream.

Sitting on a golden throne, the queen-like Sophie gladly received him in her father's hall:

“For nine lives I have awaited you, and for nine days you have hanged on the Sefirotic Tree. To you I give my gray horse, so you can ride to Gamla Uppsala; for Memory can only be restored when Gjallahorn descends to the well of origin. There, Heidr will offer you one of her full tits. Drink patiently, but steadily.”

“Frigga, my dear wife, all I ask is for you to grant me knowledge of the nine worlds.”

Before proceeding with her husband’s request, Sophie prayed for eloquence and intelligence, taking her lute in her hand, singing the most beautiful song of shadow and dawn. She praised the day, the night, the gods and goddesses, and the Holy Land where the Nazarene was crucified. After prayer, she harvested liquid from three of her father’s most precious cauldrons and prepared the elixir of life and death, stating it contained enchantments, blessings, songs and runes of power, manliness and pleasure of the flesh and soul.

Sophie told Joris that in the beginning there was nothing, and this nothing was called Njörun. When Njörun became aware of herself, she begot Njöðr. From the union between these two, Mardöll was born. The latter was self-suficient, loving herself and being therefore happy. However, curiosity caused the goddess to create a mirror from her own breath, and when she contemplated her own reflection, she fell madly in love with it. Since then, she divided herself in two: Mardöll of Fire, who saw the image, and Mardöll of Ice, the image seen. After tracing a runic symbol on her body and whispering over it, her reflection became Yngve, her twin brother. The two of them began a frantic dance that culminated in intercourse, from where emerged the rest of the runic spirits.

Sophie then told him how Mardöll first taught the runes to the All-father, how he held the head of Mimir and uttered wise words; and that from them flowed the worlds of the Æsir, Vanir, giants, elves, and humanity. She went on to count all the kinds of runes that Joris needed to know and how to use them. At last asking him if he would like speech or silence from her. To which Joris replied he was not afraid of knowing his fate, even if that meant death.

Shortly after, she took his horn, in which she poured the Mead of Poetry, while rambling: “The beautiful should not perish; the fair should not perish. Eternal love of immortal soul, glittering through my skin like fins. Drop by drop, your spirit will return to me, the first drop will be heavenly!”

The moment Joris took the last sip of this precious drink, the walls opened, and the drums played. King Aegir and the nine waves were finally welcomed to the wedding feast. Circling an oath-ring on a trunk, the sovereign of Guilder joined the hands of his daughter and son-in-law, making a cut on each of their palms so that their blood could mix. Joris and Sophie intertwined their fingers and together declared:

“Ubi tu Askr

Ego Embla;

Ubi tu Embla,

Ego Askr.”

“When thou art the Ash

I shall be the Elm;

When thou art the Elm

I shall be the Ash.”

“Grímnir, the greatest of all gods, is here, he proclaims you to be one flesh, consecrated to him” decreed King Aegir as the newlyweds resumed their bridal dance, accompanied by the nine waves, who happily sang:

“Stampa hårt i marken,

Låt säden flyta runt,

Ta emot den unga flickan,

Frej i älskog,

Freja i älskog.”

“Step hard on the ground,

Let the seed fly,

Welcome the Young Maiden,

Freyr in lovemaking,

Freyja in lovemaking.”

Joris enveloped Sophie in a lustful embrace, with each whirl more ardent than before, ‘til they both lost their balance and fell backwards in the hay. At this moment, Thanatos, the black priest showed up uninvited:

“I am a polar bear who has floated here from Greenland on an iceberg. May the gods bless your matrimony with such perennial beauty as that from the coupling of Zeus and Leda. As a wedding gift, I bring you a veil made for an Arabian princess. Please, accept it. O Vanadís, daughter of the king of kings.”

Upon hearing this, Sophie let out a long shriek. She understood what those words meant. For three nights, she and Joris made love at moonlight, in the presence of the court of Guilder and all the creatures of the universe. On the morning of the fourth day, he had to leave her side to wander the nine worlds, bringing the sacred knowledge he acquired to whichever mortals he found. Weeping, Sophie bade adieu to her husband with the following greeting:

“My will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great. My sisters receive the heroes at Fólkvangr, serving mead to those slain in battle. When the ash commune with the elm, you shall return to me. Not a second after, not a second before.”

The black priest then proceeded to lead them to the calvary, placing two wreaths of thorns on their heads. “I crown thee, Freyja and Óðr.”

For nine days and nights, Sophie bitterly mourned her lost husband, crying tears of gold for his sake. Once again trapped in the Mountain of Obstacles, she cried out for mercy to the one who was older than time itself:

“That man hon fólkvig fyrst í heimi,

er Gullveig geiru studdu

ok i hǫll Hárs hana brendu;

thrysvar brendu thrysvar borna,

opt, ósjaldan, tho hon enn lifir!

Heidi hana hétu, hvars til húsa kom,

vǫlu velspá, vitti hon ganda

seid hon hvars hon kunni,

seid hon hugleikin,

æ var hon angan illrar brudar.”

“She remembers the first war in the world,

when Gullveig was hoist on the spears

in the High-One’s hall they burned her;

three times they burned the three times born

often, not seldom; yet she lives!

She was called Heidr at the village,

the wise völva knew how to cast spells

she practiced seiðr whenever she could

with ravished soul, she performed seiðr,

She was always sought by wicked women.”

As she asked for divine intervention, Sophie devoted herself to the hard work required by the spinning wheel. As though passing in a trance through Psyche's trials, she was accompanied by her sisters, who danced around her, hand in hand. The first branches of the elm emerged from her heart, which enwrapped her in just a few minutes. From her withered body, the most majestic tree of Fensalir was formed. Three times she was struck by lightning, three times she burned; only to be three times reborn the next dawn.

When Joris at last returned from his travels around the world, finding her in such a state he declared:

“Nu em ec aptr kominn,

fát gat ec thegiandi thar;

margom orthom melta ec i minn frama i Suttungs sǫlom.

Gunnlad mer um gaf gunom stóli á

drycc ins dyra miathar; ill ithgiold

let ec hana eptir hafa

sins ins heila hugar

sins ins svara seva.”

“Now I have come again,

I’d have hardly made it so far;

without speaking great words to my advantage in the hall of Suttungr.

Gunnlöð gave me, from her golden throne

The precious drink of mead; a poor payment

I gave her in return

for her whole soul

for her burdened spirit.”

With these sorrowful words he also became an ash tree, his roots becoming entangled with hers. From their union emerged a magnificent swan egg which cracked in two beautiful girls. The Æsir called them Hnoss and Gersemi, the Twin Treasures.’

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anistrange · 4 years

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THE SAGA OF THE VÖLSUNGS

In Norse Mythology, the “Völsunga Saga” is the most famous poem in northern mythology and folklore, relating the tale of the Völsungs dinasty and his inevitable tragedy that led the death of Sigürd, the famous dragon-slayer to the massacre of the burgundian royal family.

The poem was adapted in medieval texts as the Nibelungenlied in german tales and then in the classical opera “The Ring of the Nibelung” composed by Richard Wagner, where we see the most classical representation of the valkyries as winged-horse warriors with pointy helmets.

The story around the Völsungs is one of a tragedy and the role of fate as these impending path, not surprisingly, most of these characters suffer a disastrous end. leaving aside the themes of the famous ring “Andvarinaut” who cursed Sigurd, the Burgundian family and the Hun warriors. “Andvarinaut” inspired centuries later a famous british writer known as J.R.R Tolkien to write his best saga “The Lord of the Rings”

(CHARACTERS FEATURED)

Atli: The legendary king resembling the historical “Attila the Hun” is a prominent figure in the saga and in a moment of the story, the antagonist of the burgundians, as brother of Brynhildr, he marries Güdrun after the death of Sigürd and his sister, ravaging the burgundian kingdom of Gunnar, killing him in the process and his brother Högni in his search of the treasure hoard, he dies at the hands of Güdrun in his sleep, after that, Güdrun burns his palace.

Brynhildr: The most famous valkyrie or shield-maiden, she has two versions of her origins, either as a banished daughter of Odin or as the daughter of king Büdli and brother of Atli, she fells in love with Sigürd after her rescue but the burgundian queen Grimhild tricks Sigürd to marry Güdrun which leds to a rivalry between the shield-maiden and the burgundian princess, she kills herself after the death of Sigürd not before prophesying the doom of Gunnar and Güdrun.

Güdrun: The princess of the burgundians, she is tricked by her mother Grimhild to marry Sigürd, due to a quarrel between her and Brynhildr, the former lover of Sigürd, was responsable for the deaths of her husband and the shield-maiden causing the invasion of the king Atli to Burgundy and forcing Güdrun to marry the Hun’s monarch, in his sleep, Güdrun killed Atli and burned the entire palace marrying with Jonak years later. In some versions, Hildebrand, the master of Thjódrik killed Güdrun in Atli’s palace during the fire.

Gunnar: The heir of the Burgungy kingdom, we first saw Gunnar receiving Sigürd in his court already asking for Brynhildr's hand, as Sigurd had already been tricked into leaving the valkyrie by the maid Gudrun, their rivalry grew to such an extent that a heartbroken Brynhildr ordered the Burgundians to murder Sigürd, then at the invitation of King Atli in an attempt to find the famous treasure he interrogated Gunnar and threatened him with death but only Högni knew the location of the hoard, killing the burgundian king in a pit of snakes as he plays the harp.

Helgi: As half-brother of Sigürd he is in a constant feud with the saxons king Hunding who killed his father years prior. Later he falls in love with a valkyrie called Sigrún, the daughter of Högni of the swedes who was already compromised with Hothbrood, son of king Granmarr, Helgi and his forces defeated the family of Granmarr, taking the warrior Dag as a prisioner. Helgi and Sigrún married and had children, however, Dag kills Helgi in an attempt to avenge his family, fortunelly, Helgi and Sigrún are reunited later in Valhalla.

Högni: The grim warrior, some versions write Högni either as a half-sibling of the princes Güdrun and Gunnar rather than a full sibling, son of Grimhild and Gjuki, he is described as a brusque, taciturn, and often short-tempered demeanor, his story revolves around the quarrel between Sigürd and Gunnar, his brother concluding in the death of the dragon-slayer. Later after knowing the secret of the treasure hoard, Gunnar orders Högni to hide the gold not before the intervention of the Huns, who questions Gunnar about the secret location of the treaure who refuses to tell the secret to Attila the Hun as long as Högni lives, and so brings about Högni's death, as his heart is cut out.

Kosthera: Kosthera (or Kostbera) is the german wife of Högni, of which they have four children; Solar, Snævar, Hniflung and Gjuki (in honor of Högni’s father) despite having a minimal appearance, she plays an important role in the Völsunga saga, in an attempt to prevent Högni to attend Atli’s invitation to his palace, Güdrun tried to send his brother a message, but was intercepted by one of the messengers, inly Kosthera could decipher the message and the dreams that were presented to him, insisting Högni not to go.

Sigrún: One of the valkyries at the service of Odin, she fells in love with Helgi but she was already compromised to Hothbrood, the son of Granmarr, Helgi invades Granmar's kingdom and slays anyone opposing their relationship. Only Sigrún's brother Dagr is left alive on condition that he swears fealty to Helgi. Years later, Helgi and Sigrún married and had children, however, Dag killed Sigrún’s husband to avenge his family, Sigrún buries Helgi in a barrow and she is later reunited with Helgi in Valhalla.

Sigürd: Perhaps the most notorious non-deity figure of northern mythology, a combination between Heracles for slaying beasts and Achilles due to his invulnerability in the battle, the son of Sigmünd and Hjördis received the sword “Gram” from his mother using it to kill the dragon Fafnir at the command of the dwarf Regin, he encounters Brynhildr and rescue her from her prison falling in love but was tricked by Grimihild to marry Güdrun, leaving Brynhildr to marrying Gunnar, this trick of infidelity left Brynhildr in a raging crusade against Sigürd ordering the burgundians to kill her former love, german traditions mention Hagen (or Högni) as the murderer of Sigürd in the forest, while Old Norse tales mentions Guttorm killing Sigürd in his bed. After that, they prepared a funeral pyre for Sigürd and Brynhildr who killed herself not before condemning the burgundians for tricking her late love.

Thjódrik: The germanic equivalent to the medieval King Arthur resembling the ostrogoth king Theodoric the Great who ruled the former western roman empire at a young age. By the name of Dietrich von Bern (of Verona, Italy) he has a huge story in the Poetic Edda and german tales; fought against Sigürd when he thought his master Hildebrand died at the hands of Sigürd causing so much rage into the prince that started to spit fire from his mouth, according to the Poetic Edda, he and Hildebrand were during the fire of Atli’s castle caused by Güdrun.

-Models-

Hasan Piker / Atli

Melissa Benoist / Brynhildr

Lauren Summer / Güdrun

Sam Heughan / Gunnar

Taylor Phillips / Helgi

Norman Reedus / Högni

Teresa Oman / Kosthera

Zoey Deutch / Sigrún

Christopher Mason / Sigürd

Jacob Elordi / Thjódrik

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prettycottonmouthlamia · 4 years

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CE NP Damage Calcs

Keep in mind this is for one Servant, but it provides a decent spread that illustrates many ideas at once

This was done with a Level 60 Sasaki with no Golden Fous (+1000 ATK), NP5 with his NP Strengthen. This notably is ONLY NP damage, and many CEs can be more useful than the numbers imply. For example, Imaginary Around is largely better than Royal Icing. This is a good list for illustrating the following:

1) Strength of ATK bonuses. Almost every single high damage CE gives only ATK, with a couple of exceptions (Versus, GUDAGUDA Poster Girl, and Dumplings Over Flowers comes to mind)

2) Multiplicative versus Additive buffs. Any CE that gives a 12% Quick buff is equivalent to a CE that gives a 10% NP damage / Atk up / power mod with the same ATK. Dumplings over Flowers is equivalent to The Infant of Atlus. Imaginary Around does the same damage as Royal Icing (30% Quick vs 25% NP damage)

3) Potential for extremely high damage Sasaki set-ups

I’m not sure how much I’m feeling up to doing this for everyone, because that’s a ton of edge cases (someone should code a tool for this) but it works well enough to paint general guidelines. The only thing not present is Overcharge CEs because Sasaki’s doesn’t boost his NP damage.

Sasaki Kojirou Black Grail: 156,843 Versus: 147,562 Heaven's Feel / Purely Bloom: 124,979 Honey Lake: 116,647 GUDAGUDA Poster Girl: 115,636 Fondant au Chocolate / Bitter Sweet: 108,315 Chocolate Heaven: 107,794 Imaginary Around / Royal Icing / Heroine Eli-chan's Adventure / Duke of Flames: 104,149 Dumplings Over Flowers / The Infant of Atlus: 103,293 Art of Death / A Verse of Burning Love Story / Angel's Song: 102,115 Sign of Smiling Face / Demon King of the Sixth Heaven / Cute Orangette / Here's Your Honor / Divine Three-Legged Race / Knowing the Way Broadly: 99,983 Dangerous Beast / Paradox Ace Killer: 97,206 Blue Illusion: 95,915 Pharoah Cholatl / Golden Sumo Wrestling / Holy Night Dinner / Heavenly Demon Princess: 95,817 C K T: 95,454 True Samadhi Fire / Noisy Obsession: 94,260 Knights of Marines / Midsummer Moment / A Moment of Silence / Imperial Capital Holy Grail War: 93,734 Code Cast: 92,815 Maidens' Luncheon Party / GO WEST!! / Bygone Dreams: 92,226 Aerial Drive / Rivalry of Local Warlords / Kiss Your Hand: 91,651 Gandr: 91,642 Traces of Christmas / Merry Sheep / Mission Start / Wolves of Mibu / Holy Maiden's Teachings / Before Awakening / Decapitating Bunny 2016: 90,263 Golden Wings: 89,245 Launch Order: 88,369 Emerald Float / Poolside Bar / Bronze-Link Manipulator / Horror Concierge / Dragonkind / Halloween Princess / The Three Great Heroes: 88,537 Kaleid Sapphire / God of War / Kaleid Ruby / Battle Companion / The Sun and Gold Gamblers: 86,405 Demon Boar: 86,078 Kill on Sight / Legion of Pioneers / Holy Night Learning / Wizard and Priest / Valkyrie Style: 85,675 Climbing Battle / With One Strike: 85,096 Mentor and I / First Valentine: 85,080 Twilight Holy King / Summer Little / A Pilgrimage to the Other Side / Walk in the Park / Knit the Love: 84,848 Three Anglers / Midsummer Memories: 83,113 The Wandering Tales of Shana-oh / Detective Edmond ~True Mastermind Arc~ / The Princesses' Pilgrimage / Street Choco-Maid / An Army Marches on its Stomach: 83,003 Sakamoto Detective Bureau / Ring the Bell / The Final Narrator: 82,106 Dive to Blue / Burning Live Seat / Shvibzik Snow / Motored Cuirassier / Midnight Tension: 81,159 Food Colosseum / Greatest Journey: 80,321 Vivid Dance of Fists: 79,550 Verdent Black Keys / Holy Night Sign / Princess of Red Bean Paste / Looking Up at the Starry Sky / Chaldea Anniversary / Gilding the Lily: 79,929 Neverland: 79,863 Ryuodo Temple: 79,363 Show Time: 79,076 Cheer for Master / Silver-Glittering Snow Goddesses: 78,699 Storms and Waves / Young Maiden Ignorant of Love: 78,536 Ath nGabla: 77,638 Superb Turbulent Times: 77,470 Twilight Memory / Sunset Jam / Party Time: 77,346 Lady Foxy: 77,091 Hidden Blade: Pheasant Reversal / Ashigara Brothers / Mooncell Automaton: 76,855 Someday in Summer: 76,555 New Year Sacred Mysteries / Morning Glory / Argonauts: 76,156 Divine Oracle / Summer Enma-Tei: 75,913 Mata Hari's Tavern / The Musketeers: 75,625 Land of Shadow's Crimson Lotus: 74,981 Jack o'Lantern: 73,981 Gateau au Chocolat / Afternoon in the Citadel: 73,879 El-Melloi's Lecture Hall: 73,612 Heaven Among the Mountains: 73,346 Belle of Society / From Wonderland: 72,462 Covering Fire / Glass Full Sweet Time: 71,996 Let's Depart!: 71,887 Anniversary Heroines: 71,716 Fate GUDAGUDA Order: 71,565 Quatra Feuilles / Starlight Fest: 70,737 King Joker Jack / Writing High: 70,666 "Heaven's Feel": 70,629 Preemption: 69,900 Conflict: 69,788 Detective Edmond ~Embarking on a New Chapter Arc~: 69,596 Sprinter / New Year's Greetings: 68,525 Catena: 67,514 God's Deal / Barbeque Buddies: 67,454 Sugar Vacation: 66,919 Volumen Hydragyrum: 64,742 No CE: 64,242

#fate grand order #fgo

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yourcoolfriendwithallthecandy · 5 years

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White Peacock Maiden Part 2

Woo, part 2. @waiting4inspiration and @youbloodymadgenius asked me to tag them when I posted so if anyone else also wants to get tagged, let me know. Also yes that is a picture of a baby nursing, if that bothers you, I apologize but that’s literally what breasts are for, are to make milk to feed babies.

White Peacock Princess

Chapter 2

Your legs were burning from walking so far but you managed to walk with him back to the largest city in the area, this must be Kettegat. He led you to the largest building there and introduced you to his queen, the mother of his child- Freydis.

“Ivar, who is this?” Freydis asked as she looked at you warily and at your strange clothes.

“This is Princess Sasha of Heaven, she came down to heal our son.” Ivar answered proudly as he showed her- her baby.

“That isn’t my son.” She frowned. “Ivar who’s child is this? And what did you do with our son?” She demanded.

“But it is your son, I watched as she nursed him herself and her milk healed him.” Ivar countered. “Freydis, this is our son Baldur.” He tried to give her back the baby but she refused to hold it and shook her head no.

You huffed and walked over and produced a clear magical plate over Baldur and showed Freydis what the baby had looked like before- then showed her the progression of how he had healed so that she saw it happen with her own eyes.

“He is your son,” you insisted.

“Well not anymore. Deformity is a sign of the gods favor. You have taken that away from him and made him... He no longer has the gods’ favor,.” Freydis began to cry, acting as if you had killed her son yourself. You never imagined she would react that way, usually mothers blessed you and thanked you profusely for healing their little ones.

You stared at her in disbelieving confusion before you looked at Ivar questioningly as you could see he was mentally trying to figure out what to say to her before you pulled the largest feather from your dress and touched the tip to the outside of her arm and watched the colors of the feather change and kept your facial expression neutral as it revealed her to you. Oh god, she was crazy. She was literally blinded by that false belief and had infected Ivar with it.

You shook your head and put the feather back in place before you walked away and had to sit down and think, putting your head in your hands and scratching your scalp as you considered your options as you stared at the floor as you did your best not to be overwhelmed and keep your wits about you. You were bound to a power hungry tyrant with an insane wife. Well honestly, how was that any different than Hognyen? At least Ivar only had Freydis, and not a harem of bloodthirsty concubines that would torture you at a moments notice for the fun of it. Freydis was not naturally vicious at least. “Freydis, this is our son. She just healed him. He was too deformed Freydis, he wouldn’t have lived for very long and he would have lived in agony the whole time, he is divine now, he's the fairest child ever to be born and he’s ours. Be grateful that he will have a good life now, an extraordinary one.” Ivar tried to comfort his wife but she withdrew from him.

“Could you please…?” Ivar asked as he offered Baldur to you before you took him back so he could sit down and take the braces from his legs as Freydis watched him out of the corner of her eye before she noticed that he was actually walking normally.

“You healed him too?” Freydis spat in disgust as Ivar looked absolutely wounded. Did she only love him because he was a cripple?

“She is a Valkyrie and a selkie of the sky, I managed to take her feather cloak off, it’s her cloak that makes me this way.” Ivar explained as he gestured to his legs and the cloak.

“Then take it off!” Freydis demanded.

“Yes, please, take it off.” You smiled in agreement.

“No!” Ivar scoffed at both of you. “No, you see because I have this, I am more than any man now, I will not take it off.” Ivar argued. “Princess, even if I did, would I still be able to walk?” He asked you.

“If I healed you, yes, but I don’t have enough magic in my being to do so in this moment, I will need time to recover and restore the magic I poured into your son. But in a few days I could, then yes, you would be healed and be able to walk without pain and once I do, you will never be crippled again. Because the changes I made to Baldur are permanent, so they would be permanent for you too. But please keep in mind that you can’t bury that feather cloak like you could a sealcoat if I were a selkie. Fur is much more durable than feathers and is meant to withstand the land and the sea. A feathercoat is only able to withstand the air, the wind and rain and snow, if it is buried in the earth, it will rot like a fallen log faster than you can blink and all it’s magic will be lost forever and I will remain in this form forever and I’ll never be able to go home, so please, until we can come to an arrangement for you to give it back to me, you must keep wearing it otherwise.” You urged Ivar as you laid Baldur on your chest, under your cloak to keep him warm before you took feathers from your own dress and put them on him, the feathers becoming white tattoos on his skin and changing into clothes for him. Because you had a feeling that Freydis was about to reject him and that he would be yours and you weren’t going to waste any time making him yours before you pulled a piece of fur off your cloak and it grew into a blanket you used to wrap around him as you reclined in the chair and got comfortable and listened to Ivar try to reason with his wife.

“Freydis, listen to me, we are blessed! The gods have blessed us by sending us their princess! She is Princess Sasha of Heaven itself, it’s she who came to our son and healed our son, you have to believe it because it’s the truth. You know how much I suffer and have suffered because of my own deformity. This is what’s best for Baldur, don’t you want what’s best for Baldur?” He asked as he sat down next to his wife but she resisted him and wouldn’t let him hold her and was showing aversion to the cloak itself which caused you to smirk, if he really loved her, she was going to do all the work of getting your cloak back to you for you. So this wasn’t going to be so bad. She was your new best friend and greatest ally now but she would ask that you return her son to the way he was and you couldn’t do that, you had a heart of gold after all which was evidenced by the gold spine and gold dots in the middle of your feathers. But you could find a mildly deformed baby for her if that’s what she wanted.

“Freydis, I can not undo what I have done to Baldur. But if a deformed child is what you want and what you need, I will find one to replace him.” You offered.

“No!” Ivar boomed which made Freydis jump and start bawling before she ran away and Ivar chased after her.

You began to feel sleepy and decided to turn your cloak into a lush bed and laid down to rest next to the chair as Ivar and Freydis argued and fought long into the night, Ivar having to sleep on the couch since Freydis wouldn't let him back into the bed.

The next morning you woke up to an eerily quiet room and you found Baldur still sleeping peacefully in your arms before he stirred awake and you nursed him again, cooing and talking to him and softly singing to him and connected to him more and once you finished clothing him and giving him a magical diaper that would magic away his waste but would never leak and would grow with him until he was old enough to be potty trained, you got up and your bed shrunk back into a fur stole around your shoulders and sling around Baldur before attendants came and brought you to the dining hall where the dagmal was laid out for you and you began to eat.

“So what did the colors mean when you put the feather to my arm?” Freydis asked you curiously.

“The feathers reveal personality and attributes. It was a way of getting to know who you were as a person without having to spend hours in conversation.” You answered simply.

“So what did it reveal about me?” Freydis inquired, her curiosity piqued.

“That you are a kind and sweet person, you’re thoughtful, intelligent and hold to your beliefs very strongly. Amazing qualities for a mother and queen.” You smiled fondly as Ivar beamed happily.

“And so what do my colors reveal about me?” Ivar asked.

“That you are as clever and cunning as you are ruthless. Your pain tolerance is the highest that I’ve ever encountered, yet you are protective of not just your family, but your people, excellent qualities for a king.” You answered honestly, keeping perhaps the more salacious details to yourself. Because his colors revealed that he was power hungry, tyrannical, demanding, brutally violent, jealous and hateful yet deep down, all he wanted was to be loved, adored and admired. But that he would settle for being feared.

“So what do your colors say about you?” Freydis asked.

“The gold spine and dot to my feathers, reveal that I have a heart of gold, not literally but figuratively, that’s why I was so moved to heal your son. The glittering denotes that I have a mind like a diamond, strong yet brilliant and easily taught. The shimmering is how I can hold the attention of a room and not buckle under the pressure. The flashes of color depending on the light mean that I’m frugal with my wealth, discrete with my knowledge and information, righteous, honest, empathetic and clever too.” You listed off.

“Are you married?” Freydis asked. “Promised to be engaged. I trust it won’t take too long for my attendants and guards to notice I’m missing since I did not return home last night and I’m supposed to meet with my promised groom next week. He’s a phoenix with the elemental powers of fire. I’m sure once he finds that I have been trapped here, it won’t take him long to find me, much less raze this city to the ground by raining fire from the clouds themselves like a heavy rain. This city has a fine wall around it, to protect it from forces on land. But quite weak considering the threats will be from above. Everything appears to be made of wood. Quite flammable.” You listed off casually as Freydis’ eyes got wide as she gave Ivar a meaningful look.

“Surely it can’t come to that. I’m sure there will be negotiations.” Ivar ventured.

“Possibly. But if I were you, I would consider what your ransom price will be to return me.” You advised before you finished your meal.

“Now, since it seems that I am to stay here for a little while at least, do you have a room to accomidate me?” You asked Ivar.

“Yes, of course,” Freydis answered as she got up and showed you to a room nearby. You were grateful it had a window, albeit, a small one. You went to the window and looked out to see if there were any birds flying around before your eyes saw a magnificent ruby hummingbird flitting all over before you made a call and she flew straight to you and transformed into your sister when it flew into the room because she had two bird forms, a ruby magenta peacock and a ruby hummingbird when she wanted to go ‘undercover’.

“Anja!” You cried as you embraced her as tight as you could while Baldur was still strapped to your chest.

“Sasha! What happened to you?! Everyone is freaking out! I had to lie and say you were sick to keep everyone from going into hysterics!” She explained before you told her what had happened to you, the whole time Anja in a constant state of horrified shock while she held and rocked Baldur in her arms.

“Well I will come to you as often as I can, when he has his demands, I’ll take them and see what can be done. We don’t have much time!” She said before she left you and you felt relieved that at least your sister knew what had happened to you and would be your go between. She had always had your back.

When Anja arrived back to the palace she innocently took up residence on your balcony before she walked through your room, moving the pillows she had used to fake your form so that it looked like you had rolled around in bed. But she gasped when one of your head guard, Rolf, came in.

“Don’t you knock?!” Anja growled before she finished arranging the bed before she sat down to eat the meal that had been brought to you as he came and sat down next to her and helped himself to some of the food.

“So how’s Fancy Pants doing?” He asked casually since he was the lead guard last night and it was because your sister was fucking him that he had dissmissed your other guardians.

“Good, she’s calm and composed for now, thinking her rescue will come in a few days, I can’t wait to see how her colors change when she grows mad with worry, the poor bastard who took her cloak is a piece of work, classic tyranical king who thinks he’s a god blah blah blah.” She listed off as she shrugged nonchalantly before wiping the crumbs of the sandwhich off on her dress. Because truth be told, you were the “perfect daughter” who always did everything right and perfect and Anja was sick and tired of constantly being compared to you and being found less than like every other princess in your realm, that and the handsome fee she had gotten from Hongyen’s current royal consort who was wanting to be Empress was enough to turn your sister traitor to you. Anja had purposefully encouraged you to go on a solo flight last night because she needed you to be trapped by your own perfection and that heart of gold you had was the easeist way to do it because while others saw it as a strength, she felt she knew it to be your greatest weakness, besides your gulibility and naturally trusting nature. She had been shadowing Freydis in Kettegat for a while now, disguised as a simple maid and had used her black magic to suggest to Ivar to abandon his son in the woods that night in the hopes that you would hear the baby crying and come to its rescue, she and Rolf had even sat in a nearby tree to watch you duel with Ivar and had followed you to Kettegat to make sure you were at least safe and where to find you. Both of them grinning at each other when the transference took place and the price of your body guard’s loyalty was apparently your sister’s pussy in addition to a small percentage of the fee.

“So at what point are we going to tell everyone she’s gone?” Rolf asked curiously.

“Oh give it a few days of the ‘too sick to see anyone’. Chances are Hongyen will probably be relieved and move the date back by a year like he did with what’s her face.” Anja answered with a waive of her hand. “And hopefully, by then the Emperor and Empress will have moved on and found another “jewel” for their son’s crown. I mean if push comes to shove I have an imposter spell I’ll use to take her place because let’s be honest, the last thing the world needs is another perfect princess to make the rest of us look bad.” Anja grunted as she sat back in her chair in a very unladylike fashion before she belched.

#ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless imagines #ivar the boneless x reader #White Peacock Princess #White Peacock Princess part 2

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peachyteabuck · 5 years

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valiance [valkyrie x reader]

summary: Things could be worse. Yes, you’ve been locked in a tower for your entire lie. Yes, your kingdom has been taken over. Yes, you now have been captured by the most powerful knight known throughout the continent. But still, your captor could be cruel, or worse, a man.

pairing: knight!valkyrie x princess!reader

words: 1,991

trigger warnings: knight/princess au, virginity loss, strap on sex, vaginal fingering, kidnapping (kind of)

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

gif credit (x)

Your kingdom has been taken over, old soldiers from the reign of your father killed and the former flags torn down. The yellow and red symbols have been replaced with the grey and white cloth from the invader’s native lands, the army employed by your family replaced with theirs. But in a surprise to both yourself and your captors, you’re not very fearful.

Well, you’re not paralyzed in terror, so to the women holding each of your arms as they drag you to the burning center square you’re basically the bravest royal they’ve ever seen. There, in front of a large bonfire, stands their leader – an olive-skinned knight with long dark hair and plush lips pulled tight. You’re in awe of her presence, suddenly feeling insecure in your pink nightgown that had dirtied on your trek from the castle to the town.

“Good afternoon, princess,” she says, sheathing her sword and turning to you. “Have you had a good trip?” You don’t say anything, not even a squeak leaving your mouth as her dark brown eyes rake down your shaking form. “If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you,” she moves closer and tucks a stray hand of hair behind your ear. In another surprising feat, you don’t flinch. “But you will…eventually.” She raises her left arms and flips her wrist in the air as she walks away from you towards another soldier that has caught her attention. “Take her to my chambers, I’ll deal with her later.”

You’re escorted to what you think is an old bladesmith’s home, the walls covered in old metalwork projects and broken weapons. The guards lock you in a bedroom, the only light coming from a small window just above the bed and a few small candles strewn across the wide room. A single guard stands outside the door, stopping you from opening it, let alone leaving. As the sun sets and the luminescence dissipates you fall asleep, nothing else to do besides lay on the (obviously) previously slept-in bed and slip into unconsciousness.

Hours later, you’re awoken by the rogue knight from the fire, one hand holding a bright while the other brushes through your hair. “Wake up, pretty girl. You need to eat.”

“Mmmrphf,” you grumble, desperate to get back to sleep. The past few days had been tense with the descent of the army on your failing kingdom. Now, with an opportunity to doze in peace, you want to take every second you can.

“Aw, is my little princess tired?” Her fingers trail down your face and trace over your lips, rubbing at the small bits of dirt that had collected there from your involuntary journey.

“Mhm,” you mumble, curling further into the covers.

“Okay, princess,” she acquiesces, her voice low. You can hear her pad away, then her armor thunking against the wooden floor. Moments later the bed dips, her strong arms pulling you into her. You don’t have the energy to pull away or fight the warm body next to you, instead allowing her to wrap herself around you. “Just go to sleep.”

That, you do willingly.

When you finally wake up, the sun illuminates the whole room and warms one of your cheeks. The other is pressed into the bare chest of the woman who’s taken the land that’s been passed down your family for hundreds of years, your head between her plump breasts. You think you should fear her, but no part of your regal body retracts when she touches you. Still, you try to pull away – but her low voice causes you to freeze.

“You gon’ leave me? But I was so comfortable,” she frowns, one hand moving to draw random patterns on your bare back while the other grabs a small knife from the side tale. She starts to fiddle with it, twirling it around her fingers with the ease and precision of someone who’s been doing it since they were a child.

“I- “you gulp, her fingers going from your spine to your ribs. As you speak, your voice wobbles. “I just needed to get something to uh, something to drink.”

“Oh, baby girl,” she reaches over to the bedside table again, the covers falling to expose her bare chest. You gulp as she sets down the knife, staring at her the ceiling or the floor or anywhere else but her. “Let me call someone to get that for you. Want something to eat with that?”

You cough, trying to clear your throat. “Uh, yeah,” you cough again. “Food sounds fine.”

She rings a bell, and quickly a woman you don’t recognize dressed in colors that aren’t that of your kingdom appears at the door.

“Yes, sire?” she asks, not looking at the scandal that’s swept the room. If any of your staff had caught you in such a compromising position you’d be burned at the stake or banished. They’d never serve you again, let alone act like everything was normal.

“Go fetch us some warmed bread and two bowls of the stew the chef started last night.”

The woman gives your captor a curt nod before disappearing again. It’s then, right then, that you realize you don’t know her name. Combined with the difference in attitudes of the serving staff, you’re caught in a stupor.

She seems to notice. “Something wrong, princess?” You shake your head, unable to find the words to describe your confusion. “Then come to bed, I’m getting cold.”

You do as you’re told, cuddling into her side. You must admit, sleeping with someone is a nice change from the drafty quarters in the isolated castle you were in before. A few moments pass before you decide to speak.

“What’s your name?”

She smirks, then kisses your shoulder. “You can call me Valkyrie.”

“Hm.” Is all you say back. Valkyrie. It’s a name that invokes courage and valor. It suits her.

“Tell me dear,” Valkyrie asks after another beat of silence. “Why do they keep you alone all the way up there in that tower?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip. She’s asked question you’d asked yourself a million times since you had been locked in that palace, but still, no simple answer prevailed. You choose to give her the least complex version of the story. “My parents wished to preserve my maidenhood, so I may be able to gift it to my future husband on our wedding night.”

Valkyrie smirks, shifting you so that she hovers above your smaller form. “Tell me, princess, are you a maiden? One of those pure and innocent little girls?”

You nod shyly, unable to avoid her piercing gaze. “Yes.”

“Tell me, my princess,” she asks. “Did you ever want to marry a man?”

You swallow. “No.”

Her grin is wide and shit-eating, a slight distraction as her hand moves lower and lower. You don’t stop her, one of your own hands resting on her cheek and the other clutching at the pillows underneath you. Nightgown long forgotten, her fingers easily slip between your thighs. Her calloused and scarred fingers rub at your aching mound as bites into your heated skin. “What an honor you’ve bestowed upon me, dear princess,” she murmurs. “I promise not to spoil such a wonderful gift.”

Her fingers dip into you, first one and then a second. All you can do is cry out – such a new and powerful feeling building in your abdomen. Small moans escape past your lips, your eyes tightly shut.

“It’s okay, my princess. Make all the noise you want.” Valkyrie coos. “I want to hear you sing.”

And oh, do you sing. Her unoccupied arm goes under your back to support you, inadvertently making is easier to wrap your legs around her waist and pull her closer to you, your chest now pressed against hers. You come undone easily, almost embarrassingly soon, once, twice, then three times before your body collapses onto the plush furs and goose-down comforters as your thighs twitch with the strong pulses that wash over your muscles like the ocean on a beach.

“Oh, god” you moan, digging your nails into Valkyrie’s back. “V-Valkyrie-“

The woman on top of you grins eagerly, eyes ablaze with a fire like soldiers you’ve seen come home from a glorious, bloody victory. “Yes, my sweet girl…what is it you wish?”

You gasp as she ghosts her fingertips over your distressed clit. Now your entire body shakes violently as you whine. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

She lays a light kiss to your cheek, dissimilar from the bruising actions from just before. “I’ll never stop my love, I’ll never stop pleasuring you.”

Valkyrie pulls away for a moment, leaving you breathless and writhing around the large bed. By now you’re babbling nonsense, brain overrun with the gratification you’d been searching for with your own fingers since you had been young. Luckily, she returns quickly, holding a dark leather harness in one hand and amass of rose quartz in the other. Akin to her actions with the knife, she slips the foreign contraption on with ease.

“Wh-what is that?” you ask, small voice barely above a whisper.

All Valkyrie does is grin, just like before. “You’ll see.”

She sinks a few fingers into you to gather at the wetness there, which makes you shriek at the abrupt contact. The high-pitched sound by another one escaping past your lips. This one, low and primal, drawn out and broken, shocks even your more experienced partner as she sinks the gem into your desperate pussy. With your head thrown against the pillows and your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, you nearly miss the satisfied look on Valkyrie’s face as she starts fucking into you with long, steady strokes.

“Is this everything you ever dreamed of, princess?” She asks. “Is this everything you hoped this would be?” You nod, unable to respond with words. One of your hands goes to palm at your breasts, tugging at your erect nipple. “You know, neither prince nor king could fuck you like this. They’re brutish whores who only care about themselves, but I don’t think that’s how cute little princesses should be treated, especially when they’re as cute as you.”

All you can do is mewl, pulling her as close to you as possible. Deeper, you want to tell her. Fuck me deeper.

Despite your muteness, she seems to get the message. With her lips attached to your collarbones, she pushes into you at a bruising pace. You’re able to snake one of your hands between your pair of sweaty bodies to rub at your clit, something Valkyrie takes over for you. “Let me, princess,” she coos. “Just enjoy yourself.”

Obediently, you lay back and let her take you, let her grab at your hips and dig bruises into them. As you come for the fourth, then fifth time, she slows down – giving your body a much-needed break. The sixth time the knot in your stomach unwinds at a blinding rate stops. You whine, trying to grab for her in the now-dim room.

As she pulls off the harness and collapses next to you, it’s as if on cue the maid from before steps in with the bread and stew on a tray on a wooden tray along with some silverware. She wordlessly places them next to the small knife before stepping out, leaving the two sex-crazed rabbits in peace. You both laugh breathlessly, but even giggles lead your eyes to close for longer each blink.

“Aw, princess,” Valkyrie utters. “Let me feed you.”

She positions you into her lap, soaking the bred in the hearty mixture before popping it into your mouth. You two stay like that, blissed out and eating, until the food is gone, and the sun has long since set. As the night air cools your sweat-soaked bodies, Valkyrie pulls the blankets over you and herself, warming your skin as she joins you in slumber.

#valkyrie #valkyrie x reader #brunnhilde #brunnhilde x reader #lukis writes stuff #smut #lesbian smut #valkyrie imagine #marvel smut #marvel imagines #marvel fanfic

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absolutelyxosmittenxo · 6 years

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Imagine: Being in a relationship with miscellaneous RWBY girls and how they kiss you.

RUBY ROSE: Butterflies are fluttering in the weapon fanatic's tummy, a nervous smile bubbling with anticipation emphasising it. She is propped on her tiptoes and can't help but trip over her words. Once brave enough, Ruby nearly shouts, "Can I please kiss you?!?" If you comply, your lips are in for a treat as she kisses you so sweetly you can taste the leftover cookie crumbs on the corners of her mouth, and how she squeals so happily after is more than satisfying.

WEISS SCHNEE: Publicly, the bare minimum amounts to a brief peck on the forehead or otherwise as Weiss has restraint. However, silliness would prove to be an invitation for the heiress to express more of the soft touches and engagement. If you spill out some absurd remarks to rattle her chain, guaranteed she'll scold you lightly for the goofy behavior. "You're a dolt, an absolute dolt," and, as if an angel, she sends you off to Heaven with a brisk smooch and has her temple against yours, smiling so cheerfully.

BLAKE BELLADONNA: Books captivate the feline as she burrows her nose within the pages of an enticing narrative - suspense, wonder, magic sprinkled about in dark ink. Her golden rays depart momentarily to spy you investigating the situation, a soft smile creeping on her lips as you inquire about it further. You tug the story down without much straining, so you can see her better as she elaborates. As the Belladonna's mouth moves smoothly, you can't resist the urge to kiss her, leaving her agape from the sudden action. But slowly, a cherry blossom pink surfaces, and she timidly calls you out. "You're such a dork."

YANG XIAO LONG: An applicable comparison would be the sun peering above the hills as the morning blesses the world with an impression of the unknown yet thrill. Or maybe warmth consuming the land following a brutal winter would fit more? Nevertheless, you are enveloped in sunshine as Yang sends heat waves coursing through your veins. Most are random and kissing occurs often. She refuses to let you go, but knows you won't desert her as others have. Through it, her smile brightens and is so amazed to have you in her life. "You would not believe how much I love you."

PENNY POLENDINA: "What's a kiss?" As romance is a foreign language not programmed in the robot's system, you may require a moment to educate her on the subject. You'll need to gradually guide her, showing different appropriate forms to the best of your ability. Now more knowledgeable, each touch is so addicting she has rosy cheeks and is so exhilarated. But the second Penny starts, she has a chance of never stopping. Good luck deleting the information of kissing from her hard drive anytime soon.

NORA VALKYRIE: Predatory instincts lending a hand, Miss Valkyrie stalks behind you with ease, sure to not make herself known until the time arrives. Convinced you're oblivious, the pancake lover jumps onto the opportunity and tackles you into an unbelievable bear hug, arms squeezing the air from your lungs. Nora would smooch your cheeks as you demand to be freed whilst laughing - sound effects included as she produces mushy gushy mwah mwah noises and smothers you endlessly.

PYRRHA NIKOS: Passion doesn't begin to define how much passion is packed into each punch - or, kiss, for that matter - she sends your way. The softest palms appear to transfer a powerful aura as Pyrrha cups your face. Her eyes are twinkling stars that shine brighter upon encountering yours. Without hesitation, the invincible girl holds you close and kisses you with all her might to the point you might just faint. If you mention it after, the Nikos would be absolutely flustered.

COCO ADEL: "Hey, does this look like a good color on me?" A morning ritual of applying makeup wasn't excluding your assistance. The trendsetter has accentuated her lips in an alluring velvet, to coincide with her streaming locks. You would argue every color could be done well by Coco, in all honesty. But you simply nod, keeping it to yourself. She can tell something is on your mind, however, and plans to pry it out. With a swift scooping of your chin, she puckers up, smearing the lipstick on your lips. As you process it, the Adel quips, "I think red suits you a lot better than it does me."

VELVET SCARLATINA: A notoriously bashful baby bunny, repress those temptations to paint every region with affection until the time calls for it. Reach for the ears sprouting from her head, pecking them softly and progress downward. Redden the faunus' countenance, nibble her ears a tiny bit, boop her nose and finally confront those lovely lips. When you embrace, engage in how she is sumptuous as chocolate, and deepen the connection before she is pulling her ears down to hide her embarrassment.

CINDER FALL: The tracing along of your jawline would be indicative of the intrigue you show to the Fall Maiden, inspecting your value, strength, but already acknowledges the importance you have. "Don't you understand the risks of enchanting a woman destined for great power?" Regardless of your answer, she simply shakes her head, and prods your lips before colliding. Embers waltz across and leave your mouth to burn with the intense flavor. As it ends, Cinder smirks, "And perhaps I'm not understanding what could fall upon us if we continue - or I anticipate the future and what it contains."

EMERALD SUSTRAI: Abandoned on the streets of Remnant, romantic affairs weren't a topic rampant in her subconscious. But the idea of such investment becomes more tempting as your relationship progresses. With kisses, the thief would lean in, as she snakes her arms down your back. They're a rough battle as Emerald slips in some tongue and keeps the excitement going. But you aren't too surprised - but not too pleased - as she swiftly snatches your wallet and walks off to play around. As you shout, she can only laugh, saying, "Love you, babe~"

NEOPOLITAN: Silence is golden as the killer queen slithers into your lap, hooking herself around your waist. Do not protest as Neo presses a finger to your mouth to hush you, inching closer toward your face with a display of incredible fascination. The collision of your lips, twisting of tongues, beating of hearts - it's a recipe of perfection. As she smirks slyly in the midst of it, she pulls her parasol out, covering the scene so only you two can witness the glory.

ILIA AMITOLA: The concept has her faunus characteristic activate sporadically - she shifts through every plausible hue the color spectrum can contain. The chameleon has dreamt of reaching enlightenment in this way before yet hesitated. But as you reassure the ex White Fang member, curling your fingers in her ponytail to unlock a river cascading down her shoulders, she sinks. A kiss from her fairytale lover has her sense she is a true princess - and it helps her realize how truly loved Ilia is. To say the least, you are both seeing colors afterwards.

#rwby imagines #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #nora valkyrie #pyrrha nikos #coco adel #velvet scarlatina #cinder fall #emerald sustrai #neopolitan #ilia amitola

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rosheendubh · 4 years

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Plant Ylis, or...Rheinwen's Vision

Me, flooking around with horrid photo edits again:::

Ongentheow upon Igrena, fathered Ohthere on a spring tide night when her lord husband, Vortimer-Embreis Wledig-serving the high king, his father, Vortigern, was absent from his home, directing the marriage truce of their daughter, Anna, to Hlot, son of exiled Huns deposed after Atli’s shameful death, and newly commissioned as warden of Alba, southern lords claiming dominion over northern chieftains

And Vortimer ap Vortigern, of Sinfjotli’s/Vitalis’s progeny, passing Volsunga blood, that Vortimer too, slept with his wife after, ignorant of Ongentheow’s insult to her body, dark secret locked away in her heart

So in Uthyr’s veins runs both Ylfing and Yngling/Scylfing, mingled with the blood of emperors, yet Igrena, whose honor was violated and bore a son against her will knows not which man, perhaps both, claim his siring

Infant despised and cast off as an orphan, sweet Madrun-womb-twin of Anna and aunt and mother-raises him as a fosterling in the household of her husband, YnyrGwent/Cyngar of CaerGoch

Until such time as Rheinwen, seeking vengeance for her father’s death, scandalous queen of Vortigern’s aging years, Horsa fallen at Catigern’s blade, Catigern slain in later treachery saving his elder brother, accuses Igrena of adultery and witchcraft, suspicious of this boy of Madrun’s household, boy with no father, she witnessed all the years before, Ongentheow’s ravaging of Vortimer’s beautiful wife, eve of Vortimer’s return from Caledonian lands, her belly swelling forthwith, and no living child proclaimed 9 moons later

Rheinwen, seeking dynasty for her son, Pascentius, by Vortigern, and later, by Cerdic, Cynric will she bear, Plant Ylis, mother of the Saxon race upon British shores, in truth Hibernian and Jute origins, cares not how much ruin from her actions comes, only that Vortimer’s progeny falls, and her own sons stake hegemony on British soil

Igrena, though, seeks justice of her own, and through her unwanted son, boy of 2 fathers or none, is Uther sent abroad to Gaulish colleges, for safekeeping from Rheinwen’s devices, for learning such as the ancients prized, and finally, with his mother’s cool words embedded in his heart

*Do not return to these shores, nor seek my company ever, unless you’ve satisfied blood-price for the wrong done upon me, that was the cause of your life, and are ready to claim rule over this land with the death your father’s father—until Vortigern and Egil Ongentheow hasten to Hela’s gates of reckoning...*

*Obviously, bleached out damsel is Rheinwen, daughter of Horsa (sometimes, Hengist, but it depends on who ya' read)

*Old hippy dude with Bling-Egil Ongentheow (look up Swedish-Geatish Wars-they make for a wondrous tie-in with my Arthurian head canon)

*Blindfolded cloaked person with bambino--maybe baby Uther getting carried away in the night, by Madrun, his older sister (twin of Anna--based off the Tale of St Madrun, daughter of Vortimer and the granddaughter of Vortigern...in combo with St Anne/Anna, my rendition of Morganna/Morgan) at the command of his mother, Igrena, who wants no squalling little mite reminding her of her humiliation at Ongentheow's hand, Vortigern's approval, and Rheinwen's plotting

*Kneeling Roman commander, Vortimer, trying to comfort his dying brother, Catigern, after the Night of the Long Knives, sons born of Sevira, the granddaughter of Magnus Maximus, from Vortigern's first marriage-the house of Vitalis/Sinfjotli, shattered by betrayal and deception, Vortimer/Emrys Wledig, and his brother, Catigern, in open revolt against their father, the OverLord of Britain south of the Walls, where Vortimer, exiled rebel prince, escapes to the Continent, his legions following him, deceived into service by a rising barabarian commander, Earp/Odovacer/Hryp/RithaGaer, to serve in the Western Emperor's desperate power play against the Visigoth army, 12,000 British troops holding the field for Roman reinforcements that never arrive, and 10,000 of them slaughtered

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander, ready to die at his side, until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*To Avillion, and the college of holy women and men residing, into the abbess’s care does does Vortimer slowly recover, as do his wounded comrades, under Vivian’s direction, the widowed and clever daughter of Macrobius Ambrosius Theodosius, who had tutored Vortimer and Catigern in their youth, Vortigern, a son of Odin from his father’s side, perhaps, but from their mother’s, Roman heritage and Roman learning for Roman princes of British and Volsung nobility *And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western emperor who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*Uter-Uhthere-Ohthere-Ueter-named after the centurion’s god, the common soldier’s god, Veteris, the guardian of legionaries, bringing Victory in battle, and with each Victory, one day closer to honorable retirement, the judge of warriors to the northern troops recruited along the borders of German forests, the peculiar syllables of Latin, assimilating the Brythonic enunciation to Ucter, to Victor, and back again to Wythr *That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, her status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth husband, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, an orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade on sacrosanct ground, or risk death before the witnesses of sky, earth, and sea, and his confusion of amusement or amazement, by that point, tried warrior, the commander of the fleet of Black Danes, seasoned by 5 years of raiding, journeying in lands, amid people more exotic than even his old studies might have painted (based on the Travels of the 9th century Ohthere/Wulfhere...), having recently won victories in his father’s reclaiming of Britannia’s overlord ship, against Vortigern, Uther, provoked by the woman’s confidence, commanding in the company of fighting men, taunted her, asking just what would happen if he refused her order, and kept his blade unsheathed, whereby Venaura, unflustered and entirely serious, replied simply, *You’ll die.*

*By whose hand*, he returned.

*By mine*, she stated, firm, without hesitation, her gaze flat upon him, emotionless. *With laughter, and a mocking bow, did he comply to this woman, haughty in manner, but her eyes reminded him of sunlight breaking through the gray mists of fog and storm, flashing with the fire of her spirit, a mind quick and ever questioning. A mind, a will, to match his own.

*And that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged into iron, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and to Vortimer, grandson worthier than his own son, did that god-blade pass, iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword Vortimer knows will one day, at his own death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son, who salutes him with a bow, one arm crossed over his chest, the honorific spoken in a firm voice, resonant of the West Country where he’d spent his early childhood, his Latin shaped in the precise inflections of the orators of old, *Your Eminence, my sorrow the late word of your dire straits, that we hadn’t arrived before such losses accrued.* His son, who comports himself as one accustomed to circles of authority and rank, but there’s that expectancy flashing in his gaze, not quite experienced enough yet, to disguise the curiosity, hope, eagerness perhaps, though they’ve met once only, a decade ago, at the conclusion of that humiliating tribunal before the bishops of the Papal sees, a mock investigation, the crux of Rheinwen’s scheming, to see Igrena humiliated and dishonored, where Madrun was accused of dark rites, conceiving a half-human child, conjugating with an incubus, and Uther, judged devil spawn, to be consigned to some horrid trial meant to prove his humanity, forced Igrena to protect her treasured daughter, revealing the shame Ongentheow had wrought upon her, and the truth of Uther’s conception, that vile night, during those years when mercenaries from across the North Sea, and the lands of the Sueones, were serving under Vortigern’s hire *his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*he sees, in those moments of mutual scrutiny, that searching mirrored in his own thoughts, wondering on commonality of feature, of expression, or motion, his muscles stiffening from the exertion of battle, mind reeling from the magnitude of disaster, reeking of sweat, dried blood, and mire, and realizes in the young warrior’s countenance, whether it’s his or Ongentheow’s seed, an amalgamation of each, it’s Igrena’s beauty, ultimately, in her son, the mettle, the bold flash of fire spurring intellect, and Vortimer knows, the assurance rising, the sword he bears, Mimung, blade of the Waelsungs, will pass on to this man coming of age in an era of upheaval, shifting loyalties, and turning tides *this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, suggests they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*he eyes the younger man skeptically, mentioning he has no desire in getting caught up in the factional strife of Rome or Ravenna, his men even less so, Uther replying, *Neither do I.* He notices Vortimer’s puzzlement, the sharpened look, a pique of interest clearing the morbidity of thought in these monotonous weeks, *I want to go north, to the lands of our fathers, and beyond that. Where they say the sun never sets in summer, and the sea becomes a sheet of ice that never melts. Carausius’s fleet disappeared beyond that distance two centuries ago-*he breaks off at Vortimer’s scowl.

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force*, Uther continues, undeterred by Vortimer’s jaded assumption, *a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name.*

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune,* Vortimer, unable to mellow his cynicism, *I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.

*Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering as Vortimer’s chuckle grows deeper, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own domestic wars to not chance stirring foreign rivalries further. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?**

—

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western empower who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return to will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, and status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, a orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade

*that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and Vortimer instead, wielding a god-blade of iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword he knows will one day, on Vortimer’s death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own eyes, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force, a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name. *

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune. I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.*

Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering at Vortimer’s scathing laugh, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own wars to not chance steeping ourselves further in their rivalries.” Leaning forward, attention narrowed upon the younger man, he challenges this youth, son, or not his son, seeking a better answer than a quest for vengeance. *What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?*

*Recompense for the crime committed against my mother,” he answers, anger dark on his features.

*That’s not your blood-debt to collect, Uther—* at which, Uther’s frustration boils over, venting back about the charge Igrena set upon him. *Despite your mother’s instruction, boy!* Vortimer’s voice raging through the quiet hall, slamming his palm down on the table, stunning both of them into silence. Uther exhales in frustration, frowning where Vortimer’s powerful hand rests, splayed by his tension, thickened by callouses, the index finger twisted from a long forgotten injury. Gathering what calm he’s able, Vortimer attempts with more patience, willing the younger man to understand, *Let it go now, Uther.* *Uther’s jaw stiffens, protest rising, but Vortimer’s explanation chokes off his response. *Unless you wish the sin of patricide upon soul, leave it. It’s not for you, avenging the wrong done your mother. Do you understand me?* *Stubborn lad, he sees the storm of struggle over Uther’s face, resistance or acquiescence. And the slow, reluctant nod, the way he casts his gaze down the length of the table, refusing to meet his acknowledged father’s eyes. The fierceness commanding him alters gradually, something numb and tormented, tone rasped by disgust. *It’s true, then? He-that-abscess of filth could have sired me?*

*Resignation falls heavy upon Vortimer. *As your mother counted the days, it’s hard to consider it untrue.* He let’s Uther work through that revelation, the long breath, a quiet sigh following, indicating some kind of acceptance, he hopes. A moment more, offering of truce, and Vortimer says, *Now, try again, Uther. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture?*

*The amber hued gaze grows distant, as Uther ponders what he envisions such exploration might hold. A young man, and his fellow warriors, clawing out some foothold of status or wealth upon the rise and fall of competing nations, left from the West’s decay.

*Rose tinged rays lengthen past the watery glass of the windows encased in the high stone walls of the chamber. Longing pierces Vortimer’s heart, Igrena’s essence vivid in the youth’s contemplation. Sweet soul, she had been younger than her son now, at the time of their marriage. A union she’d entered unwilling, a widow and mother already, barely out of girlhood at 16 summers. A rebellious princess of the Hibernian Cennsaleigh (Leinstermen), fleeing from an unwanted match arranged by her father, without her consent, Crimmthann, ruler of the Cennselaigh, desiring truce with the Hibernian High-King, Loeghaire, and joining the dominant tribes of Hibernia’s northern and eastern facing coasts. With her lover, a reckless prince of a minor sept, and the collusion of her brother, they’d fled, like the tales of Deirdre and Naoise, to Pretania/Pictland. Refugees with the Fidach, whose lands composed endless mountain ranges, fangs of snow-covered rock, soaring to the skies, gating off the foreboding lakes speckled through deep ravines, the strip of the Nessa’s water plunging to the Underworld, dividing Alba’s vast wilderness, had kept even the Romans in the days of their greatness, at bay. Alas for Cyddbar, chieftain of the Fidach, sympathetic to the young lovers. And far too confidant in the rugged terrain defending his fortress, carved into a bluff, along the Western strand of that long lake, the Nessa (Uquart Castle). He hadn’t accounted for Vortigern’s mercenary custom, nor the hammer of savagery inflicted by the combined forces of the Tyrant’s legions, allied with Jutish companies from across the North Sea. In those years, it seemed no spring or summer passed without some incursion of Picts or Scots, Fidach included, into the territories of southern Caledonians, residing in the lands stretching between both Walls—Valentia—as it was known. A lost name now, lost territory of a shattered Empire. In that first decade of Vortigern’s supremacy, attracting Germani warlords as paid mercenaries with the promise of land and stipend was like baiting sharks with fresh blood. Especially when they were kinsmen, Hengist and Horsa, supplying men and ships, and eager to escape Hunnish submission to Atila’s grasping hegemony, which recognized no bounds, even to the far reaches of lands beyond the sea, since the decimation of the rival Burgundian Gepids. Their hire allowed Vortigern to neutralize 2 problems with one solution. Cull the raiding Picts and Scotti, whilst negotiating leverage with notoriously insubordinate northern warlords of these buffer zones extending from Eboracum to the old Aelian divide, who kept uneasy relations with the Caledonian monopoly of Votadini and AlClut, peopling the cinch zone Of fertile river valleys between the Clota and the Forth. Many of their leaders who retained a model of legate, perfect, and centurion, in their command, accommodating civic governance to ensure secure roads and borders, even some sea-trade if they access to harbors, across that region of mist-shrouded mountains and bleak moors, lost forests where the veins of roads, towns, and forts connected the hinterland of Empire to civilization.

Under the direction of Vortimer and Catigern, combined forces of British and Jute, some Anglen with their related cousins from neighboring lands further to the north, joined too, by Scotti tribes of the Cennsalaigh and Ulaidh, Crimmthann and Loeghaire amongst them, who in other years, would have been enemy, now shared common cause in restoring Crimthann’s wayward daughter, together razed the isolated hamlets of the Fidach, leaving a trail of destruction, and death, right to the path leading to the heights of Cyddbar’s fortress. Self-preservation dictated Cyddbar to accept terms, turning over the decapitated head of Igrena’s lover, tendrils of the flesh still dripping with fresh scarlet to the pebbled ground where both sides had assembled for the surrender along the strand of shore lapped by Nessa’s pewter waters. And Igrena, whose beauty men claimed to be fey-born, even in her stricken sorrow, slender and graceful as a young willow, proud and defiant against her father, a lone, lost figure holding her toddler son in her arms, shaming the grim scrutiny of battle-hardened men with her cold grief, when she was brought before that unforgiving audience. No ally, no appeal, her brother’s life spared, but her son, the bargaining piece to buy her cooperation, submission to the Hibernian high king. Smug Loeghaire, oozing self-satisfaction, eyes shifting like a greedy weasel’s, thinking himself merciful in his justice, accepting Igrena back, despite her infidelity.

When she refused, coloring him with an insult so degrading, the men in immediate ear-shot looked away in discomfort, the sputtering Loeghaire convulsed into rage. With his sword raised to her white throat, he threatened death to her and her bastard child. And before the hard gazes of a 1000 upon another 1000 men, and the impassive attention of her father, Crimthann, who seemed impatient more than anything, to be done with his errant daughter whose impetuosity had cost him gold, men, and status, Igrena merely lifted her chin, pressing the thin flesh of her neck into the edge of Loeghaire’s blade, drawing a thin line of crimson on pale skin. *I’d rather death for myself and my boy, than expend an instant of life as your bride, Loeghaire.*

An instant, as well, when Vortimer could no longer stand to see such a magnificent creature cast off to an obvious fool. Catigern never grew tired of ribbing him for his infamous disdain of female company, unless seeking a temporary physical release from the distraction of desire. Women were diversions from the weightier contentions men were forced to manage in the outside world. Trouble without home and children to occupy their wandering attentions and soft minds, or locked away in a convent somewhere, they became like bored hounds finding mischief when not appropriately engaged. As Catigern sensed as well, the truth of Vortimer’s reticence to female wile stemmed more profoundly with the memory of their mother, Sevira.

Chaste, devout in faith to her Christian God, as to her brother’s attempts at maintaining cordial relations with Roman authority, she suffered Vortigern’s growing abuse as events accelerated toward Britannia’s break with Rome, consequent to her father, Flavius Constantius’s, failed claim to Emperor. An act that stole the life of her eldest brother as well, hastening to their father on the Continent, with the vestiges of Britannia’s last legions. Vortigern’s official invite to his Jutish brethren, promising alignment with the pro-Imperial factions led by her surviving brother, Urbogenus/Erbin, arose from Sevira’s skilled diplomacy, her marriage joining the lines of Mascen Wledig with the Aurelii of Glevum. And catapulting Vortigern to Imperator In all but name. Factionalism inevitably was born when Vortigern, exploiting the nativist divisions of old British tribalism, garnering the support of separatist chieftains from the remnants of prominent southern and western districts, rising war-lords in this new Britannia without Rome, gambled with his Jutish foederati, and moved to dissolve the civitas councils. To that point, Vortigern’s charisma, his decisiveness, the wise advice of his Roman wife, persuasive at her salons, to his opposition, allayed even her brother’s ambivalence over Vortigern’s ambitions. But from that moment, when Vortigern elevated himself with the proclamation of ‘Imperator’, exiling or executing any who opposed his authority, Erbin refused fealty, named Vortigern *tryant*, fleeing to his Dumnonian queen’s family, and for his life, eventually finding refuge amid the British houses of Aremorica, deposed and disgraced. Deserting Sevira to the denigration of her husband, for what Vortigern viewed as her betrayal to his cause, and subjecting her to emotional abuses an aging Sinfjotli was helpless to prevent. And adolescent Vortimer, his younger brother by a year, Catigern, bore witness with ever increasing rebellion to their father’s contemptuous regard of their patiently suffering mother. Sinfjotli, proud of his son’s achievement, but disgusted by how he treated his noble wife, he took charge of his grandsons’ education, sending them abroad to Gaul, into Macrobius Ambrosius’s tutelage. And when they returned, young men ready to take up service in their father’s court, gifted with the rare qualities of intelligence, fortitude, ambition, and temperance, as well as a rare affection to each other, Vortimer and Catigern found their mother swaying from a hemp cord, hung from ceiling rafters, her death-sallowed skin crusted in dried tears that kept falling into her last death throes.

A suicide Vortimer never forgave as a murder, inflicted by his father’s grasping callousness. Sevira’s corpse, suspended in ghostly vision before him, as he challenged Loeghaire, individual contest, for the right to this Hibernian princess, never mind that she viewed all the gathered warriors there, on that beach, with the same revulsion, who’d brought an end to her lover’s life. But her one act, the absolute defiance of death, pierced not only her skin, but Vortimer’s heart, touching a rare tenderness, desire for her obvious beauty, a willowy limbed maiden, whose clean lined harmony of cheek, pale and freckled, a high brow, crowned by a bounty of ashen strands lit by gold, whipped by the driving wind, her sorrowing eyes, long lashed, holding the shades of sea and sand, washing over the gray-green lichen blanketing rocky shores, but it was the taut pride of slender shoulders, lift of her chin, the vitriol of her gaze fixed on every one of those men’s faces, that captured him, and forever bound him to her. Nothing in her look softened upon Vortimer, as her father joined their hands, his trembling, hers slack, in her humiliation and disbelief, being bartered off to a southern British lordling, son of a usurping tyrant, treaty solidifying Leinster loyalty for British wealth, and ensuring no more harassment of new Hiberni colonizers to the territories of Demetia, where previous communities of Scotti had settled over the last century.

Nine years her senior, as Vortimer reckoned his experience and maturity, Igrena’s resentment at their betrothal wrought forth a chasm of isolation and hurt between them, in those first months, he didn’t know how to mend. Gruff by nature, Vortimer was more accustomed, and so preferred, the company of his war-band to that of women. Where he exploded with impatience at his young wife’s stubborn reticence, especially when he demanded she send her bastard son back to her dead lover’s people in Hibernia, it was his brother, a fury in battle, but by contrast, more attuned to a woman’s mind, and her affections, belying a sensitivity in Catigern’s nature neglected in Vortimer, who convinced Vortimer to allow the child in his home. At least temporarily. A comfort to his still grieving bride, who eventually agreed, by Catigern’s orchestration, as compromise with her husband, to send the child for fostering when he reached his 7th year, back to his father’s Hibernian tribe of the Ui Bairrche.

Indeed, It was Catigern who brought out the enchantment of Igrena’s spirit, the weave of her thoughts, reconciling her to the abandonment of her pagan upbringing in Crimthann’s halls, requisitely adopting the faith of Christ when she married her British husband. And it was Catigern who introduced his older, worshipped brother, to the dialogue of respect between lovers. The first time Her acerbic wit, parodying of Britannia’s competing aristocracies, vying for political and martial dominance, sparked Vortimer’s humor, responding to her for once, with more than condescension, and realizing the wisdom she possessed, deeper than her youth. The asset of her talents, yet emerging, as confidant and advisor, partner, equal sovereign, pending Destiny’s preferences. Months passed. Igrena’s pain at her lover’s death gradually faded. And one night, in Vortimer’s modest hall, the old magistrate’s quarters of Venta Silurnum, she graced that chamber with a voice of sweet crystal, delicacy and longing, embodying a magic in the ancient tales of old gods, heroines, lovers, wars, and heroes. Some of her original improvision, fingers wise on the harp. When Vortimer’s tenor, deep and steady, flowed into her song, Igrena’s eyes widened in astonishment, a quaver in her chords, and stirred a murmur amongst his men, of surprise and admiration, not unpleasant for the momentary shock, their lord, usually so stoic in demeanor, suddenly relaxing reservation, a trait commended by a race styling their heritage as warriors and poets. A rare indulgence for Vortimer, the art of song, but a talent freely displayed with the glory of his wife’s yearning melody. Followed later, by other sounds of ecstasy resounding from their private quarters, that first night, and many after, nearly three months following the hastened elopement, born of shame and death, turned into something precious and tender. A passion still too new, viewed ambivalently by both Vortimer, and his golden wife, more so at her confusion, how quickly she ripened in pregnancy to his seed. As like to clash in temper, as treat in gentleness, Vortimer’s happiness, boy-like almost, at the prospects of her growing belly, envisioning a home abounding with children, mocked her guilt, memories of first young love, the son she bore him. The father dead, the boy tolerated as courtesy. Both strong-willed, Igrena seconded Catigern’s description of her husband as sentimentally constipated, while Vortimer reprimanded her quick-temper, biting judgement of the opportunists who plagued his own court, sent by his father. Vortigern ever-thirsting to strengthen his position, his sons the weapons ensuring future dynasty. Their daughters were born on the eve of Vortigern ceding the Cantici lands, to his Jutish brethren,

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